THE SEEKERS
They found a land that was eager to accommodate their most
wilful mistakes, their undented weaknesses, their
uninhibited attacks upon a destiny that must conquer and
reject before it can make its chosen nation great.
The Boston of publishers and political
squabblers ... the society of George
Washington as President and Thomas Jefferson as
the sage of Monticello ... the duty and
sacrifice of war that becomes in only a few
years the trials and terrors of the settlers, the
pioneers of a West on the move ... the homesteads
oppressed by Indians ... the crude
opportunists from Tennessee to Ohio ...
drink, excess and disease ... and new life, new
hope, waving its pennant aboard the Constitution off
Boston and from the home of Old Hickory in the
South ... Beleaguered gentry-soldiers of fortune-
women in love and with children-the Seekers find them all,
stars in a panoramic sky that, quite literally, knows
no charted nor settled horizon.
THE SEEKERS-THIRD IN THE EXCITING
SERIES OF AMERICAN BICENTENNIAL
NOVELS
The American Bicentennial Series
With all the color and sweep of American history
itself, The American Bicentennial Series is a
mighty eight-volume saga of heroism and
dedication, patriotism and valor, shining spirit and
abiding faith.
Here is the story of our nation-and an amazing family
living in the turbulent times that began the American
nation.
This magnificent American Bicentennial
Series of novels is more than absorbing,
entertaining reading ... it is a resounding
re-affirmation of the greatness of America.
Volume 1THE BASTARD
Volume 2THE REBELS
Volume 3THE SEEKERS
JOHN JAKES
THE AMERICAN BICENTENNIAL SERIES
Volume III
PYRAMID BOOKS NEW YORK
A PYRAMID BOOK
Copyright [*copygg'1975 by John Jakes and
Lyle Kenyon Engel Produced by Lyle
Kenyon Engel
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may
be reproduced or transmitted in any form or
by any means, electronic or mechanical,
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storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher.
Pyramid edition published August 1975
Fourteenth printing, June 1976
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number:
75-21695 Printed in the United States of
America
Pyramid Books are published by Pyramid
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PYRAMID PUBLICATIONS
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757 Third Avenue, New York, N.y.

For" my daughter Ellen
"I of course expected to find beaver, which with us
hunters is a primary object, but I was also led
on by the love of novelty common to all, which is much
increased by the pursuit of its gratification . . his
1827:
the journal of Jedediah Smith, mountain man.
Ask these Pilgrims what they expect when they
git to Kentuckey the answer is Land, have you any.
No, but I expect I can git it. have you any thing
to pay for land, No. did you ever see the Country.
No but Every Body says its good land ...
"Here is hundreds Travelling hundreds of
Miles, they Know not for what Nor Whither,
except its to Kentuckey, passing land almost as good
and easy obtained, the Proprietors of which would
gladly give on any terms but it will not do ... its
not the Promised Land its not the goodly inheratence the
Land of Milk and Honey."
1796:
Moses Austin,
founder of Texas,
writing of a journey
from Wythe County, Virginia,
to Louisiana Territory.
Kent and Son
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII.
The Enemy Land
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI.
Contents
Book One
Battle Morning 15
The Charge 31
Clouds at Homecoming 51
The Storm Breaks 75
"Scenes of Life Among the Mighty" 95
Wedding Night 115
Wagon Road 131
Ark to the Wilderness 153
Book Two
The Cabin 175
Old Ghosts and New Beginnings 193
The Burning 213
Problems of a Modernist 227
The Mark 253
Book Three Voices of War
Chapter IJ-ARED 299
Chapter IIA Mackerel by Moonlight 327
Chapter inThe Frigate 351
Chapter IVT-HE Devil's Companion 377
Chapter V8Her Sides are Made of Ironi"

Chapter VIH-ERITAGE 415
Book Four
Cards of Fate
Chapter IM-RATHER. Piggott 443
Chapter IIA-CT of Vengeance 463
Chapter IIIA-CT of Murder 481
Chapter IVO-RDEAL 503
Chapter VR-EVEREND Blackthorn 525
Chapter VIJ-UDGE Jackson 543
Chapter VIIP-URSUIT to St. Louis 565
Chapter VIIIT-HE Windigo 587
Chapter IX "I Will Seek That Which Was
Lost" 613
EpilogueIn the Tepee of the Dog
Soldier 621
The Seekers
Book One Kent and Son
Battle Morning
ABOUT FOUR O'CLOCK Abraham Kent woke from a
fitful sleep and realized he couldn't rest again
until the day's action was concluded, in the
Legion's favor or otherwise.
His heart beat rapidly as he lay sweating in the
tiny tent. He heard muted voices outside;
saw a play of flame and shadow on the tent wall
Campfires; burning brightly in the sweltering dark.
No attempt had been made to conceal the presence of
three thousand men on the north bank of the Maumee
River. The Indians already knew that the general who
commanded the army of the Fifteen Fires had arrived, and
meant to fight. The only question was when.
Abraham had learned the answer to that the
preceding evening. Sitting his mare in formation, he'd
listened to the reading of the general order that announced a
march at daybreak. Men cheered-principally some of the
less disciplined Kentucky mounted militia, whose
ranks numbered close to fifteen hundred.
On hearing the order, Abraham Kent felt both
relief and sharp fear. Relief came from knowing that
nearly two years of preparation, marching,
fort-building in the wilderness of the Northwest
Territory was finally reaching a climax. The general
had repeatedly sent messages to the tribes, urging
peace and conciliation even as he drove his Legion
of the United States deeper into the
lands north of the Ohio, constructing stockade after
stockade en route. The reply of the tribes to the
last message had been equivocal. So the general
had let it be known he meant to attack.
Abraham Kent experienced fear on hearing the
order because he'd never taken part in an actual
engagement; not in all the twenty-four months since
he'd arrived in Pittsburgh in response to the
recruiting notices in Boston. Those notices
declared that the United States was raising a formal
army for the first time since the Revolution.
There had been engagements as the American
army twisted back and forth across the hostile country,
earning the general the name Blacksnake from the Indian
spies who watched the army's progress. Earlier
in the summer, for example, a Shawnee war party
had launched a ferocious attack on newly
built Fort Recovery. When it happened
Abraham was on duty at the general's base,
Fort Greenville, a day's ride south. So he
had yet to be blooded.
Today, the twentieth of August, 1794, that situation
was likely to change.
He crawled out of the tent, his linen shirt and trousers
already plastered to his body. For a moment he wondered
whether he would see the dawn of the twenty-first.
Scouts had brought reports into the camp beside the
river that upwards of two thousand Indians had
gathered some seven to ten miles northeast, near the
rapids of the Maumee where the British had
brazenly erected a fort close to McKee's
trading station. Warriors from all the major tribes
had come: Blue Jacket's Shawnee, including the
young warrior with the fierce reputation, Tecumseh,
who had led the unsuccessful attack on Fort
Recovery. Little Turtle's Miamis were there. The
Wyan-dots under Tarhe the Crane.
Captain Pipe's Delawares.
All united to resist the Americans who were bent
on taking the Indians" land-
Not a man in the Legion of the United States
considered it anything but American land, of course.
The vast expanse west of Pennsylvania, east
of the Mississippi, north of the Ohio and south of the
Lakes had been ceded to the new nation by Britain as
part of the peace treaty of 1783. Yet in the
following decade, the British continued to maintain
their posts in the surrendered territory; kept urging
the" Indians to demand that the northern border of
American expansion remain the Ohio River.
Small expeditionary forces had marched into the
Northwest before, to try to settle matters. One,
St. Clair's, had met death along the bend of the
Wabash tributary where Abraham's commanding general
had built Fort Recovery the preceding winter.
Yawning and stretching as he walked past the men
talking around the campfires, Abraham vividly
recalled the stone-gray winter's day he had ridden
as one of the eight hundred pressing forward to the site
of St. Clair's defeat-
In the first drifting snowflakes, he had seen
skulls and bones protruding from the frozen
ground. As the new fort rose on the site during the
early months of 1794, men working the earth dug up
and counted the human skulls. Over six hundred of
them. Six hundred of General Dicky Butler's
soldiers, slaughtered-
Abraham ambled on through the steamy darkness, breathing
the acrid wood smoke; listening to the strained,
subdued conversations; seeing here and there a
surreptitious jug passed, in violation of the
general's edict forbidding use of alcohol in camp
or on the march. Nineteen years old, the young
soldier had wide shoulders and a stocky build;
heavy brows and the dark eyes of his parents. He'd
also inherited their dark hair, which he never bothered
to dress since dashing about on
horseback loosened all the powder. He stood
five feet ten inches, taller than his father.
Abraham passed the end of an earthwork. Behind it, the
general had deposited the army's baggage and
wagons, in case they needed to be defended during a
retreat.
Outside a command tent Abraham saw aides
conferring with Captain Zebulon Pike, who'd been
put in charge of the rear position. He strode by the
circle of lantern light, swatting
mosquitoes that deviled his neck, and soon reached
the picket lines where the dragoon horses fretted
and stamped in the pre-dawn heat
A sentry thrust out his musket:
"Who goes?"
"Cornet Kent. I want to see to my mount."
The sentry saluted the junior officer, stood
aside. Abraham ducked between two nervous
stallions, found his mare at her tether, ran his hand
down her neck, soothing her as if she were human:
"I hope they fed and watered you well, Sprite.
You'll need to be lively when the sun's up. They
say the Indians have taken positions among some
fallen trees destroyed by a storm a long time
ago. That'll be hard ground for galloping and jumping,
my girl-was
The mare nipped at his caressing hand, but not
viciously. Abraham smiled. In two years,
he and the mare assigned him at Cincinnati had
established a bond between them; the kind of bond
infantrymen and other, lesser orders of human beings
could never comprehend. Like the other dragoon officers,
Abraham talked to his horse frequently. He
knew Sprite recognized his voice if not the
sense of his words. Now he almost spoke his
fear aloud to the animal; almost launched into a
monologue concerning the special reason he was
apprehensive about the coming battle. He had
admitted the reason to few other human beings; he
admitted it to himself only with some shame-
Oh, he was a good enough soldier, he supposed. But
his motive for enlisting-for making the difficult overland
journey to Pittsburgh-had not been purely
patriotic. He had no desire for glory in
battle, and hence feared combat perhaps more than some
officers did. Noticing the sentry watching him,
Abraham kept it all to himself. After one more stroke
of Sprite's sweating neck, he turned and made
for the river, feeling a steady pressure in his loins.
He was again thankful that his father's business had
prospered sufficiently to permit him to go riding on
the Common on a fine hired mount when he was growing
up. Abraham was likewise thankful that his stepmother
had encouraged the lessons in horsemanship.
Except for that, he would never have been accepted for the
dragoons.
But astride Sprite, and commanded by an excellent
officer-a captain with the peculiar name Robert
Miscampbell-Abraham knew that in the coming
battle, he would be less of a target than
those in the four Sub-legions who advanced on
foot with bayonet-tipped muskets. Whether the
general's combined infantry and cavalry stood a
chance against the untrained but elusively swift
tribesmen waiting somewhere up the Maumee, he
couldn't say. That made him even more glad that he was
going into danger on an animal he loved and
trusted. A trampled patch of corn and the charred
smell of a burned Indian lean-to told him he
was nearing the shore. He smelled the wet loam of the
bottoms; heard night birds crying among the
rushes. The stars were lost in a humid haze. He
unfastened the buttons of his trousers and started
to urinate in the river.
While in this prosaic but somewhat restrictive
position, he heard slow footsteps along the
bank.
He turned his head, choked back an exclamation as
he recognized the man limping out of the darkness, a
rangy silhouette against the distant fires.
Faced with the choice of saluting or closing up his
trousers, he decided on the latter. Only afterward
did he whip up his right hand in the respectful
gesture due the tall, somewhat rotund officer whose
left boot and pants leg were almost
entirely swathed in strips of flannel.
Major General Wayne-admiringly called Mad
Anthony ever since his daring seizure of the British
fort at Stony Point during the Revolution-rested
a hand on the butt of one of the two pistols thrust
into his belt and stared at Abraham Kent, whose
face all at once felt hotter than ever.
III.
The general, appearing rather Bedraggled in his old blue
coat, leather sword belt and leg-bandages,
smiled at last:
"Cornet Kent. Good evening to you. Good morning,
rather."
"Good morning, sir," Abraham managed to say in
a reasonably calm voice.
Wayne hobbled toward him; Abraham guessed the
general must be close to fifty now. Supposedly his
left leg still contained a piece of ball lodged there
during the Virginia campaign at the close of the
War for Independence. He had been called out of
retirement to head the army sent west by President
Washington to quell the Indian threat in the
Northwest Territory once and for all.
Wayne's men loved him; Abraham was no
exception. The Indians dreaded him because it
seemed that he was never off guard; never slept;
knew everything that transpired for miles around whatever
position he happened to be occupying.
In gentle reproof, Wayne said, "I urged my
men to
get as much sleep as possible, Cornet. All
my men."
"Yes, sir, but-well, sir, that's hard, facing
an engagement as we are-was
To Abraham's relief, Wayne nodded. "As you
can tell from my presence here, I understand perfectly.
I hope our red adversaries aren't resting. I know
they're not eating," he added with a thin smile.
Abraham knew the meaning of Wayne's last words,
of course. The general's stratagem had been the
talk of the camp for two days:
Via his scouts, Wayne had let slip word that he
intended to fight, knowing full well that, by custom, the
Indians would never eat on the morning of a battle.
For that reason Wayne had carefully refrained from
mentioning exactly when he intended to engage. Thus the
enemy had probably taken little or no nourishment for
almost forty-eight hours.
Wayne stumped closer;. As always, the general's
limp reminded Abraham of his father's, the
result of a hit by a musket ball at the battle
of Monmouth Court House. The general asked:
"Did the last pouches of mail from Cincinnati bring
any word of your father, Cornet?"
"Yes, sir, I had a letter. He's recovered from
the grippe that kept him in bed for a time. His business
continues to do well."
"Success evidently runs in the family.
Captain MisCampbell informs me you're an
exemplary junior officer."
"That's good to hear, sir-thank you for telling me."
Wayne had acknowledged his acquaintance with
Abraham's father when Abraham first reached the
training camp at Legionville, down the Ohio
from Pittsburgh. Part of Abraham's reverence for the
general was due to his father having fought beside Mad
Anthony in the Revolution. During the retreat after
the American
defeat at Brandywine Creek, Philip Kent
had joined the reckless young officer in a charge against
some Hessians harrying the retreat route. And
Philip often referred with pride to standing with Wayne
a second time at Monmouth Court House.
Wayne stared at the dark-flowing river. "May I
ask you a personal question, Cornet?"
"Of course, sir."
"It comes to mind because you are an excellent officer,
and because I remember your father so well. Do you intend
to make the army a career?"
Abraham hesitated a moment, then decided
to answer truthfully:
"No, sir. I imagine I'll go back
to Boston when the campaign's over."
"Perhaps that will be accomplished by this tune tomorrow. There is
a very great deal at stake in the next few hours-was
"I'm aware of that, sir."
So was virtually every man in the Legion. The
Northwest Ordinance, passed by the Congress in
1787, had wisely promised the creation of new
states-no less than three, no more than
five-once the territory was pacified and settled.
Each new state would be fully equal with those
fifteen already established under the country's federal
Constitution, which had become law when the ninth of
thirteen original states, New Hampshire,
ratified it in 1788. Abraham knew that thousands
of settlers were waiting along the eastern seaboard for the
chance to start new lives in the western territory.
But they were held back by fear of the Indian menace.
Just as important, President Washington
had recently sent Chief Justice John Jay
to England to attempt to negotiate a new treaty
with the king's ministers. The status of the Northwest was
one of the points at issue. Under the peace
settlement, the territory unquestionably
belonged to America. But if Britain could in effect
hold it illegally-hold it by means of Crown
agents inciting the tribes in order to prevent an
inrush of settlers-Jay could never hope to gain a
re-confirmation on paper of America's claim to the
land.
Picking up the conversation, Wayne said, "I'm
sorry to hear the military will eventually lose your
services, Cornet. Still, I'm not entirely
surprised. Ever since you enlisted, I have frankly
wondered why a young man of your background-your
prospects for the future- would risk himself in an
enterprise of this sort."
Caught off guard, Abraham replied haltingly,
"Someone must if the territory's to be secured-was
"Oh, I'm not questioning your patriotism. But I've
found that in the Legion, most of the men have at least one
other motive for joining our hazardous venture.
Wives they regret marrying, for example-was
"I'm single, General." "Debts, then."
"No, I haven't that problem."
"I should imagine not." Bleak, tired eyes ranged
the murmuring river where a heat mist was beginning to form.
"Sometimes the motive for a man staying in the army is
simply an inability to endure other, comparatively
tame endeavors once the man has tasted
battle-was That, Wayne's officers well knew,
was the general's own spur.
Wayne turned slightly, his eyes reflecting the
distant fires. Those glowing eyes prodded
Abraham to another honest reply:
"Well, sir, in my case that doesn't apply
either. I left home because my father and I were having our
differnces."
"Over what, may I ask?"
"My future. Specifically, my future with the
family printing house. My father wanted me to study
at
harvard a year or so, then I honestly couldn't
decide whether I wanted that. With so much happening in
the country-all this new land opening comx seemed, to use
your word, a tame alternative."
"So you chose a period in the army to think things
over?"
"Exactly, sir. I'm afraid my father
and I had quite a few loud and lengthy arguments on the
subject. On many other subjects, too. We
don't see eye to eye on politics, for instance."
Wayne nodded. "I'm familiar with Kent and Son
publishing tracts in support of Mr.
Hamilton's Federalist
views."
"Quite right, sir. And if you'll forgive my saying so,
it's always struck me as damned odd that men who were so
violently anti-British twenty years ago are
now anxious to establish strong commercial and
political ties with that country."
"A matter of economics," Wayne shrugged.
"Think of the market in England for ship's timbers, for
instance. Good northeastern oak and pine to build
dreadnoughts for the most powerful navy in the world-who
wants to lose trade like that? No wonder nearly
all of New England's gone Federalist-was
"I'm a New Englander and I haven't, sir. I
personally see nothing wrong with Mr. Jefferson's
support of the revolution in France."
"You'll have to agree it's fallen into bloody
excess."
"Yes, but--"
"And still Mr. Jefferson and many of the others in
the Virginia junto continue to champion its
democratic principles. If they exist any
longer!-which I doubt. Ah, but let's not debate
that. We have a more immediate enemy-was
Abraham wasn't quite ready to drop the subject,
though:
"Part of the trouble at home comes from the fact that my
father's grown wealthy. Achieved a status that
encourages him to think like an aristocrat-was
"The father's a Federalist, the son isn't-and under those
circumstances, a term of service in the army seemed
prudent in order to maintain the domestic peace?"
Wayne's voice had a wry sound. But
Abraham's answer was straightforward:
"Exactly."
And that one word concealed much: the turmoil, the rancor
that had shaken the Kent household until Philip
had finally given grudging permission for his son
to enlist under Wayne's command. Something compelled
Abraham to add:
"The solution's only temporary anyway. I'm
sure that when I go home, the arguments will start all
over again."
Wayne didn't comment immediately. With a touch of
chagrin, Abraham realized he had already
poured out a good deal of what ought to be considered
private information. But as long as the general was
willing to listen, Abraham supposed the talk
didn't hurt. In a way the confession relieved
him. He seldom had a chance to air the problem that
continually nagged at his mind. As he'd intimated, it
was a problem for which a permanent solution would have to be
found eventually.
Wayne brushed a hand absently over one cheek,
squashing an insect. He smiled that weary smile
again:
"Fathers and sons at loggerheads-that was the central
issue of the war for independence, you know. The right of the
new blood to run its own course-freely.
Well, Cornet, if the army doesn't suit you
as a career, and if you've no heart to spend your days
in a prosperous Federalist printing firm-was
"I just haven't decided, sir," Abraham
broke in. "My
father wished for me to do so immediately. That's why I had
to strike out on my own for a time."
Once more the relatively glib explanation hid
other meanings. Abraham felt a momentary sense of
his own shameful, innate weakness-
No, no, that was the wrong term.
Unbearably demeaning. Call it not weakness but
indecision born of family loyalty. He loved
his father even though he resented Philip's strong
opinions. And, deep down, Abraham supposed
he'd eventually succumb to his father's wish that he
join Kent and Son. But at his young age, he
didn't want that decision forced on him by fate.
So he'd run away. No other description would
do. Again he was face to face with a suspected
failure of character that troubled him often; a failure
he struggled to rationalize away by convoluted
explanations involving family love and devotion-
Listening to the night insects, he recalled
abruptly where he was, and why. A coldness
filled his belly. The question of his future might
soon become entirely academic. There was a
battle to be fought. Men died in battle.
As if hunting for stars behind the sky's haze,
Wayne tilted his graying head back. "I can
suggest an alternative to commerce or the army,
Cornet. You could settle out here."
Mildly astonished, Abraham replied, "Why,
yes, sir, I suppose I could. Truthfully,
that's never occurred to me before."
"When we raised the stockade at the
confluence of this river and the Aux Glaize-was The
general was referring to the fort he'd christened
Defiance. "comI was struck by the remarkable beauty and
fertility of the land. Nature's dealt bountifully with
it. A man could hew his house from these forests. Fill
his table from the trails and streams-was A boot
scraped a furrow in the
loam of the bank. "comraise enough crops in this soil
to provide for his household and have ample corn meal
or flour left to transship across the Great
Lakes, or back up the Ohio in exchange for the
manufactured goods he needs. You know what they
call me these days. One of the old Revolutionary
war horses. I suppose I'll never shed the
label-nor lose the urge to lead men. But I've
found that life on the land can be very good. Very good. I
own a rice plantation in the south-Hazzard's
Cow-pen, it's called. A gift of the people of the state
of Georgia for my services during the
rebellion-was His voice had grown dreamy,
remote. "Yes, a man could do far worse than
to stay here when the battle's done-was
Abraham had to admit the idea was intriguing.
Escape to a homestead in the Northwest
Territory would solve his problem with his father.
As Wayne said, a man could live well. If the
Indian threat were gone-
Abraham's brief enthusiasm faded as
footsteps approached. Northward along the
Maumee, his whole life could be decided in an
instant. It could end in an instant. The
recollection of that set his palms itching and started
rivulets of sweat trickling down his neck to his
linen collar.
He'd been foolishly carried away by Wayne's
remarks. Even if he survived his first test in
battle, the chance of pulling away from his father was a
slim one. Philip Kent would not easily loose
his hold on his son-
Abraham put the whole vexing question out of mind,
turning along with Wayne as a wiry young officer
approached. The officer carried his cockaded
bicorn hat under his arm. Despite the
semi-darkness, Abraham recognized one of the
general's aides, William Henry Harrison.
Harrison saluted. Wayne returned it
smartly. "What is it, Lieutenant?"
"The barber has arrived at the headquarters tent,
sir."
"Ah, yes-was Wayne smiled again. "I
don't want to lead the Legion with my hair
unpowdered and disarrayed." The general's vanity, like his
courage, was familiar to the men he commanded. But on the
wilderness march, he'd had few chances to indulge his
penchant for elegance. Care of his hair was one of the
rare exceptions.
Stifling a groan and clamping a hand around his bandaged
left leg, Wayne started to hobble off. The mist
hanging over the Maumee had begun to turn a
pearly color. A few drooping willow branches
were discernible in the murk now. Dawn-
Wayne stopped, glanced back.
"Whenever I've had the opportunity to speak
privately with one or more of my officers, I have
acquainted them with a letter I recently received from the
secretary of war-was
"General Knox is a friend of my father's, sir."
"Then your father is fortunate. Henry Knox is a
sagacious man. He wrote to say that the nation has
waited two years for this morning. So have the hundreds
of thousands seeking to leave the seacoast. And those six
hundred brave men whose remains will stay forever along
the Wabash-they're waiting too. I trust each
officer will carry that thought in his heart today."
Abraham could only give a quick nod as
Mad Anthony leaned on William Henry
Harrison's offered arm and labored back toward the
camp where men were rousing around the fires. In the gray
light Abraham heard the first drums beating.
III.
On the way back to his tent for his sword and
pistols, Abraham Kent was hailed from an
officer's tent belonging to the Third Sub-legion.
He angled through the noisy
press of men turning out with their muskets and
approached a handsome twenty-year-old. The officer
held his spontoon in one hand while he crooked the
index finger of the other.
On his blond head the young man wore one of the shaggy
fur caps designed at Wayne's request by the
tailors at Legionville. The cap in this case
was decorated with a plume of the Third
Sub-legion's particular color comyellow. The
lieutenant kept beckoning with his finger:
"Come here, dragoon. We've a present for you."
"Not now, Meriwether-they're beating assembly."
But Lieutenant Meriwether Lewis, whom
Abraham had frequently engaged at cards in
winter quarters back at Greenville, set his
spontoon aside and practically dragged the
junior officer to the tent entrance:
"I hear. But you're out-ranked, Cornet. You're
not permitted to reject a gift from a couple of
Virginians who've taken so much of your pay."
"Stolen would be a better word," Abraham said with a
grin not completely genuine.
Lewis spoke to someone inside the tent:
"This horse soldier's questioning our integrity,
William. Suggesting we deal with sharp's cards-was
"Didn't know New Englanders were that astute,"
came the laconic reply of another lieutenant,
a tall, red-haired fellow some four or five
years older than the other two. Abraham was pushed
bodily into the tent.
"Shut the damn flap before we're all cashiered!"
the red-haired officer whispered. As he rummaged
through the folds of his blankets, he added, "Don't
tell me you're going to refuse a tot of prime
Kaintuck whiskey."
Abraham's grin looked less forced. "I
didn't realize that was the gift you had in mind,
William."
Lieutenant William Clark, youngest brother of the
famous frontiersman George Rogers Clark,
displayed his jug:
"Most carefully smuggled in-at a cost of five
new dollars per gallon."
Clark walked toward Abraham, stepping over the
pile of sketch pads he was using to develop his
natural aptitude for drawing and map-making.
Clark's intelligence reports, illustrated with
small charcoal scenes, were well known in the
Legion-and reputedly brought General Wayne
diversion while increasing his regard for the junior
officer.
Clark propped a boot on one of two
brass-latched wooden cases in which his friend Lewis,
almost his match in height, collected mineral and
botanical samples. Clark waggled the jug at
Abraham again, his eyes losing a little of their mirth.
"If you can't use a couple of swallows on a
morning like this," he said, "I'll be happy to down
your share."
"Or I," Meriwether Lewis said.
Touched by the gesture of friendship on the eve of
battle, Abraham looked at the two officers from
Virginia commen with whom he'd spent many an
enjoyable, if unprofitable, hour over the past
twelve months. A shiver chased down his backbone
as he thought of the massed might of the tribes
awaiting the Legion to the northeast. He grabbed the
jug.
"Yes, I can use it-on a morning like this," he
said.
Somber-eyed, he drank while the Legionary
drums beat steadily louder in the dawn heat.
The Charge
SHORTLY AFTER SEVEN, with the sun spearing
oblique shafts of light through the mist on the
Maumee, the Legion of the United States
assembled for the attack.
The Legion itself, four Sub-legions of foot
preceded by a small mounted patrol, formed in
columns of fours on the right flank, close by the
shore of the river. Scott's Kentucky mounted
militia would advance along a parallel route on
the left flank, through the cornfields that stretched
northeast between the river on one side and thick
woods on the other.
Mounted on Sprite, whose restlessness seemed to match
his own, Abraham gathered with the rest of
MisCampbell's dragoon officers at the rear
of the Legion columns. The commanding officer
explained their orders in a few words:
"We'll be held in reserve, behind the
lines, and ordered forward if they need us."
On hearing that, Abraham gave voice to the
annoyance most of the officers expressed with scowls and
grumbles:
"Sir, if the Indians are really waiting for us
upriver-was
MisCampbell swiped at his perspiring cheek.
"We believe so, Kent. But we're not
positive. They were seen there on the eighteenth. They
may have pulled back to the British fort."
"Even so, shouldn't the horse be going in first? If the
terrain's as rough as I hear it is, columns of
foot can hardly maneuver there."
"To the contrary, Cornet. Only columns of
foot can maneuver well on such ground. A
head-on cavalry charge with all those fallen trees
lying, every which way would be impossible. Perhaps General
Wayne will utilize us for an assault on the
flank-was
The captain's stern eyes softened, cynically
amused. "Don't be so anxious to shed blood.
I've done it, and it's far from pleasant."
Abraham saw some of his fellow officers grinning and
turned red. He was the greenest of the lot, and he'd
unwittingly demonstrated it. Fortunately
discussion was cut short. MisCampbell shouted:
"Prepare your troops to advance and await the
command!"
Tugging Sprite's rein, Abraham turned the
mare back toward his men. All were dressed much as
he was: shirt, trousers, boots. Sabers hung
from leather belts. Pairs of primed and loaded
pistols were snugged in saddle holsters. At least the
Americans had learned something from the agonizing years
of the Revolution. Wayne suited the army's clothing
and equipment to the country and the temperature; there was
no laboring under monstrously heavy packs and
blanket-rolls, as Abraham's father said the
British infantry had always done during the
Rebellion.
The foot, too, were lightly dressed this morning,
carrying only canteens and weapons. The trappings
of rank comwaistcoats, epauletted outer
coats-had been left in heaps behind Captain
Pike's earthwork.
The Indians fought with even less equipment,
Abraham knew. They wore only hide trousers
or waist clouts, and moccasins.
And paint.
He'd listened to descriptions of those ugly
slashes of color with which the braves decorated their
faces, arms and torsos. This morning, he'd
probably see war paint with his own eyes-
Head aching from the heat and the whiskey he'd drunk with
Lieutenants Lewis and Clark, he swung
Sprite into line behind his troop's senior officer,
Lieutenant Stovall. Abraham didn't care
much for the chubby Marylander, reputed to be a
sodomite. Stovall had made one advance,
months ago, but Abraham's gruff reply and
clenched fists quickly persuaded the young officer from
Baltimore to seek his pleasure elsewhere.
Stovall occasionally bragged that his parents had hustled
him out of his home city and into the army because of a scandal
whose enormity remained a source of amusement to him.
Abraham never learned the full nature of the
scandal, but an incident a few weeks prior to the
abortive seduction gave him a clue.
One of Stovall's treasured possessions was an
expensive, rather large oval locket on a chain.
A woman's locket; a curiously effeminate
souvenir for a man in the army. In a rare hour of
drunken camaraderie, Stovall had opened the
locket and shown Abraham a miniature which even the
young Bostonian, no prude, found shocking
because it represented something he had never seen before: a
full-figure miniature of a dark-haired young
woman reclining on a drapery, nude.
One coy hand partially concealed a dusty triangle,
which the anonymous artist had detailed with the same
attention to eroticism he'd given to the young woman's
somewhat sleepy eyes, her wide mouth and her large
breasts, carefully reddened at the tips.
The young woman in the portrait-she could be no more
than sixteen or seventeen-had a voluptuous,
puffy decadence that disgusted Abraham even while it
aroused him. As Stovall snapped the locket shut,
Abraham offered the expected ribald compliment,
then asked:
"Is that your mistress, Lieutenant?"
Stovall chuckled, using his amusement as a
pretext to touch the back of Abraham's hand:
"A gentleman never compromises a lady
by answering such a question, dear boy. It's sufficient
to say the locket was given to me by a charming creature
who loves me deeply, and whose love is
reciprocated."
Days later, Abraham brought up the locket in
conversation with another officer. His scalp crawled when
the officer identified the girl in the painting:
"His mistress? Yes, he intimates she is.
She's also his sister, Lucy Stovall."
"Good Christ! I thought his remarks about a scandal in
Baltimore were only boasts."
"To the best of my knowledge, I'm right in the identity of that
pretty whore he carries around in his breeches.
There was a scandal, and a juicy one. The girl's
married now, to some chap named
Freemantle-Stovall fairly seethes whenever he
mentions him. In case it's not clear, Cornet,
Stovall is a libertine of the worst sort.
Don't let him catch you alone! I understand his
family's damned rich, by the way. That probably
helps buy official silence about his little
escapades-was
"And helps bribe recruiting officers to look in
the other direction?"
"And sign his papers in haste-yes."
After that, Abraham avoided the lieutenant, save
for the one time he was unavoidably alone with him, and
slyly propositioned.
Stovall's unpopularity was heightened by a
condescending manner he displayed even to superiors-and
to Abraham this morning:
"Damned silly of you to run about pretending
to be a bloody firebrand, Kent." Stovall
sometimes affected
diction he imagined to be British; Abraham
considered it a sign of Federalist leanings. "I've
no desire to be potted by a bloody lot of howling
heathen. Riding in the rear suits me admirably-was
Abraham couldn't resist a jab at the
soft-featured officer:
"Off the field as well as on, eh, sir?"
Stovall colored, started to retort.
MisCampbell's shouted command distracted him.
Stovall reined his horse around and repeated the order
loudly:
"For-waaard!"
In a moment they were moving with a jingle of metal, a
slap of leather, a plop of hoofs in the black earth
leading to the slope that angled down into the
cornfields. Abraham still felt foolish because of
his comments to MisCampbell. Perhaps that was the reason
he'd dared to jape at a senior officer.
Why had he made those idiotic remarks about
wanting to be first to charge the enemy? Was he
secretly afraid he lacked courage? Yes, that
might be the reason-
But admitting it didn't help his spirits one
whit. A heavy lump had formed in his throat.
Sweat continually blurred his eyes. Off to the far
right, the Legion columns shimmered in the heat, their
fur caps with different-colored plumes the only
concession to military dress. Abraham felt
heavy sweat on his chest and under his arms as
MisCampbell led the dragoons down into the
tasseled corn planted by the Indians.
As he rode, Abraham's thoughts turned inward
again. He knew why he hoped to do well in the
engagement. He wanted some record of
accomplishment, however slight, from which to draw the
strength of experience if and when he confronted his father
in a much different sort of conflict.
Once he acknowledged this in the silence of his mind,
he felt a little better-though no less nervous.
Guiding Sprite over the edge of the gentle slope,
he noticed activity in a grove to the left. He
saw General Wayne trying to lift his foot to his
stirrup. Bending the flannel-swathed leg brought a
grimace to Wayne's face, then tears. Two
servants rushed forward to boost him up. Abraham
distinctly heard Wayne's gasp of pain as he
mounted.
But once in the saddle, the general looked
fierce and formidable. No trace of the tears
remained. The hilt of his sword and the metal-capped
butts of his pistols twinkled in the dappled
sunlight of the grove.
Abraham coughed in the dust raised by Stovall's
gray just ahead. He felt a sudden pride in
serving with Anthony Wayne. If he were to die this
morning, at least he wouldn't be dying for a coward or
an incompetent. Or a sodomite, he thought,
making a disgusted face as Stovall wiggled his fat
rump in his saddle and complained loudly about the heat
II.
The sun climbed higher as they advanced. Stovall
owned a precious wilderness rarity, a pocket
watch with a cheerfully painted sun face on its
dial. He kept close track of the time.
Eight o'clock.
Nine o'clock.
Nine-thirty-
Lulled by the rhythm of posting, Abraham grew
drowsy in the heat. Sprite's flanks glistened with
lather. He and the mare-in fact all of the dragoons
and then-horses-exuded a stench that grew riper with every
passing moment.
Ahead and to the right, half the Legion had
already vanished into a line of trees running at a right
angle between the woods on the far left and the river.
The trees,
a living wall that hid all the terrain beyond, marked the
end of the corn bottoms. As the Legion foot
disappeared into the dark green gloom,
MisCampbell called a halt. The dragoons
reined their horses. General Wayne and his command
staff cantered past on their left, soon gone into the
trees after the others. Lieutenant Stovall tugged
out his pocket watch again.
"Ten o'clock. The hostiles must have turned tail.
Suits me perfectly-was
Abraham stood up straight in his stirrups as
Stovall's sentence was punctuated by a rolling
thunderclap of sound from the other side of the line of
trees. Frantic orders rang along the end of the
column of foot. The last of the infantrymen
plunged into the woods at quickstep. Abraham saw
smoke rising above the trees, but those same trees
barred the dragoons from seeing the source of the firing.
"Turned tail?" a dragoon jeered at
Stovall. "Doesn't sound like it!"
"No, I don't imagine Mad Anthony ordered
musket practice just to while away the
time," said another. Stovall jammed his watch back
in his trousers pocket, looking petulant.
That muskets by the hundreds were exploding beyond the
trees was not in question. But suddenly a new sound was
added to the din: massed voices-yells-of
infantrymen charging.
A third sound made Abraham's scalp
prickle. Wild, ululating yells that could only
come from the savages entrenched in the fallen timbers.
The battle had been joined-
A horseman burst from the trees, galloping
straight toward MisCampbell. Bringing orders?
So it appeared. Abraham's belly knotted. His
palms turned cold despite the heat
MisCampbell conferred with the arriving officer, then
stood in his stirrups and drew his saber.
"Listen to me!" he shouted, pointing his blade at the
river. It shone like a brass mirror now that the mist
had burned away. "There's another cornfield
along the bank beyond those trees. We're to advance,
drive into the enemy's left flank and turn it that
way-was In a shimmering arc, the saber flashed toward
the forest on Abraham's left. Smoke rose from
its depths too. More muskets crashed. The
Kentuckians had engaged.
MisCampbell bent to listen to the courier again.
Then:
"The foot's already in trouble among the fallen
trees. So once we're in there, formations be
damned. Just kill the red whoresons." Up went his
saber, then down. "For-aaard-to "
The dragoons thundered toward the trees nearest the
river. Abraham breathed loudly through his mouth as his
rump bounced up and down in the saddle. Sprite's
plaited mane stood out in the wind. She seemed
eager to run-
MisCampbell plunged into the trees, a gloomy
place made gloomier by drifting smoke. Above the
drumming of hoofs Abraham once more heard sounds
on his left. Muskets. Men shouting and cursing in
English. Other voices screaming in tongues he
didn't understand-
The of trees was not deep. MisCampbell's men
rode through in a matter of a minute or so, bursting
onto level ground thick with ripe corn that grew
nearly to the water's edge. The world seemed to race
by as Abraham's mare carried him from semi-darkness
to blinding sunlight. He gasped at the incredible
scene of confusion and carnage on his left.
A vast area of the bottom was covered by the
immense trunks of uprooted trees, some nearly
rotted away. Here and there, two or three of the
storm-blasted
trunks lay across one another, creating natural
barricades six to eight feet high. Among this
titanic natural wreckage, men struggled; men
with white skins, and others much darker-
Abraham saw bayonets flashing as whole
squads clambered over the huge horizontal
trees; saw red faces contorted in rage; red
hands swinging war clubs and tomahawks and even firing
muskets. The Legion and the Indians fought hand
to hand in near-total disorder-
At least a thousand to fifteen hundred men were
battling, Abraham guessed. He was barely able
to hear MisCampbell's bawled orders in the din.
Past the fallen timbers, the smoke thickened above
the woods where the Kentuckians fought.
Screaming commands, MisCampbell turned the
column's head, charging the dragoons left toward
the nearest uprooted trees. As Abraham pulled
his saber, Stovall swung left in turn.
Abraham followed-and got a horrifying view of
hard-planed, reddish-brown faces waiting behind the
natural fortifications; faces marked with
slashes of yellow and vermilion.
Heads shaved save for single oiled scalplocks
trailing down their necks, the Indian defenders-of
what tribe, Abraham didn't know-raised
muskets and aimed at the attacking cavalry.
Abraham bent low over Sprite's neck. He
realized the dragoon formation would disintegrate the
moment MisCampbell reached the first great trunks.
So he chose a route for himself: a natural lane
between two destroyed trees. The lane angled away
to his left. Riding hard, he turned Sprite in
that direction.
The smell of powder was chokingly strong. He heard
the Indian muskets erupt, raised his head just a
little as a sheet of flame leaped out directly in
front of the first dragoons. MisCampbell's
chest seemed to cave in, the white of his linen shirt
stained with red blotches as
several balls struck him at once. He pitched
from his saddle, trampled by his men galloping behind
him-
Then the first riders were into the trees, each man charging
in a different direction, choosing his own enemy.
Never before had Abraham heard such noise: the
muskets blasting; the American foot
soldiers grunting and cursing as they clambered over
the tree trunks; the earth-shaking hoofbeats; the war
cries of the Indians- and the shrieks of men on both
sides dying of a ball or a bayonet or the
blade of a scalp knife.
Abraham's mare dashed into the head of the lane he'd
picked out. Stovall was racing down the same lane
directly ahead. Sprite's flank scraped one
of the tumbled trees. She almost fell. On the far
side of the tree, two clouted Indians struggled with
an officer of the Fourth Sub-legion. The man was
fending off the savages with thrusts of his spontoon.
Abraham reined in, reached across the trunk,
hacked down and sideways with his saber. The blade
struck flesh. With a kind of hypnotic fascination,
he watched the brave's neck spout blood over the
beleaguered officer. The American took the hideous
drenching-and grinned.
The other Indian tried to scramble away over the
next tree. The officer ran him through the back with the
long spontoon. Abraham's bowels felt
watery as he nudged Sprite ahead, the dying
Indian's cries of agony loud in his ears.
Abruptly, on his right a brave leaped to the top of
another fallen tree. Abraham realized
the warrior must have been crouching down-awaiting a
victim. The Indian was tall, in his late
twenties, with a distinctively handsome face and
baleful eyes. He swung his spiked war club
straight at Sprite's neck.
Abraham jerked the rein savagely. The mare
reared,
front hoofs tearing at the sky. The spike missed
her by a fraction.
Sprite came back to earth with a terrific jolt.
The Indian found a new, more convenient target:
Lieutenant Stovall. A few yards ahead, his
gray's front hoof had caught in a tangle of
exposed roots. The Indian ran gracefully
along the tree trunk, leaped as Abraham shouted:
"Stovall! Behind y-was
Stovall took the spike of the war club in the nape
of his neck. He screamed a name-Lucy,
Abraham thought it was-as he slumped over. His
corpse bounced in the saddle.
Abraham kicked Sprite ahead, hatred
dizzying his mind. Stovall was a despicable young
man. But he was also a United States soldier,
and he had been foully murdered. Holding his seat
by clenching his knees against Sprite's heaving
sides, Abraham jerked out one of the dragoon
pistols and fired.
When the smoke cleared, Abraham saw the Indian
laughing at him from the other side of Stovall's
horse. Fresh blood stained Stovall's shirt
where the pistol ball had struck. The Indian had
maneuvered Stovall's corpse as a shield.
Eyes glittering with hateful mirth, the Indian
reached up as Stovall's boots came loose from the
stirrups. He tangled his fingers in Stovall's
blood-slimed hair, jerked, flung the body on
the ground. In a moment the Indian was mounted and riding
away, bent close to the animal's neck as he
beat the gray's ribs with moccasined feet.
Abraham pulled his other pistol, shot-but the
fleeing savage was already out of range.
Soon the Indian was gone in the smoke. Abraham
rode past Stovall's corpse, unable to look at
it. Vomit filled his throat. He swallowed
several times and that
way kept from getting sick. But nausea still churned
his middle.
Pistols empty, he had only his bloodied saber
for a weapon-and precious few enemies to use it on,
he discovered. The Indians had withdrawn from
the immediate area. In fact, as he reined in again, he
saw scores of them retreating in a frantic
scramble through the timbers at the far side of the
battleground. Legion soldiers with bayonets
gave chase, stabbing the fugitives in the back or
shooting them.
Abraham began to shake. He controlled the
violent trembling only with great effort. He'd
been in combat five minutes or a little less, and
already the field was clearing. As he scanned the
tumbled trees, he realized that the cavalry charge
against the Indian flank had been largely
responsible for the sudden retreat. Wayne's
strategy had been sound after all.
He heard a lieutenant calling for the dragoons
to assemble in a relatively open area a short
distance away. He spoke to Sprite to send her
forward. The firing was diminishing quickly, but great blue
layers of smoke still lay over the blasted trees.
The grotesque and gory bodies of Americans and
Indians were hideous to look upon.
As Abraham rounded the split end of a rotting
tree, he heard a muffled groan, glanced down.
He saw an Indian, hardly older than he
was.
Hunched over in pain-gut-shot-the young brave stared
up at Abraham's bloodied sword, expecting
death. Abraham's eyes locked with the brave's.
Agony and humiliation filled those eyes, but no
hatred. The Indian was dying.
Abraham had no stomach for administering a final
stroke, merciful or otherwise. He rode on.
The young warrior began to chant, a mournful,
sing-song melody. A death-litany-his
The sight of the dying warrior lingered in Abraham's
mind, sad and ugly. He felt ashamed as he
remembered his foolish bravado earlier in the
morning. To take pleasure in the death and suffering of
battle struck him as inhuman, no matter how
important or righteous the cause of either side
seemed. He was oddly proud of having survived the
short but fierce engagement. Yet at the same time
he was sickened and shaken by everything he had seen and
done.
III.
The battle along the Maumee was won in under half
an hour. It was won by superior numbers and,
specifically, as Abraham had suspected, by the
dragoon charge against the Indian flank. When
Abraham rejoined his troop, he found that
seven or eight men he knew well had died somewhere
in the fallen timbers.
Not long afterward, he and the other dragoons found themselves
in high grass overlooking a stockade beside the
river. Above the fort, a British flag flew.
Closer to the hilltop position, McKee's
trading station stood among a collection of deserted
Indian huts and lean-tos. One of the men in
Abraham's troop pointed in surprise:
"Stripe me if the yellow British ain't going
to keep the damn gate shut."
He moved forward for a better look. About two
dozen Indians, most of them wounded, were howling and
beating on the entrance to the log fort. Red-coated
sentries on the ramparts motioned for them to go away.
That set the Indians to howling all the louder.
Abraham recognized one of the angriest
fugitives.
"See that one who's bloodied his hands hammering the
gate?" he asked the officer beside him. "Unless my
eyes are tricking me, I came close to killing
him back in the timbers."
The bedraggled officer answered, "Don't you know who
that is?"
Abraham shook his head.
"A scout pointed him out to me. He was fleeing like the
very devil. On horseback."
"But who is he?"
"The Shawanese, Tecumseh. One of Blue
Jacket's hottest bloods."
"I'm sure he's the one I shot at-was
"And missed, obviously."
"Yes."
"Too bad. A ball in his brain would have saved every
white man on the frontier a mighty lot of
grief."
Hardly hearing, Abraham continued to stare at the
appalling sight of the allies of the Indians refusing
them sanctuary in the fort. Presently the enraged
braves slipped out of sight in the woods beyond the
log stockade. Wayne had passed an order that
they were not to be fired on.
That angered a great many of the Americans. Abraham
felt only a profound sense of sorrow. The
tribes of the Ohio country might be enemies, but you
could only pity men whose pretended friends abandoned them
in such fashion.
IV.
Boldly, General Anthony Wayne remained
camped in the meadows half a mile from Fort
Miami. Although the British commandant refused
Wayne's demand for surrender, the redcoats stayed
safely behind their palisade and didn't fire even
a single shot when Wayne ordered McKee's station
burned.
Next the Americans burned the huts around the
trading post. Finally they set fire to the gardens and
cornfields where the Indians raised their food for the
winter.
On the way south again in the rain, the army still managed
to light enough firebrands to start the cornfields along
the Maumee blazing. While the wagons carrying
wounded creaked and oozed through the muddy bottoms,
pillars of black smoke climbed to the drizzly
sky. Wayne had not only vowed to defeat the
federated tribes-which he had done in thirty
minutes-but also to leave them no means of survival.
Abraham rode Sprite through the rows of ripened
corn, setting the tall stalks alight with a
sputtering torch. His emotions were in turmoil. He
knew that destroying the corn was a military
necessity. Yet doing it somehow made him
miserable.
He felt that during the brief battle, he had come
a little closer to full manhood. But the
experience was not nearly as glorious and gratifying as
he'd imagined it would be. He found himself thinking
frequently of his family. Found himself calling on
Lieutenants Clark and Lewis whenever he had a
free moment, helping himself to quantities of their
whiskey.
And he always avoided looking back at the smoky
horizon as the triumphant army marched south in the
waning summer.
A commotion brought Abraham running from his barracks
at Fort Greenville one brittle gray afternoon
late in January. Dull silver light tinged the
western horizon. Lamps had already been lit in
General Wayne's neat house with its border of
white picket fencing. On the ramparts, sentries
were hallooing while other men lifted the great log bar
that held Greenville's gates shut from the inside.
Crowds of soldiers had already gathered. In one of
them, Abraham found red-haired Lieutenant
Clark.
"Why all the excitement, William?" Abraham
asked, shivering in his all-too-thin dark blue winter
coat. He blinked as a couple of snowflakes
tickled his eyelids.
"Party of red men coming in," Clark answered
in his soft Virginia speech. Several officers
dashed to the porch of Wayne's house. One pounded
on the door.
The fort gates swung inward. A strange silence
fell, broken only by the wind's whine. A file of
about three dozen Indians straggled into the fort,
looking considerably less prideful than their peers
at Fallen Timbers. In fact Abraham had
seldom seen so pathetic a sight as the half-dozen
hunched old men who led the procession on
horseback.
The protruding ribs of the horses testified to their
near-starvation. The men wore ragged blankets, or
filthy cast-off British army coats. They
huddled together while an American interpreter in
buckskin spoke to the leaders with words and signs.
Among the soldiers gathered on the perimeter of the
parade area, there were brief outbursts of
contemptuous laughter, and a few obscene jests. The
laughter soon died. The jokes drew little
response.
How different from the day in late December,
Abraham thought. Wayne had assembled the
Legion and the Kentuckians in the post-Christmas
cold to hear a reading
of a proclamation from Philip Kent's old friend
Knox, head of the Department of War. The
proclamation said President Washington and the
Congress joined in commending Major General
Wayne's men for the good conduct and bravery displayed
by them in the action of the twentieth August last, with the
Indians. Afterward, the cheering was long and loud. Now
some of those same Indians, hollow-cheeked and
shivering, stood helplessly in the midst of their
enemies under the lowering winter sky. They awaited the
emergence of the White Captain from his cozy house.
Abraham remembered the dreadful harvest of
skulls on the Wabash; reminded himself that perhaps some
of these very chiefs had caused that slaughter-
Yet he understood their reasons. Pitied them again as
he recalled the way their er/while friends had denied
them sanctuary after the battle. Ever since that
simmering morning in August, he'd scorned himself for
ever thinking that war, in whatever cause, could be
ennobling.
Necessary, perhaps. But ennobling? Never.
Men drifted from group to group, identifying members
of the Indian party: ... "That's Half King's
son, the Wyandot"
"And the Delaware, Moses, The only
English letter he can write is M, they say-was
"Well," remarked Lieutenant William
Clark, "this is what the general wanted. Beating them
in the field wasn't enough. They had to be beaten in
their bellies and their hearts and their minds before this
country could be pacified. I'll venture this is
only the start, Abraham-the first trickle."
"You mean more of the chiefs will come?"
Clark nodded. "Wayne will have a treaty with all the
tribes before the year's out, mark my word."
"That'll mean furloughs!" a soldier behind them
exclaimed. "Damme, I can't wait to fuck one
of those Cincinnati whores, never mind how bad they
smell-was
Someone else snickered. But only for a moment.
Abraham was thinking of something other than women. He
was thinking that if the Northwest had indeed been
secured, he could return home when his enlistment
ran out at mid-year. The realization triggered a
memory of Wayne's remarks about the opportunity
in the new land.
But Abraham knew himself reasonably well now.
He couldn't simply defy his father and never go home.
He'd have to return to Boston at least for a short
time.
The thought of the homecoming filled him with conflicting
emotions. On one hand he longed to be among
familiar comforts and familiar people again; on the other,
he dreaded facing the owner of Kent and Son.
He dug his hands deeply into the pockets of his thin
coat. The more he thought about Wayne's words that
stifling morning beside the river, the more he questioned them.
At the moment he could see very little in this western
frontier that was attractive. Memories of
shimmering meadows, abundant forests, white-water
brooks and plentiful wildlife all seemed
lusterless here in the dull silver light of a January
afternoon-
The front door of Wayne's small house
opened, spilling lamplight in which a shadow loomed.
The general hobbled out, tall and somehow awesome in
spite of his infirmity. The Indians drew closer
together.
"Yes, it's the end," William Clark said. He
sounded relieved. A moment later he clapped a
hand on Abraham's shoulder. "Care for some
whiskey by way of celebration?"
"Very much so," Abraham answered, with more feeling
than his friend understood.
VI.
Some thirteen months after the defeat of the federated
tribes, with the great treaty signed in
Greenville's council house, men began to be
released from Wayne's command. Abraham Kent was
one.
Turning Sprite over to the new cornet whose mount
she would become, he spoke with the unconsciously
condescending air of the veteran addressing the green
replacement.
Take care of her. She's a splendid
campaigner-His natural manner broke through the
feigned superiority; he smiled in a rueful
way. "combetter than I am, in fact. There's a
great deal to recommend this western country,
Cornet. But I don't have much fondness for the
human price paid for settling the question of its
ownership. I mean the price on both sides."
The new junior officer merely looked puzzled.
"One final word of advice," Abraham added, with a
broad wink. "It's in reference to the whiskey they
freight up from Kentucky. Or Kaintuck, if you
prefer. If you can survive the first few sips-and
develop a fondness for it-you can face the worst
life has to offer out here. The Kentucky brew, in
case I don't make myself clear, is
potent as hell. It's also necessary as hell."
He was only partially joking.
Clouds at Homecoming
AFTER THE MAGNIFICENT dinner, Abraham
held forth for a quarter of an hour.
He described how more than eleven hundred
braves and sachems of the northwestern tribes had
come to Greenville the preceding August to listen
to Wayne's passionate, if lengthy, speeches of
persuasion. Dressed in a fine suit of brown
New England broadcloth, he jumped to his feet
as he launched into the closing of the general's last
speech, which he'd memorized:
"comI now take the hatchet out of your hands-was
Abraham added gestures to the recitation, aware that
four pairs of eyes were focused on him with varying
degrees of attentiveness. One pair
particularly-eyes at which he dared not glance-stirred
him in a strange and surprising way. His voice
strengthened:
"comandwitha strong arm throw it into the center of the great
ocean, where no mortal can ever find it!" A mimed
throw dramatized the line. "And I now deliver to you
the wide and straight path to the Fifteen Fires,
to be used by you and your posterity forever. So long
as you continue to follow this road, so long will you continue
to be a happy people. You see it is straight and
wide-and they will be blind indeed who deviate from it!"
Flushed, Abraham paused. He'd jumped up
almost unconsciously, carried away with excitement.
He sat down before going on:
"That was virtually the end of it. Wayne had won
them-every important chief and brave in the Northwest
Territory except one. A Shawnee named
Tecumseh. He refused to come to Greenville because
his father was shot to death by white hunters when he was a
boy comand he saw his village burned on orders of
George Rogers Clark just a couple of years
later. The day after Wayne's speech, the chiefs
began signing. They're to receive twenty thousand
dollars this first year, half that in succeeding years in
return for the land they've given up. I've heard the
area amounts to as much as twenty-five thousand square
miles. The treaty land runs roughly east to west,
from a river called the Cuyahoga to Fort
Recovery. There, it angles down toward the
Ohio. Everything south and east of the line is reserved
for white settlement. The Indians must stay to the
north and west- but Wayne very cannily granted the
tribes the right to hunt and fish all the way
to the Ohio so long as they conduct themselves peacefully.
At the same time, he negotiated U.s.
possession of sixteen choice parcels within the
Indian territory. Altogether, the terms were complex
to explain to the sachems. But they were eager to sign when
the general finished speaking. I was listening outside the
council house a good part of the time, and I've never
heard such eloquent delivery."
"Nor I," said Elizabeth, seated on
Abraham's right. He couldn't help turning red
again.
He wanted to look into the girl's pale blue
eyes; wanted to savor the sight of her fair,
perfectly coiffed hair and the fetchingly rounded
breasts that had barely been visible on her slim
body when he left for Pittsburgh three years
earlier.
But Abraham Kent had served in the army. He could
discipline himself. Instead of making a show over
Elizabeth's admiration, he acknowledged his
stepmother's
smile from the lower end of the table, and kept his eyes
on her as she spoke:
"I agree, Elizabeth. We may have raised an
orator as well as a soldier."
Peggy Ashford McLean Kent's smooth white
hands rested on the polished surface of the great dining
table imported from Mr. Phyfe's increasingly
popular-and immensely expensive-New York
shop. When Abraham departed for the west, the family
had only been settled six months in the new
home on Beacon Street overlooking the Common.
Since his return a week ago, he had been
dazzled by the opulence of the furnishings added in his
absence.
"A soldier I'll never be, mother," he said now.
Out of politeness, he always referred to the
dark-haired, graceful woman from Virginia as
mother, even though she was his father's second wife.
Peggy Kent had a gentle, lovely face, and
eyes that occasionally revealed some private sorrow
Abraham had never fully understood. She was
taller than his father, but that hadn't proved an
impediment to a happy marriage. Philip, the head
of the household who was sitting silently at the other
end of the table, more than made up in strength of
personality what he lacked in height. Abraham
fidgeted, aware of Philip's unblinking gaze.
Across the table from Abraham, thin and sallow little
Gilbert, going on twelve, leaned forward
and exclaimed: "Tell us again about the fight at
Fallen Timbers, Abraham."
"Come, I must have recited that four times already this
week," Abraham grinned.
Gilbert was Abraham's half-brother, the only
child of Philip Kent's second marriage. He
had a fragility to his bones and a luminosity in his
eyes that showed him to be his mother's child. The brightness of his
mind somewhat compensated for his lack of size and
stamina.
He answered Abraham with a gay smile:
"Actually it's five. But I don't tire of
it."
"Let's spare the family, then, shall we? I'll
repeat the story in private."
"A promise?" asked the boy. He'd been named
for his father's life-long friend Lafayette, the French
nobleman who had fought valiantly for the American
cause during the Revolution.
"A promise," Abraham replied.
"Abraham."
The voice from the head of the table was quiet yet
commanding. Abraham turned, almost dreading to meet his
father's eyes.
At forty-two, Philip Kent's strong
features had acquired some of the lines of age. His
neatly tied hair showed gray streaks. Abraham
could never remember Philip using powder, or
covering his hair with one of the wigs now rapidly
passing out of fashion. This evening Philip wore
an expensive suit of deep emerald velvet, a
fawn waistcoat and snowy linen. He'd returned
late from his business establishment-it occupied three
floors in an old building near Long Wharf, and
was already outgrowing the space-and hadn't bothered
to remove traces of ink from beneath his blunt
fingernails. Owner of the highly successful printing and
book publishing firm of Kent and Son, Philip
was by no means an absentee manager.
"Yes, papa?" Abraham said.
Philip continued to scrutinize his older son. There
was something a bit forbidding in that stare, Abraham
thought.
Or was that only his imagination? His guilt? In the
short time he'd been back in Boston, he had
seen Philip but briefly; the inevitable subject
of Abraham's future hadn't yet arisen.
At last Philip spoke: "You favored us with some
interesting accounts of your time in the west. But you'll
forgive me if I observe that very little of what
you've said is anything more than superficial."
Abraham frowned. "I don't understand, sir."
"Well, for instance-during the charge, were you frightened?"
Peggy clasped her hands together. "Oh dear,
Philip, must he answer? You've a way of
tossing people straight onto the griddle with your questions."
"My thought exactly!" Elizabeth agreed.
Her words drew a frown from Philip. But that
wasn't all:
"Young woman, I believe I've made it
abundantly clear that you have a great many thoughts of which
I don't approve." His glance leaped to his
wife. "Have you seen to the disposal of that trashy
novel Elizabeth brought into the house?"
"Yes, she did," Elizabeth said, angry. With a
slight turn of his head, Abraham saw the fire
in the girl's blue eyes. Almost reckless, those
eyes. An inheritance from her father, the family had
long ago concluded-
Elizabeth's father had been a Virginia
gentleman of good background but poor character. On the
rare occasions when he was discussed in the Kent house,
it was said that he'd been given to heavy drinking, and
furious rages. Now Elizabeth showed more of that
inheritance. She pouted; struck the table with
one dainty fist:
"I should think at seventeen, I might read what
I please."
"Not Mrs. Rowson's sinful novel," Philip
declared. "Charlotte Temple is sentimental
tripe. It dwells excessively on seduction,
and is therefore unfit for young women of breeding. The
book may have enjoyed a vogue in England. But I
refused the opportunity-if you care to call it
that-to bring it out in America under the
Kent imprint. That summarizes my opinion, I
believe." He addressed his wife again. "Is it
gone?"
Peggy smiled a tolerant smile. "Yes, what
Elizabeth told you is correct-I've seen
to it"
"Good."
Abraham kept a straight face. The little
dialogue just concluded only demonstrated again the
thickness of the shell of conservatism that had hardened
around his father in the latter's advancing years.
Philip said, "Now, Abraham, back to the question-
which I didn't mean unkindly, by the way."
"I realize, sir."
"A man who goes into battle without fear
is the worst sort of fool."
"Then, happily, I guess I'll escape that
label. I was terrified."
Gilbert's worshipful expression vanished. "You
were?"
"Of course. At the same time, I still wanted to do
well-wanted to acquit myself honorably." That
pleased Philip. "But after ten minutes in the thick
of the fighting, I'd frankly had enough to last me the
rest of my life. I discovered there's nothing
pleasant or uplifting about killing another human
being."
"Yes, I discovered the same thing. On several
occasions," Philip added, letting it go at that.
Abraham naturally knew most of the details of his
father's history. Philip Kent had emigrated from
England before the Revolution, as a result of trouble
over an inheritance from his father-an English peer dead
almost six years now. The duke had never married
Philip's mother, a French woman of great beauty
but low birth who had been an actress in Paris
for a time. Philip frequently intimated that he'd
had to defend his own life more than once in the
uncertain years before he gave his wholehearted
support to the cause of the Boston
patriots. Philip's struggle for survival as
a young man-and perhaps his bastardy-explained
to Abraham why his father had acquired an aura of
confidence, power, even arrogance that often intimidated
others of his sex comhis sons included.
Not that Philip was overtly truculent. The quiet
air of absolute authority was simply part of his
makeup. It showed in the challenging quality of his
next remark:
"You've decided that soldiering is not a career you'd
want to pursue, then?"
Abraham nodded. "Very definitely."
"So that leaves your future open to discussion.
Excellent."
Abraham tried not to show how great an impact those
words had on him. He felt as if a huge
weight, long suspended over his head, had crushed
down on him at last. He'd known he couldn't
indefinitely postpone talking about what he intended
to do now that he was home. Philip had just made that
doubly clear.
But Gilbert didn't want to abandon war stories
quite so quickly. The adoring look stole back into his
eyes as he said to his half-brother:
"How many of the red men did you kill,
Abraham?"
"I don't know."
"Didn't you count?"
"No," Abraham answered, curtly. He saw
agonized faces; heard screams.
Elizabeth tossed her fair hair. "I'd like
to know which is more immoral-Mrs. Rowson's novel
of seduction or all this gory talk of slaughtering
Indians!"
Philip shot the girl another irritated glance.
Peggy, always the mistress of tact and diplomacy,
rose from her chair before he could speak:
"Neither is appropriate at the moment, my dears.
I'm sure the servants are anxious to clear
away. Shall we
take tea in the music room? Abraham, you
haven't heard Gilbert play the harpsichord-was
Gilbert made a disgusted face. "I'm looking
forward to it," Abraham said. "You'll be
delightfully surprised. Gilbert can perform most
of the hymns and fugues in Mr. Belcher's
Harmony of Maine. Or any of Mr.
Kimball's popular songs from The Rural
Harmony-he's really quite accomplished."
Philip stood up. "I prefer that
Gilbert concentrate on his study of mathematics.
If he continues to show the aptitude he's
demonstrated so far, our business will never lack for
managerial talent. In fact I've given some
thought to having the sign repainted."
Peggy looked startled. "In what fashion?" "So
that it reads Kent and Sons-plural." With
affection, Philip reached out to tousle Gilbert's
curly hair. For a moment his stern countenance softened
noticeably.
Gilbert smiled in a forced way. He appeared
to accept the channeling of his life into a
pre-determined course with almost complete resignation.
But he grew a little more cheerful when Philip said
to him: "Let us postpone the concert, shall we?"
"Anything you say, father!" "Why can't Gilbert
play?" Peggy asked. "Because I want a word with
Abraham alone-over a glass of port in the
sitting room."
Again it was more of a command than a statement, and it
didn't sit well with Abraham, rankled as he
was by Philip's remark about renaming the firm.
Elizabeth rebelled too, though against something
else:
"I despise this ridiculous tradition of the
gentlemen retiring behind closed doors!" She
rose, flinging her linen napkin on the table. "Mama
and I are expected to be docile slaves simply
because of our sex-was
"Elizabeth!" Peggy warned. "You will refrain from
the use of that word in conversation." "Oh, mama,
stop!"
Peggy glanced pointedly at Gilbert. "Please
consider who is present-was
"Do you honestly suppose Gilbert hasn't seen
the dogs coupling in every alley in Boston?" "Of
course I have," Gilbert grinned. Already scarlet,
Peggy gasped, "Young man-to " "This pious sham of
not using certain words is disgusting!" Elizabeth
cried.
Philip's eyes were thunderous-like his voice:
"Nevertheless, you will not use them in Gilbert's
presence comyour mother's presence-or mine! This is my
house, and it's my decision."
"Yes, you make all the decisions, don't you?"
"See here-to "
"You also make it quite apparent that I'm an
outsider."
"Oh, Elizabeth, that's altogether unfair and
unwarranted," Peggy said in a saddened
tone. "Is it? I don't believe so!"
The candles in the chandelier put glistening highlights
in Elizabeth's pale blue eyes. Yet
Abraham had the uncanny feeling that her tears were
artifice. If so, they still worked. Philip looked
taken aback:
"My dear child, your mother's quite right. You're as much a
part of this family circle as any other person at
the table. But the fact remains-you're much too forward
and free thinking."
"I suppose next you'll be calling me a mad,
bloodthirsty Jacobin!" Elizabeth wailed,
starting to rush out. As she left, she contrived to brush
against Abraham. His arm tingled at the touch of her
muslin-covered breast. They all listened
to Elizabeth clattering away upstairs to her room
just down the hall from Abraham's on the
third floor. A door slammed distantly.
Philip sighed. Then:
"Peggy, will you please go to her? She continues
to harbor the misguided notion that because I'm not her
father, I care the less for her."
Peggy said softly, "We both know that's not true."
"At the same time, I demand decent behavior.
Elizabeth quite often seems totally incapable
of it."
"She just doesn't want to grow up and be
ladylike," Gilbert said with a tentative smile.
No one responded. His large eyes lost their
glow. His face fell.
Abraham knew full well that the problem was much
deeper than Gilbert's over-simplification
suggested. Elizabeth bore her father's last name,
Fletcher. That she was illegitimate was no
secret within the Kent family. The circumstances of
her conception, however, were largely unclear
to Abraham.
He did know that his stepmother had met Philip only
after she had placed her infant daughter in a foster
home here in Boston. Evidently Peggy hadn't
wanted to expose the child-and herself-to scandal in her
native Virginia. Beyond that, Abraham had
pieced together certain other information from chance remarks
at the family table or hearthside:
Peggy's first husband had been a Virginia
planter named McLean. He was butchered in a
short but apparently harrowing slave rebellion that
swept Peggy's home district along the
Rappahannock River in 1775. Elizabeth,
born in 1778, had therefore been fathered by this
Fletcher fellow after Peggy became a widow.
Sometimes Abraham wondered whether that slave
uprising might be the cause of the silent grief that
seemed to grip his stepmother occasionally. Walking
abroad in Boston, he had seen Peggy turn
pale at the sight of a free black man,
Philip had once confided to Abraham that Peggy
had indeed suffered physical harm in the
rebellion. To what extent, he didn't say.
Abraham had speculated on the possibility of
rape. That would account for Peggy's pallor and the
sudden nervous starts which automatically comand
unfairly-lumped all Negroes into a single
category: persons to be feared.
If Peggy Ashford McLean Kent's past did
include ravishment, how it had affected her
intimate relationship with Abraham's father remained
a mystery. He knew they shared one large bed. And
his stepmother hadn't been so devastated that sexual
congress was impossible for her. Gilbert was proof of
that. Beyond the obvious, however, Abraham didn't
deem it his business or, to use Philip's word,
decent-to speculate.
He did know that no children had come of Peggy's union
with the murdered McLean. Growing up, he'd
asked his father questions about the whole puzzling business.
Philip refused to reply to most of them, stating that
he did so out of respect for his wife's wishes.
The past was buried and would remain so.
No one was forbidden from talking about Elizabeth's
real father-though no one dwelled on him especially
either. Over the years, Peggy had let slip a few
tantalizing details about the man. The one mentioned
most often comand most proudly-was that he had been
shot to death in Pittsburgh in 1778, by an
Indian spy attempting to abort George
Rogers Clark's march to capture British forts
in the Northwest Territory.
It seemed clear that the man had indeed possessed
an unstable nature. It showed up, as it had for as
long as Abraham could remember, in Elizabeth's
dislike of Philip's discipline, and her occasional
outright rebellion against it. That was one thing in the
household that hadn't changed in Abraham's
absence-even though Elizabeth's appearance had
changed remarkably. She
had quite literally grown up. Filled out. Become
almost beautiful.
She was no blood kin of Abraham's. Yet he
still felt vaguely guilty over the sensual
thoughts she inspired. Her frank glances had stirred
him often during the short time he'd been home.
Responding to Philip's request, Peggy said in
a weary tone, "Yes, I'll go to her-though I
doubt my admonitions will have much effect. They
seldom do any more. Gilbert, you see to finishing your
studies for the day."
Gilbert stuck out his lower lip. "I'd rather talk
to Abraham about Indians."
"Your brother is going to talk to me," Philip
said, starting from the dining room. With each step, his right
shoulder drooped a little-the result of the wound he had
"suffered at the battle of Monmouth Court
House. The way he had limped ever since had also
played a part in making him an assertive, sometimes
domineering man, Abraham suspected.
Reluctantly he followed his father into the front
sitting room. Servants had already lit a fire
against the December darkness. Philip warmed his hands
in front of the blaze. He didn't once glance
back to see whether Abraham had followed. He
expected Abraham to be there, and Abraham was.
II.
Over the mantel hung a long, beautifully
polished and oiled Kentucky rifle that
Philip had acquired in the war. Above that, a
focal point of the room, shone the grenadier's
sword given him by Lafayette. They had known
each other as young men in the French province of
Auvergne; then, Philip's name had been
Phillipe Charboeau. He had adopted his new
one on the voyage to America.
Gazing at the sword, Abraham recalled what his
father had recently told him about its famous donor.
At first a supporter of the French Revolution, the
Marquis de Lafayette had lately rebelled
against the savagery of the Jacobins. He was now
imprisoned somewhere in Europe -Prussia or
Austria, Philip believed. It was an irony
of the great political upheaval that had polarized not
only Europe but the United States that
Lafayette, finally rejecting the revolution, had
still been clapped into irons by its enemies because of his
position before he changed his mind.
Below the rifle and sword on the mantel proper
stood a small green glass bottle with a
quantity of dried tea leaves in the bottom. This
Abraham's father had acquired on the night of
Mr. Samuel Adams' famous tea party in
Boston harbor.
The tea had accumulated in Philip's boots
during the opening and dumping of the chests. Later that
same night he had put the tea in the bottle,
to save as a family souvenir. Years afterward, he'd
adopted the symbol of the partially filled bottle for the
signboard identifying Kent and Son.
Despite the crackling fire, the sitting room was
chilly. All at once Abraham noticed the
tea-bottle symbol on the masthead of a
single-sheet, four-page gazette lying on a
small table. The title of the paper was the Bay
State Federalist. That and a quick glance at its
columns identified the paper's slant;
Abraham noted an unfriendly story referring to the
ex-secretary of state, Mr. Jefferson, and his
Jacobin cohorts.
"I've a great deal to catch up on," he said
while Philip poured two glasses of port.
"No one's bothered to tell me you've gone into the
newspaper business as well."
Philip handed a glass to his son. "It's
merely a weekly at the moment. Still, the more voices
speaking out
against these imbeciles who'd entangle us with the
French, the better."
Abraham laughed.
"Pray tell me what's so amusing," Philip
snapped. "Forgive me, papa-it's just that your
attitude's a bit surprising. I mean, you
comwere born in France."
"The people living there now have collectively lost their
minds. And some of the revolution's friends in America
are in equally pathetic shape. I've heard
educated gentlemen who should know better aping the
French barbarians by addressing one another as
"citizen." Proudly! Can you imagine-?"
He capped his little oration with a scornful sniff.
Abraham sipped his port, then said:
"So your sympathies are entirely with Mr.
Hamilton and his faction?"
"Indeed they are. Alexander Hamilton is the one
authentic genius in the president's cabinet. An
absolute master of financial affairs. It's
Hamilton who untangled the debt mess left
at the end of the war, you know. He and he alone put this
nation on a sound monetary basis. I agree
wholeheartedly with his contention that we must strengthen our
commercial ties with England now that we've settled
our differences."
"I'm not sure they're settled."
"You're wrong."
"No, papa. For one thing, the British haven't
yet withdrawn from their forts in the northwest."
"But they signed Mr. Jay's treaty last year,
agreeing to do so! They can't delay forever," Philip
declared, seating himself as if the subject was closed.
Abraham still looked skeptical:
"The treaty is all right as far as it goes. But as
I understand it, the treaty said nothing about some vital
issues still outstanding. Interference with our shipping- that
absurd ploy of boarding American vessels
to hunt
for British seamen who've deserted. The real
object as everyone knows is to seize Americans
to fill the Royal Navy's press gang
quotas."
"The treaty may have its weaknesses," Philip said,
somewhat huffily. "But by and large, I approved of
Mr. Jay's endeavors."
"I heard that others didn't. Quite a few others."
Philip waved. "Ignorant rabble." "Is it
true they burned Jay's effigy in various
cities?" "Yes, and stoned Hamilton when he
spoke for the treaty in New York! But I can
cite you an outrage closer to home. Do you
know what those filthy Francophiles painted on the
wall of my own establishment-right here in Boston?
Damn John Jay! Damn everyone who won't
damn John Jay-to "
Philip noticed his son smiling again. "You are
easily amused, Abraham. Such outbursts against
public order--deprecations of the effort of decent,
patriotic men- they're a disgrace!"
He lowered his voice until it sounded almost
threatening:
"I trust you haven't acquired a different view.
Haven't fallen in with a pack of republican
radicals during your army service."
Straight-faced, but marveling anew at the way
wealth and position could alter a man's politics and
tame his passion for upsetting the status quo,
Abraham answered:
"I don't believe so, sir. We were a little too
busy with the tribes to discuss political theory."
"I had some doubts about permitting you to go off
to military duty-as you well know. I allowed it because
I suspected the outcome-that you wouldn't find it to your
liking."
"You knew that ahead of time? How?" Philip
shrugged, as if the answer was obvious:
"I never liked soldiering either.
"I see." Again Abraham wanted to chuckle. But
he didn't. Philip went on:
"I confess I'm not entirely happy to see the
new territory secure. It only means-the
creation of new states. The settlers will be nothing but
farmers-artisans-was
"Mr. Jefferson's sort of people," Abraham
returned wryly.
"The fool is wrong to believe government should rest
in the hands of all! Hamilton sees the issue
correctly-was
"Only the rich--the well-educated-are competent
to administer the affairs of the nation? Forgive me a
second time, papa, but I thought that was exactly
what you fought against in the late war."
"Times change! So does a man's thinking.
However, I don't wish to discuss my views. I
wish to discuss your future."
"I've only been home a week-was
"And I expect to give you sufficient time
to acclimate yourself to civilian life. But I do
want to inform you of one fact, Abraham."
Philip looked so serious, Abraham lost even
the slightest desire to laugh. He asked:
"What fact?"
"I am relying on you to join the printing house as
soon as possible. I'll give you as much
responsibility as I think you can handle, and-was
Quickly, Abraham raised his glass to interrupt:
"Papa, papa-wait! I'm not certain that's what
I want to do with my life."
"A career with Kent and Son offers you everything!"
Philip exclaimed. "Why wouldn't you want a
comfortable, secure existence? Influential friends? A
position of respect within the Federalist community-?"
"Perhaps because I'm not yet a Federalist"
"You'll change."
"How can you be so sure?"
The dark eyes caught the hearth's glare. "You are
my
son."
Softly, but without hesitation, Abraham said,
"Yes- and that's the very reason I prefer to do
exactly as you did."
"What do you mean?"
"The story, papa."
"What story?"
"The one you told me so often when I was growing up.
How you refused to accept what was planned for
you by your mother--how you struck out on your own instead.
Made your own way. Will you deny me the same
opportunity? It's a tribute to you that I want
it that way-was
"I do not consider it a tribute," Philip said.
Abraham felt a sudden hurt. "I will be
exceedingly disappointed if you refuse to come into Kent
and Son as your half-brother will surely do."
"Gilbert's a different case. Bright, but too
frail for any kind of work except commerce. In a
business he can use his true strength--his mind."
Philip sat in stony immobility for a moment.
Then:
"If you don't care to accept my suggestion, be
kind enough to tell me what alternative you've
chosen."
"The truth is, I can't."
"And why not, sir?"
Silence.
"Answer me! Why not?"
"I-I just haven't found it yet. The
alternative-was
Abraham's sentence trailed off in lame
fashion. Philip's lip showed his scorn-and perhaps
concealed pain as deep as Abraham's own.
Philip turned defensive, sarcastic:
"You don't know what you want to do, yet you already know
my proposition is unsatisfactory. Odd-was
"Papa-was
"Damned odd!"
Abraham set his unfinished glass aside.
"Sir, I'd like to ask that we postpone the rest of this
discussion."
"Until when?"
"Until I've had a chance to think things out."
Abraham was uncomfortable in the evasion, But he
couldn't bear to continue the talk--the argument-now. His
father was growing too angry. It showed in the seethe of his
next sentence:
"I do hope you haven't entirely closed your mind
against me."
"No-was Abraham faced away quickly to conceal the
lie. "comno, of course I haven't. Goodnight,
papa."
Philip rose and walked into the shadows near the
front windows. He remained gloomily silent as
his son left the room.
"Good night, Mr. Abraham," said the
nasal-voiced octogenarian who served as footman
in the Kent house. Climbing the stairs
to his old room in the third story--a room only
occupied for a short time before he left for
Pittsburgh and Wayne's service--Abraham
called a reply over his shoulder. The reply was more
grumble than anything else.
Yes, he had lied to his father. No point in denying
that. On the long, arduous journey home, he had
thought a good deal about the future. He wasn't
content to fit pliably into the mold prepared for him
by Philip Kent
In many ways, service in the northwest had been an
unsettling experience. It had shown him the world was not
confined to paper and presses--all he had known as a
child. His most vivid early memory of his father was
sensory: the smell of ink in the first loft Philip
had occupied; a loft above the chandler's store
operated by the
patriarch of the powerful Rothman family, now
respected Boston bankers.
Some of what Abraham had told his father was true.
He didn't yet know what he wanted to do with his
life. Not in detail, that is. His central goal
was much as he'd stated it: to strike out on his own. That
was clearly imitative admiration of Philip--
though he realized his father would always refuse
to see it as such. God, how the man had changed in just
three years-to 
During Abraham's first twenty-four hours in the
house, he'd literally gaped at the lavish new
furnishings--the obvious signs of Philip's
continuing ability to pyramid his profits from his
initial business venture: an investment in shares in
privateering vessels during the Rebellion. The
venture had cost Abraham the mother he didn't
remember. She had been abducted by one of the
privateer captains, and had perished at sea trying
to escape from her kidnapper.
Abraham really hadn't appreciated how rich
Philip had become until he'd been away from
Boston a while, living in altogether different and less
luxurious surroundings. Following his return,
however, he very quickly found the wealthy household
stultifying; too formalized and proper. That spurred
him to make up his mind to go his own way.
Because he didn't want to hurt his father, he had
tried to hide that truth just now. But he couldn't hide
it from himself. So there remained two obstacles for him
to overcome:
The immediate one of convincing Philip that he deserved the
right to shape his own destiny.
And the more difficult because less clear-cut one of
determining what that destiny ought to be.
With a shake of his head, Abraham realized he'd
paused on the second-floor landing. As he started
up toward the third, he heard his stepmother's voice
murmuring in Gilbert's room. He called the
obligatory goodnight. Then, aware of Peggy
hurrying to the door to speak to him, he rushed on up
the steps into the relative gloom of the cramped upper
story.
Peggy didn't call out to summon him. She was a
wise woman, and he admired her wisdom. She
would sense from his quick passage upstairs that the
interview with Philip hadn't gone well, and he
wanted to retire undisturbed.
Servants had lit a small fire in the grate in
his room. He could smell the wood smoke as he
touched the latch, thrust the door inward-
"My God-to "
"Sssh!" Elizabeth Fletcher put a warning hand
to her lips. "Don't be a ninny and make noise
or you'll spoil everything."
Shaking a little, Abraham stepped into the room,
closed the door.
"What the devil are you doing here,
Elizabeth? Dressed like that--it-it isn't
proper."
"Oh, don't start talking like the others!"
Elizabeth exclaimed. "I've already had another
tedious lecture from mama this evening."
She was standing barefoot before the hearth. Thus
Abraham could see-most disturbingly-the details of
her figure through the filmy material of her
nightdress. Her young woman's breasts were clearly
denned, nipples and all. And-was her pose
deliberate?-he even glimpsed the area between her
legs where the clearer outlines of her thighs joined,
blurring into a hint of- Quickly, he looked away.
"Please do keep your voice lowered," she
whispered. "Before I crept down the hall, I shut
my own door with a great show of going to bed."
She walked slowly toward the turned-down
coverlets,
plumping herself on them. "Anyway, why shouldn't I
be here? We're not brother and sister."
"I know, but-was
"And I'm already condemned as perfectly scandalous
by the rest of them-was The pale blue eyes challenged
him. "Excluding you, I trust."
"Yes. Yes, certainly," Abraham
told her, dissembling desperately. He felt
both awkward and terrified.
She patted the bed next to her leg.
"Then sit with me, and talk. There's no one else
I can talk to in this house, you know."
He continued to stand motionless.-She brushed back a
lock of fair hair, her expression by turns
defiant and devilish:
"Don't tell me you've never been alone with a
woman, Abraham Kent. Not after three years in
the army."
"Why, I-I've been with a woman several times."
The truth of it was, it had happened just once. In
the village of Cincinnati, on his way home, he
had paid a whore. At the time the whole business had
been quick and embarrassing, though in retrospect it
had a certain nostalgic charm.
"So do sit down!"
He stared at her a moment longer, seeing something
strange, even wicked, shining in her blue eyes.
It was a reckless unconcern for propriety that lent
her lovely face an almost unholy radiance in the
flicker from the grate. Was this what she'd inherited from
the Fletcher fellow who had carried on so
disgracefully before his death?
The thought frightened Abraham all the more. Yet he
didn't pull away, or order her out. Instead,
he eased himself gently onto the bed. Elizabeth
seized his cold hands in her warm ones. He felt
the first hardness of arousal.
"Abraham," she said, her face close enough so that
he could smell the sweetness of her breath, "you understand
what they're trying to do to both of us, don't you?"
"They?"
"Well, chiefly your father. I didn't understand it
myself for the longest time. Then, the older I got, the
clearer it became. I've known the truth for-oh,
almost two years."
"The truth about what?"
"About what your father wants. It's very simple. He
wants everyone who lives under this roof--me, and now
you--to bend to his notions of respectability. I
admit he's been kind to me over the years. Yet
in a way, I hate him."
"Elizabeth, that's a damned ghastly thing to say-was
"I can't help it, that's how I feel. Don't you
realize he wants to trap both of us in the same
trap? Neither of us must let that happen-we're not
cut out for it!"
"What do you propose we do, may I
ask?"
"We must fight him, Abraham. Secretly.
Together-was
Suddenly she leaned against him, letting him feel her
breasts through the thin gown.
Then she took his hand and placed it over one breast and
squeezed his fingers, all the while staring at him with
those strange, pale eyes.
IV.
That moment destroyed any doubts Abraham Kent
might have had about Elizabeth's purpose in coming
to his room so furtively. By means of an act
Philip would be sure to find reprehensible, she would
defy the authority he sought to exert over her.
Abraham had felt some of the same pressure in the
painful interview with his father. Thus he was quite
willing to let the eager instincts of his young man's
body have their way, joining the girl in this private,
ultimately pleasurable form of protest
To his surprise, he discovered she wasn't a
virgin. Her gown tossed aside, her pale thighs
spread to reveal a gilded place, she kissed and
teased him as expertly as that Cincinnati whore.
She drew him down, then guided him with practiced
hands curled around his maleness. As the rhythm
of the coupling intensified, she groaned louder and louder
against his ear. Wantonly, she locked her legs
around the small of his back. The ferocious outpourings
shook them both almost simultaneously.
Afterward, under the coverlets, she nestled naked in the
curve of his arm. When he questioned her about her
experience, she only laughed brightly and said it was of
no importance. She rolled against him, gripping his
cheeks with both palms while those intense blue
eyes probed:
"We mustn't let them destroy us, Abraham.
We mustn't"
Limp from their union and captivated by her presence,
he found it easy to say, "We won't"
"Promise?"
He heard a grotesque echo of Gilbert's
voice when she spoke; another echo in his own
reply:
"Yes, Elizabeth. I promise."
She uttered a small, satisfied laugh and leaned
back against his arm.
She stayed with him an hour or more, until the house
was utterly still, and then stole away. In the weeks that
followed, as the new year of 1796 opened, she
visited him by night whenever she could. No one
in the house seemed to suspect, because the lovers
carefully avoided one another except at those times
when normal household activities such as meals
brought them together.
But not many days had passed in January before
Abraham realized that his problems had taken on a
new dimension.
He was no longer merely defying his father.
He was falling in love with Elizabeth Fletcher.
The Storm Breaks
DURING LATE JANUARY and into February,
Abraham's relationship with his father remained in a
state of truce. He agreed to work regular hours
at Kent and Son--the firm was expanding so fast that
sufficient help couldn't be found--but at the same
time, he made clear to Philip that his decision
shouldn't be construed as a permanent one.
To reinforce the point, Abraham insisted on menial
work and menial wages. He didn't want other
employees thinking he was taking advantage of his
status as the owner's son.
Despite all the conditions Abraham set,
Philip seemed happy with the arrangement. His face
showed his pleasure whenever he walked into the press
room and saw Abraham black-handed and
smeary-cheeked from manipulating the leather balls that
inked the type forms, or lugging huge stacks of
newly cut paper.
Although new inventions were being introduced at an
astonishing rate--duly reported in the columns
of the Bay State Federalist--the equipment of Kent
and Son remained similar to that on which Philip had
first learned his trade in a shop in London in the
1770's. Kent's now owned four large flatbeds,
each driven by human muscle applied to a screw
lever. The presses were located on the first floor
of the three-story structure near Long Wharf. Their
weight had already caused a noticeable sag in the
floor.
On the second story Philip maintained his own
bindery, plus warehousing space. Kent and Son
had just printed an inexpensive edition of Mr.
Noah Webster's Blue-Backed Speller. This
instructional book for school children was already more than a
decade old. But it showed every sign of remaining the
standard text for generations to come, and the warehouse was
piled high with copies of the Kent version.
The building's third floor held Philip's
cramped, rather dingy private office, a smaller
press for his weekly newspaper, and
another, even dingier cubby occupied by the paper's
editor, Mr. Supply Pleasant.
Mr. Pleasant had advanced to journalism from a
career as a public letter-writer hired for a few pence
by the illiterate, or by those who wanted their
correspondence inscribed in a fine, graceful
hand. Abraham quickly developed a liking for the
graying, pot-bellied editor. Whenever he had a
free moment, he climbed the stairs to talk with
Pleasant and scan the stories being set in type
by Pleasant's one assistant.
Pleasant, in turn, soon sensed Abraham's
dissatisfaction with his work downstairs. He raised the
subject one blustery day in February:
"Your father's delighted that you're working for Kent's,
Abraham."
"It's only temporary, I assure you."
"The book trade isn't to your liking?"
"No, that's not quite it. What I don't like is being
expected to spend my life in the book trade."
Supply Pleasant leaned back in his chair,
scratched his nose with a quill that left an ink stain
between his eyes. He peered over the top of his steel
spectacles:
"Then what career do you have in mind?
Medicine? The law?"
"I don't know."
"A year's study at Harvard might help you
decide."
"I doubt it"
"Well, many a young man takes a while to find his
way. But surely you have some idea-was
"Frankly, Mr. Pleasant, about all I've
been able to determine so far is what I don't
want. I know I'm not a bookman or a scholar.
I'm damned if I'd make a good soldier,
either-was
Admitting all that was hard. In fact, he was
vaguely ashamed that his accomplishments in Boston
thus far consisted of doing his job without too many
mistakes, and conducting half a dozen furtive
meetings with Elizabeth. That last, and the attendant
deception of his father and stepmother each secret hour
required, were hardly things to be proud of; yet he
was so completely and dizzily in love with the
fair-haired girl, all else seemed
unimportant.
Supply Pleasant chewed the stem of his quill a
while, then picked up a stack of neatly inked
foolscap sheets. "Strikes me you're
like a beggar at a banquet, Abraham."
"How so, Mr. Pleasant?"
"You're confronted with so many rare dishes, you don't
know which to pick first. The country's a veritable
cornucopia of opportunity--a veritable
cornucopia!" Pleasant had a passion for flowery
phrases, in conversation as well as in the paper. He
wrote every word of the five columns on each of the four
sixteen-by-twenty-inch pages of the Federalist.
He handed the foolscap sheets to the younger man.
"Sit ten minutes with this. You'll see what I
mean." "What is it?"
"A feature I've been preparing for some time. A
review, if you will, of the remarkable accomplishments of
our young country. Of course," Pleasant added after
another bite of the quill, "my employer
exercises his right to edit my copy. There are
subjects which can't be
mentioned. The very sensible metric measurement system,
for example. It's certain to become a world standard--
certain! But it's deemed an invention of the devil by
good Federalists like your father. While other nations go
ahead and adopt it, I predict we shall not-simply
because the French Jacobins thought it up. Also-was
He pointed at the sheets with his quill.
"Mr. Jefferson's new plow. Experts claim
it will revolutionize farming. Not only does it
break the soil, it lifts and turns it aside more
efficiently by means of the moldboard Jefferson
added. I've put in some copy on the plow, but
I'm sure Mr. Kent will scratch it out"
"Don't you resent that sort of interference, Mr.
Pleasant?"
"Naturally I resent it."
"Then why don't you protest? Or quit? The first
amendment to our Constitution in "ninety-one
guaranteed a man's freedom to speak-or
publish-what he wishs."
"That's exactly how it is--Mr. Kent
publishes what he wishes," Pleasant said with a
resigned smile. "I don't quit because I like
newspapering. And I'm not shrewd enough on matters of
financing to operate my own gazette. You're too
young to realize that much of life is compromise,
Abraham. My idealism doesn't extend to my
belly, which is empty several times a day, regular
as a clock. Besides, your father and I have reached a
state of accommodation. He only interferes on
subjects related to politics."
"But slanted news is dishonest!"
"No doubt you're right. However, don't forget it was
propaganda, not straight news, that rescued us from the
morass of the unworkable Articles of Confederation and
gave us our Constitution. If Messrs. Jay and
Hamilton and Madison hadn't published their
eighty-odd Federalist essays in the New York
papers a few years ago, we
might still be a gaggle of fractious states instead
of a reasonably stable federal union, Like all
things, journalism has both its lofty and ignoble
sides."
Abraham wasn't persuaded. But he was interested
in the article Supply Pleasant had handed him;
intrigued by its title and subheadings:
THE YOUNG COLOSSUS!
A Succinct Review of the Conditions
Generating Unparalleled Prosperity
Under Our Federal Government.
Amazing Advancements
In The Mechanical Sciences!
Expansionist Fever Points To
Vast Population Increase!
"To return to my original point," Pleasant
said, "there is enough happening in the United States
to provide a young fellow with twenty
lifetimes of satisfying labor. Give that a scan
and you'll see I'm right. Now I must get to work and
finish this review of The Mysterious Monk. I
saw it last night at Powell's theater. A most
diverting Gothic melodrama-was
Abraham hardly heard. Carrying the sheets in his
blackened fingers, he retired to the back stairs of the
building, found a little light under a grimy window,
plucked an apple from his leather apron and began
to read.
For a while he couldn't get past the opening sentence.
He kept seeing Elizabeth's lovely and
defiant blue eyes.
II.
Finally Abraham managed to read the article to the
end. Mr. Pleasant's piece was indeed a paean
to the
prosperity and intellectual achievement that seemed
to be sweeping the nation.
Pleasant began by noting that the first census,
authorized by Congress in 1790, had discovered a
population nearing four million, of which, he
reported in a dour aside, almost seven hundred
thousand were slaves. The editor predicted that by the time
of the next census--the year the new century
opened--the country would probably grow to an
astonishing five or six million people, particularly
since there was now more room in which to raise families.
The treaties maneuvered through the ministries of
England and Spain by Mr. Jay and Mr. Pinckey
had at last resolved some territorial disputes and
brought a measure of stability to the northwest.
Jay's treaty had removed or reduced the
British threat on the country's northern and western
borders. Pinckey's Treaty of San Lorenzo,
signed in Madrid, had established the
Mississippi as the official western limit of the
country--set the southern boundary at the thirty-first
parallel--and, most important, given America
free navigation of the river and free deposit of
goods--the right to store and re-ship them without paying
duty-at Spanish-held New Orleans for an
initial period of three years. Settlers raising
crops for profit would now have a secure and easy
route to a major port.
The nation had adapted with reasonable ease to the new
coinage of 1786. Abraham smiled at
Pleasant's deliberate inclusion of the fact that
Mr. Jefferson had thought out the system, based on
the Spanish milled dollar; the editor
wasn't as pliant as he pretended.
A general economic boom was accelerating the pace
of commerce and invention. Mr. Whitney of New
Haven, for instance, had virtually eliminated the
old, tedious process of cleaning green seed
cotton. His new gin enabled a single slave
to separate out a remarkable fifty
pounds of staple per day. As a result, the entire
south was turning to a cotton economy; the commodity
had at last been made profitable. At the same
time, the luckless Whitney was spending a fortune
to defend his patent against infringements by rival
manufacturers.
As for "expansionist fever"-well, a whole array
of startling developments had made it possible for
immigrants to travel into the newly won west
faster and more safely than ever before.
Highways were a-building; a turnpike modeled
after those in Britain had been opened between
Philadelphia and Lancaster, Pennsylvania.
Boone's Wilderness Road had been widened
to accommodate wagon traffic. And the waterways
swarmed with one-way flatboats and keelboats.
Families going west gathered on the Pittsburgh
docks faster than craft to transport
them could be constructed. Wayne's victory had
made a journey down the Ohio relatively
safe.
Mr. Pleasant touched on other trends that
promised to quicken the pace of migration even more. Men
were talking of canal systems. Steam power was being
harnessed for river boats. Fitch and Rumsey had
already launched trial vessels on the Delaware
and the Potomac-
With a sigh, Abraham turned over the last sheet.
The editor had indeed painted a glowing picture.
But in it, he still saw no definite place for himself.
He carried the article back to Pleasant's
office, hearing and feeling the thud and vibration of the
building's presses. That noise, that motion was a
manifestation of his father's power. It brought on the
pessimistic thought that perhaps he never would find what
he wanted.
On top of that, what he wanted most was something he
probably wasn't supposed to have-
Elizabeth.
The shame of conducting an illicit relationship and the
intolerable sameness of the work at Kent and Son finally
drove Abraham to decisive action. One balmy
Sunday in March, he surprised the
family at dinner by announcing that he and Elizabeth
were going walking in the afternoon.
As he said it, he caught Elizabeth's quick,
glowing glance of admiration. Immediately, his stepmother
gave all her attention to the plate in front of
her.
But to Abraham's surprise, Philip's
reaction was exactly the opposite of what he'd
expected:
"Certainly, if you wish." Philip smiled at his
son. "I'm not quite the blind, insensitive fellow
I'm sometimes credited with being. The interest you two have
shown in one another hasn't passed entirely
unnoticed,"
In a panic, Abraham wondered how much his father
knew. Peggy partially answered that:
"We've noticed how you gaze at each other at
mealtime."
Abraham was still nonplussed, as was Elizabeth.
Philip seemed almost as delighted as little
Gilbert, who stared at Abraham with worshipful
eyes. Abraham could no longer count the number of
times he'd described the charge at Fallen
Timbers to his half-brother.
"Have you strolled by Hartt's as yet?"
Peggy asked her stepson.
"No-was
"It's quite the attraction, even though work on the
frigate has been suspended." She was referring
to the shipyard where the keel had been laid in 1794
for one of four large warships put under construction by the
government. The ships had been ordered as a
response to a threat to American commerce in the
Mediterranean. Pirate vessels of the Barbary
states had taken to harassing U.s. merchantmen.
A tenuous settlement had finally been reached with
Algiers; it amounted to paying tribute in return
for safe passage of American vessels in the
area. At that point, work on the frigates being
built at Boston, New York,
Philadelphia and Norfolk had been stopped.
Still struggling to fathom Philip's easy compliance,
Abraham said, "Where we go is less important
than- certain things Elizabeth and I need
to discuss."
"Then by all means discuss them," Philip
exclaimed. "I'm delighted to see you giving some
thought to the future. Along with these personal
matters, I imagine you'll want to consider a
decision about your livelihood."
Peggy shot a warning glance at her husband.
Philip ignored it:
"Naturally I hope that will also be resolved in
favor of a family association."
So that was the trap! Philip was confident that if
Abraham settled down with a wife, he would
instantly surrender--join Kent and Son.
Abraham's jaw muscles hardened as he put
down his napkin and rose abruptly.
"One decision won't necessarily lead to the other,
sir."
Stung, Philip turned red.
"Then you are a damned fool, sir!" he shouted as
Abraham left the room.
Too overwrought to look back, Abraham heard
Elizabeth hurrying after him. He paused in the
hall to get control of himself. Elizabeth rushed
to his side, grasped his arm in silent approval.
As they left the house and turned down sloping
Beacon Street, both could hear Philip's
voice raised in angry argument with Peggy.
In the sunny warmth of the afternoon, they did wend their
way to Hartt's. Abraham perched on a rotting
nail keg, barely seeing the huge frigate
sitting unfinished on the ways that ran down
to the lapping water.
The great hull, over two hundred feet long, was
only partially sheathed in the copper supplied
by Philip's old friend Mr. Revere--the same
gentleman who, years ago, had fitted Philip
with a hand-carved replacement for a broken front
tooth. Abraham's father now and then liked to show off
his tooth of African hippo tusk. Revere had
been able to complete that small project- which couldn't
be said of his metalwork on the frigate.
Rated at forty-four guns and estimated to cost a
staggering three hundred thousand dollars or more,
Constitution sat in lonely splendor, guarded only
by a couple of elderly watchmen. They paid no
attention to the dozen people wandering through the yard to admire
Boston's would-be contribution to national defense.
Abraham took Elizabeth's hand, stared into those
blue eyes that, by turns, could be so intemperate and
so loving:
"I wonder how long father and mother have suspected."
"What difference does it make, Abraham?"
"None. Actually, I'm glad the secret's out.
Now I can talk to them about my intention."
"Which is-?"
"To marry you, Elizabeth. With their
permission or without it."
She bent to tease his mouth with her lips, caressing him
briefly with her tongue. A middle-aged couple
hurrying by with two children loudly expressed their
outrage.
You still want to marry me even after enjoying what most
men want from a wife?"
"How do you know so much about what most men want?"
"La, Abraham, don't be so frightfully stern!
I'm fairly suffocated by all the righteousness in the
Boston air! And the thickest cloud hangs over
Beacon Street-as you well know. I want to get
away from here." She touched his cheek. "With you."
Abraham pondered silently a moment or two.
"Elizabeth-I must ask you a hard question."
Her eyes clouded. "Ask it, then."
"I know growing up in the Kent house hasn't been
easy for you-was
"Easier than running the streets and alleys, I
suppose. But no, it hasn't. Your father isn't
my father. Yet he insists on acting like-I'm
sorry. What did you want to ask?"
He hesitated. She stamped her foot:
"Goon!"
"All right. My question is this. Would you marry
me just to escape?"
"Good heavens, that is a foolish question! Please
don't think me too conceited for saying this, but do you
fancy you're the only man I could marry?"
He sighed. "No. You're a lovely girl.
I've noticed the looks some of papa's gentlemen
friends cast your way. I realize you could have your pick
of husbands."
"Doesn't that answer your question, my darling?"
He shook his head. "Not entirely. I wouldn't
want you to say yes in order to spite father-was
"Impossible! You saw his reaction at the table. I
think he'll approve of the match."
"Oh, no. Not unless a commitment to Kent and Son
is part of it."
"But it isn't, is it?"
The intensity of her whisper bothered Abraham;
revealed again the depth of her dislike of Philip.
Still, he said:
"No."
"Then don't make me out to be more wicked than you
are, please."
"I don't understand."
"Are you thinking of marrying me because it would help you
break with him?"
Chilled, he realized how accurate her question was.
All the turmoil of the past weeks seemed
to clarify in an instant. He understood at last,
completely, that Elizabeth's pleas about resisting his
father would never have taken root had not the ground been
fertile. He needed a force to propel him to action;
to help, separate him from what he didn't
want-even though he still had no clear goal
to pursue afterward.
Glumly, he admitted, "Yes-in part. Don't
misconstrue that. I do love you. Very much."
"And I love you, Abraham. You needn't be
ashamed of admitting we need each other because neither of
us can fight him alone."
"He isn't trying to influence me to join the firm out
of malice-was
Her features froze. "Since he's your father,
you're free to hold that view. But I see it
differently. I'm not his child-and I refuse to jump
at his every order."
He was tolerant of her last remark. Her reaction
to Philip wasn't tempered by natural love, as
his was. Yet even he could never remember a time
when his father hadn't terrified him just a little. Philip
was a formidable person; a penniless bastard
boy who, by sheer will and luck, had elevated himself from
nothing to a position of importance in Boston.
Abraham recalled one dreadful period of double
intimidation; a dim time when Philip's authority
had been supported by a harridan housekeeper.
A woman named Brumple, long dead. Under
Philip's orders, she had pushed Abraham this
way and that--He shook his head again, as if clearing his
mind. There was no doubt that he had to escape
Philip's dominance, or perish.
Once more he clasped Elizabeth's hand. He was
heartened by the responsive pressure of her fingers.
And her soothing tone:
"It's all right, Abraham. Marrying to escape
him is no
sin-was
He didn't answer. His gaze drifted back to the
copper plating on Constitution's lower hull. A
highlight from the sun blinded him a moment. In the
glare he saw a ghost-image of Elizabeth's
blue eyes, Unsettling; defiant.
He loved her in spite of all he knew about her:
that she'd been born with rebellious blood; a
temperament that delighted in defying accepted standards
and conventional family authority. It
didn't pay to dwell too long on that side of her
character. He had to remember only that she was lovely,
and said she loved him-
"What we've decided raises another issue,
though," he said. "I must support you, but I have no
trade."
"We're both young and strong-was She clapped her
hands and threw her arms wide. "We can do anything
we wish! The country's vast now. There's room for
us to search for the kind of life that suits us. I
honestly don't care where we live so long as it's
not Boston."
Abruptly, his mind jumped to a memory of
Anthony Wayne's musings about the promise of the
northwest, then to the article by Mr. Pleasant;
specifically, his comments on the tide of migration
sweeping through Pennsylvania and down the Ohio to the
territory east of the Mississippi. Speculating
aloud, he described what Wayne had said about the
opportunity in the lands now largely cleared of
Indian menace.
As he spoke, Elizabeth watched him with total
attention. When he finished, her voice was hushed:
"My father felt just as General Wayne does,
Abraham. You know he was a lifelong friend
of George Rogers Clark--"
"Yes."
"Mother's told me Clark wrote him many letters about
the west. But he only got as far as Pittsburgh.
We comwe could go farther. Build our own home--
why, I've read you can buy an acre of ground out
there for as little as two dollars!"
"If you attend an auction sponsored by one of the
speculation companies. They've grabbed up a lot
of the acreage." His speech quickened, just as hers had a
moment ago. "There are other ways-was
"Tell me!"
"Men who fought in the Revolution can claim parcels
of western land the government reserved for veterans."
"Does your father own land like that?"
"I've no idea. I suppose if he ever did,
he's sold it by now."
"Even if he hasn't, he'd never give it to us."
"You're probably right. Better we don't even
raise the subject with him. Besides, when I was in the
army, I saw a few people who simply moved in and
settled where they wished. Squatters, they're
called. They choose their land first and worry about
filing a claim later. If you go far enough west, you
see, you'll find territory that hasn't
been laid out into townships-or even surveyed as
yet. Pick a parcel like that, and if you're lucky,
no speculators will ever leave their comfortable eastern
parlors to dispute your title-was He sighed all at
once. "It's an exciting idea."
"Oh, yes!"
"But there's a drawback."
"I don't see any."
"The one I mentioned before. I've no trade I could
practice out there."
"You know how to run a printing press."
"I've no particular desire to be a printer.
Besides, it'll be a while before the west is civilized
enough to want many newspapers and handbills,"
"Frankly, I don't care what you do. Keep a
store. Hammer at a smith's forge. Farm-was
"I doubt I'd be too successful at farming-was
"How do you know till you've tried? You're
certainly bright enough to learn anything you want to learn.
If you want it badly enough."
Standing, he put both hands on her waist. "I
want only you. Let the rest happen as it will."
Again he thought he detected that strange glint of
malicious delight in her sunlit eyes. He
resolved not to worry about it. Who ever
understood all the motives behind any action or
decision? He was content that her passion matched his.
In a moment, emotion swept practical
considerations out of his mind. The thought of the two of them
launching out together beyond the mountain barriers had an almost
magical attraction-
"All right," he said abruptly. "We'll try the
new country."
She fairly leaped into his arms, hugging him while
scandalized heads again turned their way. He felt
the warmth of her mouth near his ear:
"Do you know a secret? I despise wearing
stockings and shoes--isn't that funny? In the west,
I won't have to, will I?"
"No." He laughed. "No, you can run barefoot
any time you please."
Happy and confident, they rushed back to the Kent
house to break the news.
When Philip heard Abraham's breathless
declaration of the young couple's plans, he reacted
swiftly and emphatically:
"Madness! Absolute madness!"
His strong, blunt jaw had drained of color. He
stalked back and forth in front of the windows
overlooking the street and the Common, where
noisy children played in the sunlight. A chill had
enveloped the sitting room all at once, it
seemed to Abraham.
Peggy Kent, seated, tried to temper her husband's
rage:
"Perhaps we should discuss the whole subject later,
Philip. When everyone's a bit calmer-was
"What is there to discuss, woman? The very idea's
preposterous!"
Consigned to a corner of a settee, Gilbert
bounced to his feet:
"I think it's splendid, papa. I've read
Mr. Pleasant's articles in your paper--men will
be needed for all sorts of work in the west."
"Be damned to your impertinence!" Philip shouted.
Gilbert turned white. Philip shot out one hand,
pointing. "To your room-immediately!"
Hurt, Gilbert rose and hurried out.
Philip limped over and slammed the doors. Then
he whirled to face his son. In moments, Philip
had almost destroyed Abraham's confidence. But
Elizabeth looked as determined as ever; and almost as
angry as the head of the household.
Before she could say anything, Philip shook a finger
in his son's face:
"The time to abandon this lunacy is now, young man!"
"No, I won't-was
ipractical
"Papa, I refuse to listen to-was
Philip drowned him out: "Precisely what do you
plan to do after you complete this romantic
pilgrimage? Become one of Mr. Jefferson's
noble and impoverished dirt-farmers?"
"By God, sir," Abraham said, reddening, "there's
no shame in any land of work so long as it's
respectable."
"Respectable poverty, that's what you want?"
"I want to make my own way! Thousands of others
are doing it-with fewer wits and less strength than I
have!"
"I question your statement about wits," Philip
sneered. "You've lost yours." He faced
Elizabeth. "This is entirely your doing."
"Philip, don't-to " Peggy began. Elizabeth
broke in:
"You're vile to suggest that."
"Do you deny it?"
"I won't deny Abraham and I want to leave
Boston and live our own lives-was
"In preference to staying here and enjoying
security? Wealth? The chance to mold opinion--the very
course of this nation? You're a fool-was Philip
spun to his son. "And so are you. At Kent's you
have every opportunity to be of real service to the
country-and earn a handsome profit at the same time!
I-was
Suddenly Philip drew a deep breath. His
anger seemed to melt just a little. He ignored
Elizabeth standing beside Abraham, gripping his arm.
His eyes sought his son's, imploring:
"comI beg you to recognize what you're throwing
away."
"We're throwing away nothing." Elizabeth
exclaimed. "Arguing is useless. We plan to be
married and go where we will!" Again Philip started
to yell, restrained himself only
with obvious effort. While Peggy watched
anxiously, he took a different tack. His
voice shook as he raised both hands:
"A compromise, then-was
Abraham looked stunned when he heard the words.
They were natural enough coming from a poor man like
Supply Pleasant When Philip used them, it
signaled panic.
"No compromise," Elizabeth said.
"You must give me a fair chance to present my
side. Abraham? You must!"
Abraham hated to see his father plead. It was sad and
degrading, somehow. And yet, one tiny part of his mind
took pleasure in it.
He said to Elizabeth, "We should at least be
courteous enough to listen-was
"No."
"Yes," Abraham said, with firmness.
"Thank you," Philip said. "If-if you've
failed to see the sort of future you could have, the
fault's mine. I must rectify that.
Elizabeth-was
Forcing himself to ignore her hostile glare, he moved
toward her, his right shoulder sagging at every step.
"comy've never been outside Boston. Abraham
has seen nothing but the back roads and rivers between
here and that damned godforsaken here and the west. Let me
show you what you'll be rejecting if you pursue the
course you've set-was
Sounding more confident, Philip straightened his
shoulders, even attempted a smile:
"I think after I've laid the alternative before you
both, you'll quickly choose it in preference to your own
plan."
Quietly, Peggy said, "Philip, I am not
sure what you are proposing."
"A tour! A holiday! To the capital-perhaps even
as
far as your home state of Virginia-was There was a
falsity to Philip's enthusiasm that still saddened
Abraham. But he listened without comment as the older
man rushed on:
"I'm in need of a change of scene anyway. The
good weather is coming-the roads will be passable--we'll
show these young people where the future of America really
lies. In the cities! The solid seats of power
along the coast! By God, I'll even write my
old friend Henry Knox and arrange for Abraham and
Elizabeth to meet the president himself! What do you
say, Abraham?"
The son hesitated, sickened to see his father so
desperate. At the same time, he was conscious of
Elizabeth's tension as She held his arm. Her
fingers dug into the fabric of his sleeve.
"I say nothing can change our minds," she told
Philip.
"Not the prospect of being well off? Influential?
Ah, we'll see. We'll see-to " He looked
straight at Abraham. "As my son,
I think it is your duty to grant me the right
to prove my case."
"Oh, that's unfair, s@ur!" Elizabeth cried.
"To play on his emotions-was She would have said more, but
Peggy's sharp glance silenced her.
There was a long moment in which no one spoke. Then, very
quietly, Philip said:
"Abraham?"
Abraham knew even before he replied that his father had
outwitted him-because Philip knew his son couldn't
refuse a plea of family love, family
duty-no matter how expedient or meretricious
its invocation. With mingled feelings of outrage and
pity, he answered:
"All right, we'll accede to your wishes, papa."
"Splendid, excellent! We'll leave within a
week."
"But don't expect miracles," Abraham
cautioned. "Our minds are made up."
"Ah, we'll see!" Philip repeated, trying
to restore a measure of gaiety to the discussion.
Elizabeth's blue eyes burned with resentment.
As his anger drained away, Abraham was saddened
by a new thought. The Bible, which Peggy had insisted he
study as a boy, said something explicit about
a man taking a wife, and cleaving to her, and leaving his
father's house forever. He'd come to that watershed-and at the
last moment, refused to cross.
Seated beside Peggy, Philip was already outlining his
plans for hiring carriages, packing their belongings.
He acted supremely confident. For a moment
Abraham thought that his father might be right. Perhaps he was
a fool to throw away so many advantages-
As if sensing his indecision, Elizabeth dug her
fingers still deeper into his arm. Abraham looked at
her, then away. The savagery of her glance
terrified him.
"Scenes of Life Among the Mighty
WHEN EDITOR PLEASANT learned of the forthcoming
trip, and heard Abraham describe its
purpose, he broke out laughing:
"Why, it's almost as if he's taking you to a great
museum, isn't it? One in which you'll be expected
to sigh and gape respectfully at scenes of life
among the mighty-was
Pleasant sobered, rais'ed a hand. "I don't
mean to mock your father, Abraham. He's treated
me well. But he's as stubborn as sin-and
remarkably canny, as you'll discover if you
haven't so far. Prepare yourself for a
dazzling exhibition. 'Scenes of life among the
mighty"-was
He scribbled it down with his quill.
"I rather like that. Damned if I'm not a shade jealous
at being left behind!"
Pleasant's phrase stuck in Abraham's mind,
constantly emphasizing the contrivance of the trip and
tainting his attitude toward it. He didn't mention
the remark to Elizabeth. He was afraid she might
taunt Philip with it That could earn Pleasant a
reprimand, a cut in salary, the loss of his job,
or, if Philip were really exercised, a thrashing.
From his boyhood Abraham remembered a couple of
occasions when Philip struck employees who
displeased him.
The family set out in mid-April, in two
carriages.
Each carriage had its own driver and postillion.
Luggage was lashed in place on top. An armed
guard rode ahead, another behind; ugly fellows, but
necessary because the rutted highways were known to attract
thieves who preyed on rich travelers.
Gilbert was delighted by every new vista along the
route. But Elizabeth complained constantly about the
jars and jolts. At their overnight stops,
she seldom ate more than a few mouthfuls of the
evening's meal, and retired early. Her pale blue
eyes sought Abraham's often, silently imploring
him--warning him--not to be seduced. He had few
chances to speak to her in private, and reassure her
that he was on his guard.
As Elizabeth suffered under the rigors of the
journey, Philip's spirits, by contrast, grew more and
more ebullient. He was positively gay as they
neared the nation's temporary capital,
Philadelphia.
On their first full day in that splendid and
impressive city, they drove out to see some of the
fine Georgian homes, as well as the newer,
neo-classic ones designed in what was coming to be
called the Federal style. They visited Congress
Hall, where the two houses of the legislature sat
while in session. They returned to their lodgings
to find a beautifully inscribed invitation from the
appointments secretary of the chief executive of the
United States.
President and Mrs. Washington would be delighted
to receive the family of Mr. Philip Kent, the
noted Boston publisher, at their quarters in the
Morris mansion on High Street at
four p.m. Thursday.
At last, Elizabeth seemed a bit impressed
by the ease with which Philip's long-time friendship with the
Boston bookseller Henry Knox, now retired
as Secretary of War and gone to Maine, had opened
the doors that shielded the mighty from those Philip
scorned as "Jefferson's
democratic-republican rabble."
Robert Morris had signed the Declaration;
managed the fledgling nation's finances during the
Revolution; founded the national bank. He was
called the wealthiest man in the country. His house,
turned over to the president and first lady for their own
use, was a magnificent three-story brick
mansion. In it, people said, everything glittered, as
befitted an American Midas. The lamp
fixtures outside glittered; the furniture and
mahogany woodwork glittered; the largest brass
door-hinge and the smallest bit of brass cabinet
hardware glittered. It was no wonder the entire
Kent family was in a state of nerves when their
carriage pulled up in front of the Morris house
at the appointed hour.
With obvious trepidation, Peggy remarked on the
presence of half a dozen even more
sumptuous coaches, and many servants lounging around
them. Even Elizabeth's eyes sparkled at the
sight.
Elizabeth had dressed with special care, as they
all had. Her gown of white brocade silk
shimmered in the mild sunlight of the spring afternoon. In
her excitement, she stumbled going up the walk,
losing one of her silver-embroidered high-heeled
shoes, which Abraham gallantly retrieved.
Servants ushered the visitors into the parlor.
Abraham's nervousness grew as the elegantly
groomed guests, a dozen ladies and gentlemen,
turned toward the newcomers.
The aging president approached the Kents, a
small, plump woman at his side. Martha
Washington exchanged curtseys with Peggy and
Elizabeth while the tall Virginian who
preferred Mount Vernon to Philadelphia
greeted Philip and his party with impeccable
politeness:
"I'm honored to welcome so distinguished a
family,
Mr. Kent. When General Knox wrote that you
planned a tour, I decided we must surely
meet-for social as well as for somewhat more
practical reasons."
Washington, Abraham noticed, had an odd,
rigid smile. Except when speaking, he kept his
lips compressed. The gossipmongers said this was
to hide false teeth that fit poorly, causing him
continual discomfort. According to Supply Pleasant, a
New York dentist had carved the president's
dentures out of hippotamus ivory, the same
material Revere had used for Philip's false
tooth. Washington's were reportedly attached
to metal bars that gouged his gums and lent his lower
face a swollen look.
Philip said, "The honor is entirely ours,
Mr. President."
"Come, let me present you to the rest of the gathering,"
Washington said. His lips parted sufficiently for
Abraham to see that something--wine or tea--had
badly blackened the artificial teeth.
Among men who were taller than he, Philip always
seemed to stand more erect. That was the case now. His
limp was hardly noticeable as he walked at
Washington's side.
Abraham and the others met Robert Morris and his
wife, then the tubby vice president, John
Adams, and his wife Abigail.
Philip and Adams reminisced briefly about their
long acquaintance; it had begun in Boston, before the
Revolution.
The famous Philadelphia socialite and
beauty, Mrs. Bingham, was presented next. She
graciously drew Peggy and Elizabeth
into conversation after apologizing that her wealthy husband was
indisposed.
Servants brought in refreshments--tea, port and
trays of sweet little cakes. Before long, the
gentlemen were gathered in one group, the ladies in
another. The
president led Philip and the others to a large,
ornate key which hung on one wall of the parlor.
"I'm reminded that you are a good friend of the Marquis
de Lafayette, Mr. Kent."
Philip didn't seem the least overawed by the towering
president. Giving a crisp nod, he replied,
"Perhaps you also recall we met when we were quite young, in
our native province of Auvergne, in France."
Washington nodded. Then his gaze turned toward the
great key. "My sympathies were with the
revolutionaries for a time. As were those of our mutual
friend." He gestured. "That is the key to the
Bastille. Lafayette obtained it the
day that evil fortress was destroyed, and later sent it
to me."
"I understand the marquis is being reasonably well
treated in prison," Philip said.
"Yes, so I've heard. But his circumstances
grieve me all the same. France was our great
ally once. Now I believe our courses have
separated--perhaps forever."
The president was alluding to the political rift
between the Federalists--some said they controlled
Washington's thinking through Alexander Hamilton-and
Jefferson, the Francophile, who had resigned
his position as secretary of state and gone home
to Virginia.
"Experience is a good teacher, if she is only
heeded," Washington continued. "I would hope the
next president of these states would avoid
permanent alliances of any kind. Even though
conditions have changed radically in France in twenty
years, she still expects us to grant her favored
status because of her past support. Our refusal
may pose difficulties for us."
Philip set his port aside. "You refer to the
next president, sir. The reports are true,
then? You won't relent and seek a third
term?"
Washington shook his head. "When a man passes
sixty, a certain vigor departs. But I am
sure your widely
read newspaper, as well as you personally, will stand
behind the gentleman I hope to see elected by year's
end."
He laid a hand on the shoulder of the preening
Adams.
"Among men of Federalist persuasion, Mr.
Adams has no peers and no rivals," Philip
answered smoothly. "Of course my paper will
endorse his candidacy."
Robert Morris-and even Adams himself-murmured
their approval.
Abraham was beginning to understand the pleasure his father
took in associating with these opulently dressed, rather
aristocratic gentlemen. They were the movers of the new
nation. Abraham sensed an unspoken bond between
them. They shared, and enjoyed, power. Philip was
happy to be included.
President Washington faced Abraham. But his
words were for the older Kent:
"And your son? Does he intend to carry on the
family endeavor? Will my successor have his
support along with yours?"
Philip's glance challenged Abraham. "I have every
hope the answer to both questions will be affirmative."
Abraham's jaws clenched. A burst of laughter
from the ladies kept him from speaking up, and mentioning his
plan to travel west. With the rest of the gentlemen, he
turned toward the women. He saw Elizabeth
chatting in lively fashion with the beautiful Mrs.
Bingham. He was delighted to see color back in
her cheeks-
He decided not to re-open the argument with his father in such
dignified surroundings.
III
The Kents stayed a week in Philadelphia,
attending the theater and visiting tourist attractions
such as Bar-tram's famous botanical gardens, the
Charles Peale
museum with its amazing display of mastodon bones,
and the old State House where the Declaration had been
presented by the self-exiled Mr. Jefferson. Then
the two carriages resumed their journey south.
Peggy had persuaded Philip to follow through on a
chance remark the day the trip first came up. At her
request, Philip intended to show the young couple the
prosperous, populous state of Virginia
where Peggy had spent much of her life.
The spring weather turned stormy. The roads became
bogs. Progress was slow and the carriages stopped
frequently. Alarmed, Abraham watched
Elizabeth growing pale again. She was unable
to travel for more than a few hours without succumbing
to fits of nausea.
For the first time, he wondered about her health. She had
always been slender and somewhat delicate. Now he
asked himself whether she was suited for a long trip
west, not to mention the hard work that would follow. Perhaps
he shouldn't be so quick to reject his father's offer of a good
job-
He didn't express his doubts to the girl. They
were having enough trouble just making a few miles a day on
the wretched roads.
Their route took them near the ten-square-mile
tract of land straddling the Potomac River where the
capital would eventually be located. The site had
been chosen in a political horse trade. Former
Secretary of the Treasury Hamilton had been
instrumental in moving the permanent seat of the nation's
government below the Mason-Dixon survey line in
return for southern votes for some of his financial
measures.
The special district, two-thirds in Maryland,
one-third on the southwest side of the river in
Virginia, was already being informally called
"Columbia," in honor of the Italian
navigator who had reached the continent in the fifteenth
century. A French-born engineer named
L'Enfant was drawing everyone hoped could be occupied
by the turn of the century.
Abraham found Virginia a green and pleasant
state, full of handsome homes, large tracts under
cultivation comand scores of black men and women owned
outright by white planters. Though he was well aware
of slavery's existence, seeing it first hand was something
of a jolt. He'd been brought up in the only state
in the union which had reported a slave population of
zero in the 1790 census.
As the weather improved, so did Elizabeth's
health. The Kents spent an enjoyable week and a
half at an inn in Caroline County, responding
to invitations from families who remembered Peggy and
her second husband from their trip to Virginia
shortly after their marriage in 1781. The family
even received a note by courier from a totally
unexpected source: a gentleman who had heard of
their presence from mutual friends with whom they'd
dined.
When Peggy read the gracious note, Philip
exploded:
"What? Visit that damned republican devil?
I'd sooner take a vacation in hell!"
"Come, come, dear," Peggy soothed. "Mr.
Jefferson is an old, old friend of my parents.
It would be rude to refuse his invitation
to Monticello." She teased him. "Are you
afraid your principles would melt away in his
presence?"
"I am afraid I might not be able to contain my
temper!"
"I think we should go, papa," Abraham said.
"The decision is not yours," Philip answered in a
brusque way. But after twenty-four hours of
grumbling, he gave in. He justified his
turnabout by saying a man should know his enemy.
The two carriages left the Rappahannock and
turned
westward toward Mr. Jefferson's country seat in
Albearle County. There, on the
eight-hundred-foot monticello--little mountain--
near Charlottesville, Philip confronted his
intellectual adversary.
He soon had cause to regret agreeing to the
excursion.
IV.
Never in his life had Abraham inhaled such a
heady combination of fragrances-nor seen so many
different kinds of trees.
Mr. Jefferson had arranged to receive them in the garden
adjoining his orchard. A burly black servant who
met the carriage pointed out the varieties: walnut
and peach; plum and cherry; olives and almonds and
figs. There were even a few of the exotic orange
trees from the far Floridas! Deer could be
glimpsed grazing here and there in the orchard. Only
Peggy acted uninterested. She gave the slave
guide a peculiar, nervous look from time to time.
On the carriage ride to the hilltop, Abraham
had been startled to see that Monticello seemed
to be in a state of disrepair. Now, at close
range, his original impression was confirmed.
Scaffolding rose everywhere. Slaves pushed barrows
of bricks from the kilns on the property.
Carpenters' tools made a racket in the soft
morning air. Peggy explained that since the death of
his wife and the decline of his political fortunes, the
man who had played such a large role in
shaping the new country had withdrawn from public life
and now occupied himself with his two passions--
architecture and agriculture.
Abraham touched Peggy's arm. Was the man
approaching through the orchard Mr. Jefferson? Yes,
she said, it was. The man's clothing instantly
drew a
disdain comment
Jefferson, ten years younger than the president, and
standing well over six feet, wore a linen shirt
sticky with sweat, and workman's trousers tucked
into dusty boots. Jefferson's face had a gaunt
quality, as if from illness or personal strain. But
he greeted Abraham's stepmother warmly, taking
both her hands in his:
"My dear Peggy! How wonderful to see you! When
I heard you'd come home, I wanted to welcome you
in grand style-was Chagrined, he indicated his filthy
clothes. "comand look at me."
"You're remodeling the house, Tom-was "Again," he
said, and pointed. "Tearing down most of the fa@cade.
There'll be a new foyer and balcony, and an
octagonal roof I've patterned after the Roman
temple of Vesta. Unfortunately, a scaffolding
collapsed yesterday. One of my nigras
--the husband of my cook--nearly lost his life.
We've been in a turmoil--so all my plans for
setting you a good meal inside have gone away."
In the sunlight, Jefferson's graying hair still
showed glints of its original red. He swung
toward Philip, who was gazing at the blacks pushing
the barrows. Jefferson had often spoken out against the
evils of slavery. Yet he continued to keep
slaves on his own property, making him vulnerable
to the criticism of New Englanders.
If the former secretary of state understood the meaning
of Philip's pointed stare, he was polite enough
to overlook it.
"And this is your husband-was Jefferson reached
Philip in two long strides, grasped his hand.
"My honor, Mr. Kent."
"Mine, sir," Philip said.
Peggy introduced Abraham and wide-eyed
Gilbert. Then she resorted to the convenient
falsehood used by the family:
my niece who lives with us, Miss Fletcher."
Jefferson raked a muscular wrist across his sweaty
jaw. His eyes lingered on Elizabeth's face.
"Fletcher," he repeated. "A familiar name in the
district where you grew up, Peggy. The
Fletchers of Sermon Hill come to mind-was
Pale, Peggy answered, "There is no connection
other than coincidence, Tom. Elizabeth is kin
to my mother's people in Massachusetts."
"Yes, I suppose we have no monopoly on good
English names in Virginia," Jefferson smiled.
Philip shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable.
Abraham had been a bit startled at his stepmother
violating protocol by introducing Elizabeth last
rather than first Now he suspected the reason--fear.
He recalled that Elizabeth's father had spent a
short time in the Second Continental Congress, as
an alternate for his older brother. Jefferson,
attending the same Congress--had he known the
long-dead Judson Fletcher? If so, it might
account for his momentary surprise when Elizabeth was
presented.
But any echoes of the past had been stilled
by Peggy's statement and Jefferson's tactful
acceptance of it. He led his guests to benches in the
breezy shade. A moment later, a huge-breasted
black woman brought a tray of refreshments into the
garden. Abraham took a crystal goblet of tea
with chips of ice floating in it. Philip gave
Gilbert permission to run off and explore
the orchard, but warned him to avoid the frantic
construction activity near the house.
Jefferson sat down, resting his elbows on his
knees and lacing his fingers together beneath his chin. Philip
remained standing. Jefferson said:
"Your newspaper is well written, Mr.
Kent."
Now it was Philip's turn to be startled. It
took him a
moment to reply, with a shrug whose involuntary
impoliteness made Peggy frown:
"The Bay State Federalist is only a minor
part of the activities of Kent and Son, Mr.
Jefferson."
"Yes, but politically, it's the most important
part"
"I'm surprised the paper has circulated this far
south."
Jefferson's smile was vaguely pained. "Why,
Mr. Kent, I never close my mind to the views
of the opposition."
"A noble sentiment," Philip mumbled, put off
by the other man's polite and winning manner.
"Not a sentiment--conviction!" The tall Virginian
stood up. "The basis of our government
is the opinion of the people, Mr. Kent. All the people-was
Philip stiffened. Jefferson returned the
pugnacious stare with an equally steady one. He
immediately began to undercut Philip's obvious
irritation:
"So the very first object of government must be the
maintenance of free circulation of ideas. From all
quarters. If it were left to me to decide whether we
ought to have a government without newspapers, or
newspapers without a government, I shouldn't
hesitate a moment to prefer the latter." He
smiled that charming smile again, and drank his tea,
leaving Philip nonplussed.
Jefferson turned his attention to Abraham:
"What's your role in Kent and Son, young man?
Are you connected with the book side? Or the
newspaper?"
"I work in the book printing department. But I
don't have an official position. My-was He
decided to test the water. "commy presence in Boston
is only temporary." "How so?"
Ignoring Philip's hostile stare, Abraham
went on, "I served with General Wayne's
Legion in the northwest. I was taken with the
spaciousness and abundance of the country. I
find the idea of settling where there's plenty
of land-and few people-more appealing than city life."
He was about to add that the girl Peggy presented as
her niece shared that opinion, and would share whatever
future it led him to as well. But since neither
Philip nor Peggy had raised the subject of
marriage, he held back; the introduction of one
more it wouldn't help the already strained situation.
"You plan to take up farming, then?" Jefferson
asked.
"Quite possibly."
"Do you know anything about agriculture?" "No. But
I imagine a man can learn that, can't he?"
"Indeed he can-if he has the back for it."
Peggy's soft laugh was forced. A bird rilled in
a nearby walnut tree. Philip didn't bother
to hide his unhappiness over the course of the conversation.
Jefferson, however, showed genuine enthusiasm all
at once. He snatched up a stick, sat down and
started to trace a rectangular shape where the grass
had worn away in front of his bench.
"I'm glad to hear your plans, young man. I think
they're praiseworthy." As he talked, he
changed the outline of the rectangle, angling it here,
adding a jutting peninsula there. All at
once Abraham realized Jefferson was drawing a
crude map of the North American continent.
"We must fill the west with settlers as fast as we
can. In the west, there's room for families
to multiply. And an increasing population of farmers
and craftsmen will strengthen America
immeasurably."
"That is the democratic view," Philip said in
an arch way. "The French view."
Jefferson didn't rise to the bait.
"Unfortunately, the French have carried liberty to the
stage of license-but yes, you're quite right They have
Drawing a vertical slash from the bottom of the
rectangle two-thirds of the way to the top, he
tapped it with the stick, saying to Abraham:
"Our boundaries extend only this far--the
Mississippi. But beyond-was He moved the stick
left, toward the irregular coastline. "comthe land
mass is immense. All of this territory is
currently the property of Spain. In fact, a
Franciscan named Serra has established
missions all up and down this shore-was
He jabbed several times at the western perimeter,
then moved the stick back to the right.
"But it's my conviction that the Spanish lands
physically connected to these United States must one
day belong to the United States. Somehow, somehow-to "
"And what about British land, sir?" Philip
demanded. "What about Canada? Would you covet that
too?"
"I might."
Jefferson cast the stick aside, standing again,
splendidly tall and commanding:
"At the very least, we must know for certain what
natural riches lie between the Mississippi and the
ocean. I've tried for almost a decade to generate
funds for a transcontinental exploration-all the
way to the Pacific. A few years ago, I almost
succeeded. The Philosophical Society agreed
to send Michaux, a French botanist. The
president himself gave the largest single contribution
--twenty-five dollars. Which shows you the popularity
of exploration. Or should I say the insularity of those
of us who live east of the mountains?"
"I'm not surprised you had trouble raising the
money," Philip told him. "Such exploration is
absolutely pointless."
"Indeed? Spain doesn't think it's pointless.
She's been
at it for several centuries."
"America's prosperity rests on the continuing
development of eastern commerce."
"Partly, only partly," Jefferson argued. "A
contemporary man must have manufactured
articles-including a shirt on his back. But he
also needs food in his belly. The northeast is
poor farmland, and the south is going to cotton. The
west, by contrast, is unbelievably fertile. We
simply can't ignore that kind of natural wealth-was
As he spoke, his gaze lingered on the hazy blue
hills in the west. Then he smiled again:
"But let's not quarrel over honest differences of
opinion, Mr. Kent. The fact is, many
Americans feel just as you do. That's why I
wasn't able to implement my trans-continental plan
in '93."
Philip said, "I also recall Michaux proved
to be a spy intent on causing friction between
America and Spain."
Jefferson looked rueful. "That's correct. When
the less than pure-hearted botanist was recalled
by President Washington, we had something of a scene
about it. Just one of many," he added, with a trace of
sadness. "Still, if I'm ever in a position
to encourage a similar venture, I will.
I believe our country's true future lies not
in the east but the west."
For the first time, Elizabeth broke from the expected
feminine role of polite listener:
"That's exactly what Abraham has been saying,
Mr. Jefferson!"
"Then I'd encourage you to follow your instincts, young
man. They're correct."
"I am discouraging him!" Philip exclaimed,
limping off to emphasize his pique. "I think the
idea is utterly foolish."
"I don't know that either of us will have much of a hand in the
decision, Mr. Kent." Jefferson nodded
to Abraham. "Youth must be given its day-and its
freedom to choose. Ah, but I think we've quite
covered the subject-let me give you a tour of the
grounds. And then, if you don't mind the dust and
noise, I'll show you a little of the house, too."
He lifted one hand toward Philip, palm up; it
was both an invitation and a gesture of conciliation.
Although Philip still looked flushed and upset, he
didn't prolong the argument. He fell in step beside
his wife as Jefferson led the way.
Abraham and Elizabeth dropped a few steps
behind, allowing their hands to touch. She whispered
softly: "Mr. Jefferson said exactly what I
hoped to hear, Abraham." "And I."
"Those dreadful, stuffy people in Philadelphia--so
rich and smug-I don't want to be like them. I
don't want to spend my life in drawing
rooms-or on a plantation veranda, for that matter--
murmuring lies with a smile on my face."
"Speaking of lies, I had the eerie feeling Mr.
Jefferson recognized you."
"I suppose he would have known my father, and I'm
told I resemble him."
"I feel a little sorry for papa. I expect
he's kicking himself for his decision to come here."
"He only did it as a courtesy to mama,"
Elizabeth sniffed, scornful. "Your father was
positively rude. There's no other word for it."
"Rude because he fears Jefferson's right,"
Abraham said. His eyes were drawn to the blurred
hills of the Blue Ridge in the west. But his mind
went back to Supply Pleasant's mocking comments
about the little series of exhibitions arranged for his
benefit. How true the editor's jibe had turned
out to be!
Ah, but Jefferson had given Philip a
comeuppance.
Under the spell of the Virginian's words, with
Elizabeth at his side in the sweet-smelling
lane between rows of trees, Abraham abruptly
voiced a decision:
"I wavered a little in Philadelphia. But now
I'm convinced we should do what we talked about doing in
the first place."
"I am too, my darling."
He turned, noting that his father and stepmother were a good
distance away in the orchard's dappled shade. Mr.
Jefferson was pointing out something up in the branches
of a cherry tree. But Philip was staring back over
his shoulder at the young lovers who stood close together
beneath leaves that seethed softly in the warm wind.
Abraham began, "I have only one reservation-was
Her blue eyes flared. "You're afraid to inform
your father of your decision, is that what you mean?"
He was, a little. But it wasn't what troubled him:
"You haven't been in the best of health on this trip.
A life somewhere other than a comfortable city might be
too difficult for you."
"Abraham-was
"No, hear me out. If I were responsible for
putting you into unhappy circumstances, I'd carry
it on my conscience all my days."
"I am strong and completely healthy!" Elizabeth
said, with such fervency that Abraham was alarmed. She
protested too much. It was another indication of her
almost fanatic desire to escape the confinement of the
Kent house.
She seized his hand. "I'll go with you anywhere you
want to go. And I'll thrive, I promise you.
I'll thrive!"
What she said failed to put all his fears to rest.
But her expression was so intense, he didn't dare
voice further doubt.
So, with part of the burden temporarily lifted by her
declaration, he closed his fingers around hers. Together
they hurried to catch up to the older people.
That night, in the sitting room of the suite they had
taken at the best lodging house in
Charlottesville, Abraham and Elizabeth
announced their determination to stick by their original
plan.
Again Philip burst into a rage; again he hammered
them with the same arguments. Hadn't they seen the
desirability of being welcome among the rich and
powerful -?
Losing his temper, Abraham admitted that such a
life had its charms-for those who valued them:
"Perhaps there's a reason you value them more than I,
papa."
"Explain that remark!"
"There's still a touch of the aristocrat in your blood.
Your father was an English lord, after all-was
Livid, Philip whirled on Peggy. "This is
your fault!"
"Just a moment, sir-to " she exclaimed.
"Don't deny it! You permitted him to be exposed
to Jefferson's democratic rot-to "
"You agreed to come, Philip! No one coerced you!"
"Don't blow Mr. Jefferson's part in this all out
of proportion," Abraham put in. "He did
no more than articulate what I've been thinking for a
long time."
"He did more than that," Elizabeth said. "He
told the truth!" To Philip: "Which you, in your
narrowness, can't stand to hear!"
Philip glared. "You damned, ungrateful-was
"Stop it, sir!" Peggy cried, jumping up. She
was angrier than Abraham had ever seen her.
Philip limped to Gilbert, who sat on a
cane-backed
chair, huge-eyed and frightened. He slipped his arm
around the boy's shoulders:
"At least I've one son who won't turn his
back on
me."
"Oh, God, sir-that's vicious!" Elizabeth
practically screamed. "The closer you come to being
defeated, the more your cruel, vindictive nature
reveals itself!"
Philip's hand whipped upward, as if he meant
to strike her. She ran to Abraham. Slowly, and with
obvious effort, Philip lowered his hand to his
side.
"Cruel?" Philip repeated in a strangled
voice. "Vindictive -? I thank you for your
compassionate judgment. For your gratitude-was His
glance at his older son was scathing. "I thank you
both. Gilbert, come with me." "Where, papa?"
"Downstairs. I'll buy you a sweet from the landlord
before you're tucked in."
Stunned and hurt, Abraham watched his father limp
out with the boy. Peggy began to cry softly.
Elizabeth moved closer to Abraham, pressing
her breast against him. She slipped her arms around his
waist, squeezed hard, making a strange little sound
in her throat. A suppressed laugh? he thought,
horrified. No, surely not-
She buried her head against his chest. He couldn't
see her eyes, ugly with triumph.
Philip didn't speak to either of them for the first
forty-eight hours of the dismal journey home.
Wedding Night
IN HIS YOUTH, Philip Kent's connection with a
religious faith had been all but nonexistent.
Because of her brief career as an actress in
Paris, his mother was automatically excommunicated
from the Catholic church.
Philip's first wife, Anne, the daughter of a
Boston lawyer, was a Congregationalist. But she and
her husband had seldom attended services. His
second wife had been raised in Virginia's
aristocratic Episcopal church, but had adopted
her first husband's faith--the dour
Presbyterianism of the Scots-following her
marriage.
Thus it was another sign of Philip's rising
status and growing conservatism that by the time Abraham
and Elizabeth were married in midsummer of 1796,
Philip had reverted to British-rooted
Anglicanism. The Kents owned a high-sided
box pew directly across the aisle from the one
belonging to the family of Mr. Revere's
eldest son in the small but lovely Christ Church
in the city's North End.
Here, on a mellow Saturday in late July, the
rector united Abraham Kent and Elizabeth
Fletcher, watched by an impressive gathering of
notables.
Elderly Mr. Revere sat in his son's pew.
Philip's friend General Knox, the obese
ex-Secretary of War, had traveled down from
Maine. John Adams and his wife Abigail, just
returned from Philadelphia, were present. So was
the head of the Rothman house, dark-eyed
and handsome Royal, and his attractive Jewish
wife.
A wealthy iron-maker named George Lumden had
come all the way from Connecticut, along with his
red-haired, bright-cheeked wife Daisy. The
bridal couple understood Philip had helped
Lumden desert from his British regiment during the
troubled days before Lexington and Concord. Lumden
had been quartered in the house of Abraham's mother,
where Daisy was a lowly cook. Now she was rich.
Christ Church, in short, was so packed with persons
of wealth and influence that ordinary well-wishers such as
Mr. Supply Pleasant were hard put
to find a single seat in a rear corner.
Abraham hardly noticed the dignitaries,
however. His attention was divided between Elizabeth and
his father.
Elizabeth's bridal gown and veil were the most
expensive obtainable. Yet beneath that veil, her
cheeks lacked color, as if the wedding were more strain
than pleasure.
Philip looked just as he had for weeks--glum and
displeased.
Peggy had been responsible for virtually all the
wedding arrangements. She sat in the family pew with
perfect poise. Yet her face showed signs of
fatigue and tension. Philip's face might have
been hewn from Maine granite as he performed the
novel function of giving Elizabeth away to his
own son and then retired to the pew, limping yet
somehow haughty.
Only thirteen-year-old Gilbert seemed totally
delighted. Gilbert had shot up in height without
adding weight. His skin was the color of parchment. People
often commented privately that Gilbert Kent
resembled a worried, emaciated old man more than
he did an adolescent.
But all that dimmed from Abraham's
awareness as he stood beside Elizabeth. Her eyes
sought his from time to time, large and startlingly blue
despite the gauzy veil
covering her face. He wished he could speak to her.
Comfort her. Instead, he was forced to stand rigid, then
kneel, then rise again while the rector droned his
way through the service.
Unhappy about his father's attitude and concerned for his
bride, Abraham got a jolt as the rector
began reading scripture:
"So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies.
He that loveth his wife loveth himself."
The words struck a responsive chord in
Abraham's memory. Wasn't that the very passage
he'd tried to recall months ago? At the time,
he'd been unable to remember either the precise text
or its source--Saint Paul's epistle to the
Ephesians. A slight flush ringed his cheeks as
he realized how widespread the knowledge of his rift with his
father must be. Otherwise, why would the rector have
selected this particular passage?
Sunshine slanted through large windows into the
white-walled brilliance of the sanctuary.
Elizabeth's fair hair shone beneath her veil.
Her quick, sidelong glance told
Abraham she too understood the significance of the
text-and his discomfort.
"For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and shall
be joined unto his wife, and they two shall be one
flesh-was
Abraham longed to turn and see how Philip was
taking it. He didn't dare.
"comlet every one of you in particular so love his wife
even as himself, and the wife see that she reverence her
husband."
The rector closed his Bible, began to pray. In a
tangle of emotion--soaring love, depressing
guilt--Abraham steeled himself to endure the rest
of the ceremony. He wanted it over so that he could
speak to his father. The need had all at once grown
almost compulsive.
The rector might as well have been praying in a
foreign tongue for all the attention Abraham paid.
Something else was troubling him now.
Shame.
Here he was, standing in God's house accepting a
white-gowned young woman as his spouse-and he had already
known her carnally. Sinfully, the rector would declare.
The mere thought undercut the joy of the occasion, and
increased his uneasiness.
Well, he said to himself at last, "I suppose
even among these respectable people, there are few who have
totally clean hands and a spotless conscience. His father,
for example, had killed other human beings in order
to survive. Didn't the Bible promise that Christ
would forgive error? Bless those who came to His
altar with a humble and contrite heart?
Never what could be called a devout person,
Abraham still found himself saying a short, fervent
prayer. A prayer begging Heaven to grant him
forgiveness and, more important, a good beginning to his
life with his new wife-
The organ pealed. Lifting Elizabeth's veil
to give her a decorous kiss, Abraham saw her
lids flutter, as if she were faint. When he touched
his mouth to her cheek, he was shocked by the chill of her
skin. And he felt her trembling.
As he stood back, she smiled, but wanly. With a
stab of dread he wondered whether his prayer would go
unheard because they had both sinned.
II.
In the dusk, the house on Beacon Street blazed
with lamplight; rang with the voices of the guests. The
voices grew louder with every quart of rum added to the
great crystal bowls of punch. In a
corner of the dining room, a
small string orchestra scraped away, adding to the
din. Abraham paced back and forth in the downstairs
hall. He was dressed in his best suit. From time
to time he glanced anxiously up to the second-floor
landing.
Luggage had already been carried to the hooded chaise
awaiting the young couple at the ring-block out in
front. Abraham had intended to pay for all
expenses connected with their wedding journey. But through
Peggy, he discovered that Philip had hired the
chaise himself, just as he was financing this large, noisy
party.
Since leaving Christ Church, Abraham had had
no good opportunity to speak to his father. Outside
the church, Philip had shaken his son's hand,
murmured some word of congratulations, and gone immediately
to his own carriage. Once the party started,
Philip seemed to be everywhere-except alone, where
his son might catch him for a private word.
Abraham was hurt and angry at the way Philip
seemed to be withholding his emotions--his affection--
while he displayed his material generosity.
Through a doorway, Abraham could see his father's
back. Philip was in the midst of a heated
discussion with huge-bellied General Knox,
Lumden the iron-maker, and the slender, elegantly
dressed banker, Royal Rothman. Suddenly
Abraham felt a tug on his arm. Startled, he
turned to discover Gilbert--at thirteen already
taller than his half-brother.
"Aren't you anxious to be away, Abraham?"
Gilbert asked, trying to invest the question with a manly
wickedness.
Abraham put on a smile he didn't feel.
"Of course I
am."
"Where are you and Elizabeth going?" "That,
Gilbert, is our secret." "You must be sure
to speak to papa before you leave."
Abraham frowned. "Yes, I do wish he'd
take the trouble to say goodbye-was
Philip's haughty back--and his loud harangue
about the danger of Jefferson standing for election and
receiving enough votes to become vice president or,
worse yet, president--gave him little
encouragement.
"Oh, he definitely wants to speak with you." A
mischievous smile curved Gilbert's colorless
lips. "I have it on mama's authority."
But Philip still showed every sign of being engrossed. The
older brother shrugged in a weary way. "Mama
may be expressing a hope, not a fact." The
slim, white-faced boy stepped closer. His
expression showed a maturity beyond his years as he
asked: "You're unhappy with papa, aren't you?"
"I'd say it's the other way around." "Well, I
want you to know I think it's splendid you and
Elizabeth made a match. Just splendid."
"Thank you, Gilbert. You're the first person
to really sound sincere about it."
"You'll be a good influence on her, too."
"What?"
"I mean you'll keep a good tether on her, so she
won't grow moody and tearful, and fly into her
rages--yes, it's all turned out very well."
Abraham failed to share Gilbert's enthusiasm:
"I don't believe papa sees it that way. He
still blames Elizabeth for our plans to move
west."
"I think it's wonderful you're going." Gilbert's
eyes brimmed with admiration. "I just wish I were
strong enough to see the new country. I know I'm not.
So I'll help papa look after Kent's. It's
probably the only sort of life I'm
cut out for anyway-was He touched his half-brother
fondly yet with a certain shyness. "I'd like to be as
big as you-was "You're taller."
"As strong, I mean. With good shoulders. Hands that can
chop wood, or plow-was
"A fine compliment! Comparing me to a plow horse!"
Gilbert reddened. "I know I'm not saying this
exactly right-was
"I'm only teasing."
"I just don't want you to have any bad feelings about
leaving. You're doing what you were meant to do-was
"Let's hope so," Abraham said, uncertain.
"There's only a problem because papa needs someone
to carry on the business. I'm the one. He'll get
used to it one of these days, don't you worry."
Abraham was touched by his half-brother's words,
even as he was a little saddened by their hint of sorrow.
Suddenly Gilbert's eyes flashed past
Abraham's shoulder.
"I told you!" he hissed. "Papa's coming-was
Abraham didn't face around. He waited,
feeling his father's presence almost like a physical
force. He prayed there would be no stormy scene-
Moments later, in response to Philip's toneless
request, Abraham followed the older
man past groups of boisterous well-wishers to the
library. There, Philip closed the double doors.
He swung to face his son.
Philip's dark eyes caught light from the single
lamp on a small Phyfe table. Without knowing
precisely why, Abraham shivered.
III
Philip spoke in a low voice:
"Before you and Elizabeth leave this house, Abraham
-"
"Don't sound so grim, papa. We'll be back
after our honeymoon."
"Only for a short time. This is a day of parting. Because
you're my son, I felt we should have a moment
alone. In addition to all the items your stepmother has
provided for your new household, I am adding a
family gift." He paused only a moment. "The
sum of five hundred dollars."
"Five hundred-to " It took Abraham a few
seconds to recover. "Sir, forgive me, but I
don't understand.
"What is it you don't understand?"
"A gift like that. You don't approve of this match.
"Perhaps not," Philip agreed. He rolled his
tongue in his cheek, and nearly smiled.
"However, I'm not so insensitive that I failed
to grasp the meaning of the rector's text. I'm
sure he chose it deliberately. But let's not
discuss that. The reason for the gift is very simple.
Eventually you'll need funds to purchase land. Just
as important, you'll need money for
transportation. Wagon travel, river travel
--I am informed they're not cheap."
"I've put aside most of my cornet's pay from
the army for that, papa."
Philip stiffened. "Are you trying to say you refuse
the gift?"
Abraham swallowed. "No, sir, of course not.
I'm extremely grateful for-was
He hesitated over the rest. Emotion brought it
forth:
"comfor an expression of your love."
Features still stony, Philip seated himself in a
chair. He placed his hands on the knees of his fine
gray breeches. "I won't pretend I believe
you're doing the right thing. Nor will I deny I want
to keep you here for selfish reasons."
"Gilbert has a much quicker mind than I do.
He'll be an asset to the firm after he gains a
little experience. He'll be able to discuss
finances with men like your friend Mr. Rothman, for instance.
I get lost just doing a few simple sums-was
"Yes, even as young as he is, Gilbert shows great
promise. But he is also not in the best of health.
That may reduce his value to Kent's, though I
sincerely hope not-was
Philip's dark eyes locked with his son's. "I
not only wanted to keep you in Boston for my own
sake, but for yours. You have great strength and vitality,
Abraham. But enthusiasm often blinds a young man's
eyes to hard reality. I do believe you underestimate
the rigors of life in the west. You yourself may be
fit enough for it. But you are not one person any longer.
You are two. A family-was
Refusing to dodge the issue, Abraham blurted,
"Papa, this is no time for anything less than
complete candor. Do you dislike Elizabeth so much?
Would you rather I not have married her?"
Philip glanced away. That choice wasn't mine
to make."
"Please answer."
"No. To do so might be uncharitable." "That makes
it very clear that you-was "Permit me to finish. I took
your wife into my house when I married Peggy, and
I have tried to give her every advantage you
and Gilbert have received. I have tried to give
unstintingly-regardless of my feelings. Elizabeth
has good qualities. She's certainly beautiful,
and I can readily understand why you would fall in love with
her. But she's frail, like Gilbert. And sometimes
her behavior, as you've seen for yourself, suggests a
reckless, even unstable temperament. I don't mean
any unkindness when I say she may be quite unsuited
for the sort of existence you've both chosen."
Abraham struggled to forget that the same suspicion
had troubled him on the family trip. He shook his
head:. "I'm sure she'll get along with no
difficulty, papa. We both will."
Philip sighed. "Youth's optimism. Seldom
tempered by reason until-was He seemed to grieve
as he studied Abraham. "Until it's much too
late."
"Papa, I've said I appreciate your gift.
But to present it along with these dire warnings-was
Philip held up his hand to interrupt: "Don't be
angry with me. I realize the decision's made.
I accept it. I would have struggled even harder--
kept trying to persuade you to change your mind--
except for one fact."
His eyes drifted toward the windows
overlooking the dark Common.
"I would have been forced to employ the same weapon my
mother employed with me. The bribery of love. And you
needn't say I have employed it, because I know I
have. But not to the extent--well, someday I'll tell
you the story of what she wanted for me. How she almost
destroyed me as a man by insisting I would destroy
her if I didn't follow her plan for my life.
Much as I loved her, I couldn't allow that, because I
was a man. Experience does knock a few
lessons into thick old heads, you see.
Difficult as it is-was
Philip's voice had grown almost hoarse. He
rose, limped toward his son, suddenly gripped his
shoulders.
"comI let you go. With bitterness, yes. With
regret, yes. But also with the deep and honest hope that
your dreams won't be shattered. I can't help how
I feel, Abraham-even as you can't help going
your own way.
We are all guilty of being human. If I have
committed any sins against you, I have committed them
only out of love-just as my mother did. What a
paradox, eh? What a damned, terrible par-was
His voice broke. He embraced his
son.
Head bent against his father's shoulder, Abraham heard
the tears in the older man's voice:
you, Abraham, dreams."
With sadness and a strange sense of foreboding,
Abraham held Philip close for a long,
silent moment
IV.
While Peggy cried and Gilbert capered and a crowd
of guests shouted good wishes along with a few somewhat
ribald encouragements for the evening, Abraham and
Elizabeth hurried into the hooded chaise for the start
of their wedding journey. Abraham whipped up the
horse and they rattled off through the summer dark with the
shouts and laughter dwindling slowly behind.
Abraham's new sense of responsibility sat
heavy on his shoulders for a little while. He was
launching out on his own at last. And, as Philip
said, he was a new, different man. He was accountable
for his wife's future as well as for his own-
But with Elizabeth close beside him in the bouncing
chaise, chattering gaily and caressing his arm from time
to time, the responsibility quickly changed from an
ominous burden to a joy. He tingled when
Elizabeth pressed her lips to his
cheek and whispered that she hoped they wouldn't take
too long to reach the night's stopping-place.
Their eventual destination, some miles northeast
along the coast, was the town of Salem. They
planned to spend a week at the town's best inn,
enjoying the sea air and taking in the sights of the
booming seaport.
Salem's harbor was crowded these days with
tall-masted ships whose enterprising captains were
carrying the country's flag and the country's products
to Europe and around the world. Some of the ships that
transported beer brewed in Philadelphia and
butter churned on
Massachusetts farms voyaged as far as the
Chinese port of Canton, there unloading another
part of their cargo--American-grown ginseng, an
aromatic root highly prized by Oriental
physicians.
The same ships often returned to Massachusetts
bearing Chinese opium for the valises of American
doctors, as well as pepper, madder dye,
Turkish carpets, figs and other exotic goods from
ports along the way. People said marvelous
curiosities such as African monkeys could be
seen on the Salem docks-and, nearby,
evidence that the thriving ocean trade was creating
fortunes overnight. Mansions were being raised
by captains or ship-owners who often realized as much
as a seven hundred percent profit on a single
voyage.
Both Abraham and Elizabeth had considered
Salem an ideal spot for a honeymoon. This
evening, however, they only planned to go part of the
distance, to a country inn where Abraham had reserved
a sitting room with adjoining bedchamber. Amused,
he supposed that when they got there, they'd probably
find Philip had prepaid the bill.
As the ferry bore them across the Charles to the
peninsula, Elizabeth seemed to grow less
animated. At one point, she pressed a hand to her
stomach. "Elizabeth, are you feeling poorly?"
"No, darling, don't worry."
He peered at the dim oval of her face,
beautiful under the summer stars. "You're not telling
me the truth." "Only a minor dizziness. It will
pass." She tried to smile. Her eyes
reflected the glint of the rising moon on the river.
"Caused, I'm sure, by the excitement of finally
being married-was
But her face remained white. Abraham
saw that when the ferryman lifted his lantern and
motioned the chaise forward across the end of the scow that had
dropped down to rest on the dark shore.
Abraham leaned over and blew out the lamp.
He heard rather than saw Elizabeth slip toward the
bed from the concealment of the screen where she'd retired
to remove her traveling clothes. The country inn was
quiet, save for one last customer bidding the landlord
a tipsy farewell beneath the open window.
The summer air was fragrant with the smell of scythed
grass. The brilliant moon turned the planes
of Abraham's chest white above the coverlet
drawn to his waist. Expectantly, he swung
toward the whisper of Elizabeth's bare feet-and
caught his breath.
Her hair hung unbound, a waterfall of gold
across her shoulders. The moon lit her eyes until
they glowed like blue gems.
Her breasts, remarkably large and firm for one so
slender, bobbed as she neared the bedside. The
moonlight burnished the soft golden thatch below her
smooth stomach.
Without embarrassment or hesitation, she raised the
coverlet and slipped in beside him. Her bare hip
touched his, a velvety sensation. Her hand
stole over to grasp him as her other arm slipped
around his neck. He pressed her to the pillows, his
lips eager, hers responding, opening.
Transported beyond himself by the sweet smell of her
clinging mouth, he seemed to float in a dazzle of
summer moonlight that spilled over the bed. He
stroked her body with mounting excitement. Felt the
heat of her flesh as it warmed-
"Elizabeth. Elizabeth, dear heaven, how I
love you," he murmured. His mouth sought her breasts
as she caressed the back of his head.
"And I love you, Abraham. Husband," she
laughed.
"Isn't that a grand word? I love to say it.
Husband!" She arched her back, rolling out of his
embrace. Her left arm came up across her
forehead, her wrist resting over her eyes. When he
reached for her face-"Dearest, what is it?"-he
felt an unexpected clamminess on her skin.
"A little dizziness again, that's all." "The same as
you felt on the ferry?" "Yes. I'm sorry. The
rains last week made the roads so rough-was
"And in my haste to get you here-was He tried speaking
lightly, to hide his dismay. "comI drove too
fast." "I seem to be a poor
traveler, don't I?" "All the furor of the
wedding--it's bound to be tiring -"
He tried not to let her hear his disappointment. But his
body registered that disappointment. Reacted
by cooling; changing; diminishing-
"Abraham, I wouldn't spoil tonight for anyth-was
He pressed tender fingers against her mouth. "Hush,
hush. Don't fret about that." Again he feigned
lightness. "It's not as if we're missing something
we've never tried before."
"Yes, I realize. But even though we've been
together, tonight is-well, important."
"Of course it's important. We're married at
last. Here-was He shifted his body to let her rest
in the crook of his left arm. "Lie back. Be
comfortable. We have the whole week-and all our
lives-for making love. One night missed isn't
that important."
"Yes it is. I'll be fine in a few minutes,"
she promised. "Elizabeth, don't worry!" he
said, ashamed of his own inward bitterness.
He found himself wondering where she'd come by this
physical weakness. Did it spring from the same
source as her passion for rebelling against authority.
From the same source as her vindictive
streak?
From her father, that unstable man who had lived a
profligate life, and only cleaned up a little of the
blotted ledger by the manner of his dying?
Abruptly, he was ashamed of the speculation too.
Yet he couldn't help feeling that something had robbed
him comand Elizabeth-of the mutual joy that should have been
theirs this evening.
Presently she stirred; started the love-play again.
It lasted only a minute or so. She gave a
small, and unhappy cry when her hand glided across
Abraham's lifeless loins.
Without warning, whatever pain had seized her before
struck her again. She doubled over, knees clenched
against her belly, hands locked around her legs. For a
confused moment, he thought of one possible answer.
Pregnancy.
No, that was absurd, They'd had no opportunity
to be alone since well before the southern tour. And
once they agreed to marry, she stopped visiting his
room secretly comz if the defiance that had driven
her to his bed in the first place was no longer necessary,
or even quite proper.
In misery, Elizabeth straightened her legs.
She clutched her naked stomach, cried out.
Then she began to sob an incoherent apology.
Abraham didn't know what to do.
All at once she struggled up to a sitting
position, left the bed. She staggered toward the
screen on the far side of the room.
Abraham raced after her, reaching out to steady her.
Almost screaming, she threw off his hand:
"I don't want you to touch me when I'm this way!"
He stepped back, horrified by the ferocity of her
cry.
Still hunched over, she started to weep in earnest:
"Abraham, I'm sorry. I didn't mean
to raise my voice. But I'm ill. I can't bear
for you to see me--oh, I'm so ashamed-was
She disappeared behind the screen. Abraham watched it
totter and almost topple before she caught it. A
moment later, he heard the ugly sounds of his wife
being sick in a basin.
Standing naked in the moon-glare at the foot of the bed,
he felt as if winter had closed in outside the
open window. He recalled his father's warning, and
experienced a consuming fear that Philip was right:
Elizabeth was entirely unsuited to the sort of
life awaiting them in the Ohio country-
Even more appalling was his certainty that he'd
never be able to change her mind about the future.
He could argue, plead-and he would. But he knew her
nature; knew his efforts would prove futile in the
end.
Frozen and frightened, he stood staring at nothing,
listening to the terrible sounds of sickness from behind the
screen.
Wagon Road
THE WAGONER'S NAME was Leland Pell. He
stood nearly a head taller than Abraham, thin
but broad-shouldered, with immense, dirty, scarred
hands. Wind and weather had burnished his cheeks to the
color of mahogany. His eyes were brown, his hair
--the same, sleek and pushed straight back over his
high forehead. Abraham judged him to be about forty.
White stubble showed against the dark skin of his jawbone.
Pell's clothing certainly didn't justify
arrogance. He wore old leather boots, linsey
trousers, a faded blue flannel shirt, a
broad-brimmed wool hat heavily stained with
grease. At his feet crouched the fattest, ugliest
bulldog Abraham had ever seen. The dog's wet
eyes and under-slung jaw looked downright threatening.
When Abraham first approached Pell in the tavern
yard, the wagoner struck a pose.
Thumbs hooked in his belt, he gazed at the sky
with lofty indifference. Fortunately, Abraham had
been warned to expect such behavior. A passenger
in the coach from Lancaster to Harrisburg told him
the wagoners considered themselves "sea captains of the
road.
Instead of an answer to his question, Abraham got a
continuation of the pose. Irked, he said:
"I asked you the price, Mr. Pell."
Silence.
Abraham shivered in the chilly autumn wind.
Nearby, the Susquehanna flowed with a cold
yellow sheen.
Beyond, the western hills rose black against the clear
blue sky of the changing season.
Pell's cronies inside the tavern shouted for him
to come share whiskey and cigars. The wagoner ignored
the shouts, but finally deigned to glance at Abraham
--then past him, to Elizabeth. Bundled in her
heaviest traveling clothes, including a shawl and
bonnet, Abraham's wife still looked frozen as
she waited beside the five large trunks stacked under
the tavern wall.
"Six pieces of baggage," Pell said, then
grinned. "Counting your missus, I mean
to say. She's the handsomest piece o' the lot."
Angered by Pell's insolence, Abraham pivoted
away. "I'll find someone who wants to discuss
business, not crack jokes."
"Suit yourself," Pell called as Abraham
walked off. "But there ain't a wagoner on the old
Forbes Road who'll take you on--haul you
to Pittsburgh before the snow comes down. I know every one
of "em. Passengers ain't their business-and they
all got full crews."
Abraham halted as Pell took a couple of
steps in his direction:
"Only reason I'm even botherin" to talk is
because my Conestoga needs two men. My second--
he got a mite chopped down a while back. So
far I ain't found a new second, you'see-was
Reluctantly, Abraham went back. If this was
an elaborate game, he supposed he had
to play it if he wanted to make a deal.
"What do you mean, he got chopped down?"
"Cut." Pell showed his right hand. "Lost three
fingers in a fight. Dumb son of a bitch was
nineteen years old. But up here-was He tapped his
head. "More like six. Shoulders like an ox, though. I
was right sorry to lose him."
Pell wiped his nose with the back of his hand, eyed
Elizabeth again. "You was askin' about the price-was
"Several times."
"First of all, you realize no coaches can make it
over the mountains to Pittsburgh?"
"That I already know. What's your price?"
But the wagoner wouldn't be hurried:
"And you also got to realize I'm a regular, not a
sharpshooter. I get you there in good shape, fifteen
steady miles a day. I don't shake your teeth out
like them gypsies that pull a farm wagon outa the
field and try to turn a fast dollar pushin'
twenty, twenty-five miles a day-wreckin'
everything aboard. Besides, don't look to me like too
much speed would suit the lady. She don't appear
any too strong."
By now Abraham's temper was raw:
"I want your price, Mr. Pell, not a
discourse on customs of the road."
"Dis-cowse!" I don't believe I ever
heard that word before. You must be a mighty educated young
fella-"
"Your price!"
When Abraham shouted, Pell's brown eyes
grew unpleasant:
"A hundred dollars. Cash."
"Ridiculous!"
Pell shrugged. "Shit, nobody's forcin" you."
"A hundred dollars-was Abraham repeated.
"That's four times what it should be-was
"Sure, based on the fare from Lancaster to here,"
Pell agreed with a frigid smile. "But they's
hard country "tween Harrisburg and the old fort at
the Ohio. You want to get to Pittsburgh 'fore
next spring, mister, you ain't got but three
choices. Shank's mare. Buy your own wagon and
team-which'll cost you plenty more'n a hundred.
Or pay my price. I'm doin" you a favor the
way it is-was
From his height, he downgraded Abraham with a single
glance:
"I ain't even sure you're big enough to handle the
chores on a Conestoga. Well, it's up to you. I
already got nigh to a full load of freight, so you
won't skin my ass any if you say no."
The frosty smile revealed a mouth with only half
the teeth left; and those were browned by tobacco. With
another look at Elizabeth, Pell added:
"I need some segars. I'll be inside if you
want me. Come on, Chief."
He ambled toward the tavern door, the bulldog at
his heels. Drool dripped from the dog's lower
jaw. Pell paused at the entrance for one last bit
of persuasion:
"You want to try to hire a smaller rig for them
rough roads up ahead, go on. But I warn you,
you'll spend six or seven times what I'm
askin'. And you're liable to get to Ohio two years
from now-and find somebody else squattin' on them
twenty acres you say you bought. Your business, I
guess-was
Shrugging again in that arrogant way, he started
inside. The bulldog got between his boots. Pell
kicked the dog's ribs. Chief yelped, fell, but
finally trotted after the tall man as he vanished
into the tavern's yellow haze.
Abraham stuffed his hands in his pockets, walked
morosely to Elizabeth.
"You look cold," he said.
She tried to smile. "I'll be glad to reach the
lodging house."
"That man wants-was
"I heard. Abraham, let's find another way.
He's loathsome."
"But from what I've observed, he's not much
different from any other wagon driver."
He knew he was trying to convince himself. He could
hardly blame Pell for staring at his wife. In
spite of her
pallor, Elizabeth was by far the prettiest woman
he'd seen since the coach pulled into Harrisburg.
Just about the only young woman, in fact.
He thought of Pell's warnings about squatters.
Thought of his auction deed to twenty acres of prime
bottom land on the Great Miami near Fort
Hamilton. The deed would be next to worthless if
he and Elizabeth found other settlers already
occupying the tract of ground. Forged deeds weren't
uncommon. It could take months--even years--
to validate his claim in the frontier circuit
courts.
Reluctantly, he said, "I'm going to accept his
offer." "No. No, Abraham!" He touched her
arm. "We'll be all right." But Elizabeth
wasn't reassured. She closed her eyes,
shivering in the autumn wind.
Swiftly, Abraham stepped forward, supported
her with both arms. "You'd better sit down a
minute. I'll find a boy to help with the trunks.
I can come back and see Pell later.
Sit down, Elizabeth-we'll be at the lodging
house soon. Then you'll be warm."
"I don't think I'll ever be warm again," she said.
The forlorn look in her blue eyes chilled him more
than the wind off the river.
II.
Only a closed pan of coals warmed the bed, and the
lodging-house room, that night. Elizabeth put
on a second bedgown over her regular one, then
snuggled in the curve of Abraham's arm.
They had been traveling since early September,
down to Philadelphia and then westward. But the
hardest terrain lay ahead. He still questioned whether they
should go on.
Elizabeth had already been stricken with spells of
nausea and abdominal pain. Each time, for his
benefit, she tried to conceal or minimize her
discomfort. But she couldn't conceal the fact that she was
losing weight. The coarse fare served at the coaching
stops wasn't to her liking.
So, as they huddled together with their feet near the warming
pan, he voiced his doubts:
"Perhaps we should turn back."
"My answer to that is the same as it was in Salem.
Nonsense. I'm stronger than you think.
I'll prove it."
"But things seem to grow a little more difficult every day.
Dealing with clods like Pell doesn't make it any
easier-was
"Are you saying you want to turn back,
Abraham?"
Shamed, he answered quickly, "Only for your
sake."
"Put it out of your mind, then. I'm sorry I
carried on at the tavern. I was just tired. That
Pell fellow is probably all bluff and
boast."
In his mind's eye, Abraham saw the arrogant
brown eyes and thought otherwise. Elizabeth's first
assessment had been the correct one. But he said
nothing.
"We can deal with him," she went on, her voice
firm. "With him and with any other difficulties we
encounter.
I want our children to be born out here, Abraham.
It's beautiful country. Beautiful-was
Murmuring, she drifted off.
Abraham lay awake for more than an hour, listening
to the noise drifting from the Harrisburg
riverfront. Elizabeth had
inadvertently raised another troubling question. Thus
far, their efforts to conceive a child had failed.
Lately, he had even grown hesitant about making
love to his wife, much as his body urged him to it.
He was afraid that on top of the other rigors of the
journey, the burden of carrying a baby would prove
too much for Elizabeth.
Tormented by his anxieties, he stared into the
darkness. His father's gift of five hundred dollars
was dwindling. Another hundred paid to Pell would
leave only three hundred and fifty in reserve.
And even if they got to Pittsburgh, there were many
long, arduous miles yet to travel before they reached
the land whose deed was tucked away in one of the trunks.
They had to make a start before bad weather closed in.
Much as he disliked the idea, he'd look Pell
up in the morning.
Leland Pell's Conestoga wagon measured twenty
feet along the top, fourteen feet along the
bottom, and could, he boasted, bear up to ten tons
of crates and barrels through the Pennsylvania
wilderness.
The wagon had huge, iron-tired wheels. The
axles sat high off the ground, so they'd clear the
stumps left standing in the cleared track that
passed for a road west of the Susquehanna ferry.
Inside, the wagon was comfortable enough. The heaviest
goods were packed toward the middle, and the whole was
covered over by tow-canvas stretched on twelve
large hoops.
The German craftsmen of eastern Pennsylvania
who built the four-wheeled land arks decorated them
in cheerful colors. The wagon proper was painted
bright blue, with flame red used on the gear,
including the lazy board and the grain box. This box
hung under the tailgate during the day. At night it
was opened and placed on the tongue.
Pell owned not only his wagon but the six great
black horses that pulled it. A couple of the
horses weighed over three-quarters of a ton.
Pell's pride in the animals was evident in the
way he decorated them. Their chain-link traces were
wound with bright red yarn. Five small
bells hung from a wrought iron arch that rose above the
hames of each horse. On the road, the thirty
bells all chiming at random made a strange,
wild music.
The horses were hitched in tandem. Altogether, wagon and
animals stretched more than sixty feet. When the
wagon was moving, the bulldog dashed back
and forth beneath the bed, barking at the horses to urge them
along.
Elizabeth spent most of her time in a nook
Abraham had arranged inside. He rode the
lazy board, a piece of stout white oak that
pulled out from the wagon's left side to make a
projecting seat. The seat was handy to the long lever which
controlled the brakes for the rear tires; brakes that
set the iron squealing and sparking when Pell
screamed for more pressure on a steep downward
grade.
No wagons overtook them. Pell knew his
business. He clipped off fifteen miles almost every
day, regardless of delays from fording streams or
climbing and descending mountainsides.
Once or twice a day they did encounter
freighters returning east. Pell greeted some of the
drivers with an obscenely cheerful hail. Others
he ignored: the despised, unprofessional
sharpshooters. He never relinquished his position on
the right side of the rough dirt road. Professional
or sharpshooter, it was the other wagon that always pulled
aside to let Pell pass. That said a lot about the
man and his reputation.
After no more than a few days of travel,
it became evident to Abraham that his wife was
terrified of Leland Pell. Terrified even though
the wagoner's behavior was fairly restrained when
they made their night camps.
The camp routine seldom varied. First the horses
were unhitched and tied to the tongue, three on each
side, and the grain box was set out to feed them. While
Chief barked at noises in the forest, Abraham and
Pell
gathered wood for a fire. Conversation during the meal was
fitful.
Pell actually boasted about his illiteracy. He
needed no education to turn a profit hauling freight
back and forth across the mountains!
The wagoner knew the United States had won the
war with Britain--he hadn't bothered to volunteer
for the army, he announced--and he knew the
president's name was General Washington, and that
he'd fought along Braddock's old
Pennsylvania road at some dim time in the past.
Over and above those meager facts, Pell's knowledge of
national affairs was scanty, and his interest
nonexistent.
In one way, though, he was completely typical of
people in all social classes, Abraham
noticed. Pell still wasn't accustomed to thinking of the
country as a single entity. Once or twice when
he mentioned the United States, he did so in the
plural-"The United States are mighty big
now, I reckon"-which was the common way.
Pell's chief recreation seemed to be smoking the
long, thin, villainously black four-a-penny
cigars favored by the Conestoga drivers. When the
travelers sat beside the fragrant evening fire,
Pell would light up one of the foul-smelling
stogies, then flourish it or tilt it up between his
clenched teeth as though it lent him a dashing air.
Through the blue haze, his eyes frequently darted
to Elizabeth's breasts.
Those sly glances angered Abraham. But since the
wagoner did nothing more overt than that, he restrained
his impulses to speak out. He and Elizabeth were
dependent on Pell, after all.
Abraham had to admit Pell's physical
strength was admirable. The tall man handled the sets
of gears for each horse as if they were a fraction of
their actual weight. Abraham panted and grew
slightly dizzy the first
time he tried to help Pell with the fifteen-inch back
bands and ten-inch hip straps.
He'd gained weight and lost muscle tone during his
months in the east-and this despite the hard work in
Philip's press room. Good food and home
comforts had taken their toll. But as they put more and more
miles behind the wagon, Abraham's skin darkened,
his belly flattened, and his general fitness
improved. The winy October air, the rich blue
skies, the bursts of autumn color on the
hillsides lifted his spirits. Elizabeth too
seemed invigorated; less pale.
Still, her presence clearly gave Pell something
to think about.
"Kent," he said, scratching his crotch
unconsciously, "you s'pose you'd let your wife
have a dance with me tomorrow night?"
It was a brilliant morning. Abraham was walking
beside the left-hand wheel horse. Pell drove from a
saddle on the horse's back, jerkline in one hand,
long blacksnake whip in the other.
Abraham stared upward, studying the odd smile on
the wagoner's face. Thanks to Abraham's hard
work, Pell had lost some of his contempt for the younger
man. Some, but not all.
"We going to be someplace where there's dancing?"
Abraham asked.
"Yep. Figger we'll be in the next settlement
by dark tomorrow. Hell, we're gettin' near
Pittsburgh--ain't you noticed the eastbound
traffic heavyin' up?" Abraham nodded
to indicate he had. "We only got one more crick
to ford. There's some cabins and a dandy tavern just this
side. I usually find lots o' my friends there. And
when a bunch o' wagon men stop at the same
place, we have dancin' with our whiskey. Provided
we can rustle up a fiddle player,
"course."
"What about women? They aren't necessary?" 'Sure. But
we'll dance with each other if they ain't any whores
around--wait a minute, now! Don't take on!
I ain't puttin" your wife in the same stall as
whores-was
"Thanks very much." But the sarcasm was lost.
"Yessir, I'd surely like to have a whirl with your
missus. A real, clean-smellin' lady-was
Pell grinned, jerking the whip back over his
shoulder, then laying it into the air above the heads of the
lead horses. Pell was expert with the whip. He could
give it an explosive crack-accompanied by an
obscene bellow cominches from the horses' ears, never
touching them.
"Well, Kent, what d'you say?"
"It's not up to me. It's up to the missus, as you
call her."
"Yeh, but I want you to ask her. She won't
pay me any mind."
"I'll ask her," Abraham agreed. And you'll
get set on your butt by her answer, my friend.
The wagoner rubbed his crotch again. "Good. I
figgered I ought to have your permission first. Sure
wouldn't want to tangle with an educated eastern
feller -I might get hurt, y'know? Talked
to death by all them ten-penny words-was
Laughing, he popped the whip again. Abraham
stopped to wait for the lazy board, furious at
Pell's heavy-handed contempt.
V.
That night Abraham mentioned Pell's request
to Elizabeth as they bedded down inside the wagon.
Pell slept outside, wrapped in blankets, with
Chief keeping watch.
Elizabeth's reaction was just what Abraham
expected:
"I wouldn't let that filthy, illiterate ruffian
touch me."
He chuckled, moving close to her for
warmth. "That's why I didn't write his name in your
program."
"As for this-celebration he's planning, I refuse
to have any part of it. I'll spend the evening right here in
the wagon. Have you noticed Pell's behavior the
last couple of days? Somehow he acts almost-oh,
I don't know. The best word I know is feverish."
"I expect he's just ready to tear loose and kick
up his heels."
"In that case I suggest we have some protection
handy. One of those pistols from the trunk-was
"I doubt if that'll be necessary," Abraham said. But
next day, he wondered.
Smiling, he broke the news that Mrs. Kent
didn't plan on dancing in the settlement tavern.
Pell scowled:
"I don't smell good enough for her, mebbe?"
Abraham met the ugly brown eyes under the wool
hat brim. "I didn't ask. I suggest that you
don't either."
"Fuckin' high and mighty easterners," the wagoner
muttered, lashing out with the whip. This time, accidentally
or otherwise, he nicked the neck of one of the lead
horses, drawing blood.
They rolled into the little settlement just before
sunset. Pell cursing and stormed about, flinging off
the gears and manhandling the six horses up to the
tongue. While Abraham and Elizabeth ate a
meager supper at one of the tavern's greasy tables,
they could still hear Pell's profanity.
They left the table and started for the wagon just as Pell
came in. The wagoner was greeted by shouts from half
a dozen of his road cronies gathered at the plank
bar.
All during the meal, Abraham and his wife had
been conscious of the men staring. Pell's glance as he
approached the couple just inside the doorway was more
angry than lascivious. Abraham whiffed
liquor. He took Elizabeth's elbow-and
struggled to keep his temper when Pell jostled him.
Fingering the coiled whip at his belt, Pell stalked
on toward the bar.
"Somebody drag that fiddler-boy's ass out of the
woodshed. I been bouncin' on the road for days.
I aim to stomp a little."
Stomp he did, along with the others, while the fiddle
squeaked frantically. The laughter and boot-thuds
grew louder, the oaths more florid as midnight
approached. Elizabeth fretted and tossed under the
blankets, trying to sleep despite the
racket
Abraham sat up for a while, then crawled in beside
his wife. He dozed off, only to be wakened by a
shrill cry.
He bolted upright, shot out his hand-
Elizabeth was there.
He wiped his perspiring forehead. Torchlight flared
in the tavern yard. As he scrambled out of the
Conestoga, Chief barked at him. He shied a stone
at the bulldog and trotted toward the confusion of
firelight and shadow-figures around the tavern
door.
Pell had parked the wagon a good distance from the
building. So it took Abraham a moment to see
what was happening. The drunken wagoners, their
clothing in disarray, formed a ring around someone. One of the
men held the torch, and by its light Abraham finally
identified the person in the center of the circle. A
tow-haired boy. He realized he must have mistaken
the boy's high-pitched voice for a woman's.
Held by a couple of the wagoners, the boy struggled
to break loose. He couldn't. All at once
Abraham saw a demijohn dangling from the boy's
right hand.
Hatless, Leland Pell staggered forward,
flipping away the stub of a stogie. He backhanded
the boy across the cheeks.
"Nothin' worse than a whiskey thief."
"Leave me go!" the boy squealed. "Ain't but a
quarter of a jug left in here-was
A man jerked the demijohn out of the boy's fingers,
shook it. "Goddamn liar. She's nearly
full."
Another wagoner grabbed the boy's hair. "Full
or empty, don't make no difference. You was
sneakin' out with it-was
"Call the landlord," the boy pleaded.
"He's dead drunk," a third man said. "And you,
you little shithead, you're stealin' the liquor we paid
for!"
"I played for you all evenin'! I'm entitled-was
Leland Pell's voice was slurred: "You played
for free "cause we said so. You're entitled
to nothin-was He drove his fist into the boy's
midsection.
The boy doubled, retching. Pell seized the whiskey
jug.
"You ever been to Pittsburgh, boy? You know how they
take care of whiskey thieves in Pittsburgh?
I'll show you. Sam, bring me a stick from
the fireplace."
"What the hell you fixin" to do, Leland?" one of the
drivers asked, apprehensive suddenly.
Pell weaved on his feet. "You shut up."
Abraham had jogged through the darkness and stopped near
the group. All at once Pell saw him.
Pell's stubbled mouth wrenched.
"An' you better crawl back to your wagon,
Kent. This might be a little too strong for your
lah-de-dah eastern belly-was Spittle flew from
his lips as he wheeled around: "Sam, go get that
stick "fore I take after you with this whip!"
Terrified, Sam bolted inside.
Pell uncorked the demijohn, poured its contents
over
the writhing boy. Abraham's stomach flip
flopped as Sam appeared with the stick. The end was
afire-
He'd taken just one long step when Pell motioned the
boy's captors away and touched the stick to the
boy's soaked shirt. The alcohol ignited.
The boy shrieked. The shirt was afire across his
shoulders. The flames leaped down his back, into his
hair, as Pell laughed uproariously. Two of the
wagoners stood aside to let the boy dash
toward the nearby stream.
Abraham's mouth hardened. Pell didn't see.
He was collapsing with mirth on a bench beside the
tavern door.
The boy's screams pealed, even as the blur of
orange grew smaller in the darkness. One of the
wagoners was shocked to sobriety:
"That warn't called for, Leland."
Wiping tears from his eyes, Pell told him what
he could do with his opinions. Abraham yelled at the
men:
"Why are you standing there? Let's go help the boy!"
He started running toward the orange glow.
Suddenly it dipped toward the ground; the boy was
frantically trying to extinguish the flames by rolling
along the creek bank.
Three of the wagoners responded to Abraham's
shout, followed him. Two others drifted back
inside, not quite sober enough to be ashamed. Pell's
laughter boomed.
Halfway to the stream, Abraham heard another
keening cry. This one he recognized instantly:
"Elizabeth-to "
One of the wagoners running beside him panted, "That's
your wife's name, ain't it? Pell's been
talkin" about her all evenin'. Dirty talk-was
"You see to the boy," Abraham shouted, pivoting and
racing back toward the tavern.
The two wagoners had come outside again. Beyond
the shifting circle of light from the torch one of them
held, Abraham saw only the tethered horses.
The Conestoga itself was deep in shadow. But he was
sure the cry had come from within the wagon. He heard
it again as he pounded across the tavern yard.
"He warned us to stay away," called one of the
wagoners by the doorway. "You better too. He's
murderin' drunk-was
Hardly hearing, Abraham dodged the bulldog
snapping at his boots. From inside the wagon came
sounds of a struggle-thumps and thrashing. Elizabeth
screamed a third time.
Abraham hauled himself up the wagon's high raked
front, tasted sourness in his mouth as Pell wheezed
in the darkness:
"Come on, you sassy little bitch. Jest feel it
once. Gimme your hand-was
Abraham bellowed, "Goddamn you, Pell-was
He started to climb inside, marginally aware of a
body falling-Elizabeth?-then Pell's sudden,
strident breathing. With one leg hooked over
the end of the wagon, he could still see nothing of the
interior. But he realized with quick terror that Pell
could certainly see him against the glare of the torch.
Pell laughed again; a flat, wicked sound. A
slithering noise warned Abraham to jerk his head
aside-
Crack!
Had he not reacted so fast, the tip of Pell's
blacksnake would have put out an eye. As it was,
he hung on the end of the wagon with his left cheek
laid open, pouring blood.
The pain overwhelmed him in an instant. He fell
toward the tongue and the hoofs of the snorting, stamping
horses.
The back of Abraham's head slammed against the
wagon tongue. His vision blurred. One of the
frightened horses kicked his ribs.
He rolled away, toward the front wheels, just as
Pell leaped down, his boots stirring little clouds of
dust when he landed.
Abraham couldn't see clearly. He was dizzy.
Blood from the whip cut leaked into his left eye as
he groped for the front axle, frantically dragged
himself under the wagon bed just as Pell brought the whip
down with maniacal force.
Abraham jerked his legs out of the way just in time. The
whip raised another dust cloud. Distantly,
Abraham heard men yelling and running; heard
doors crash open. Residents of the settlement coming
from their cabins. Overhead, Elizabeth screamed
again.
In a moment of terrible lucidity, Abraham
understood that most of the wagoners were too afraid of
Pell to interfere. The same probably held
true for the settlers. And he was certain Pell
meant to kill him.
He shook his head, trying to overcome the dizziness.
At the front end of the wagon, Pell dropped
into a crouch, gesturing at Abraham with the whip.
"Come out from under there, you yella bastard!"
Pell was silhouetted against the torch at the tavern.
His trousers hung around his knees. His suit of
dirty
gray underwear gaped open at his crotch. Abraham
might have laughed at that, except for Pell's
rage:
"I said come out! I'm gonna whip your balls off
one at a time-was
Blood glistened on Pell's cheek; the raking
marks of Elizabeth's nails,
Abraham realized suddenly. The wagoner dropped
his right wrist close to the ground,
intending to lash Abraham's legs under the front of the
wagon. It required a tricky horizontal
strike-and by the time Pell stretched his whip hand behind
him, Abraham was ready.
The whip shot forward with an explosive pop.
Abraham took the cut on his right forearm-raised
deliberately. The tip of the snake wound round and
round his sleeve like a band of fire. Clenching his
teeth, he closed his left hand on the whip, then his
right. He yanked.
Pell was jerked forward. He crashed head first into one
of the iron-tired wheels. Bellowing, he fell
to his knees and let go of the whip's butt.
Abraham still had the end wound around his right arm. He
reached upward and to the side, seized the hickory
spokes of the left front wheel that Pell had
struck. He dug in his heels and pulled himself-and the
whip-out of Pell's reach.
He crawled into the open, stumbled to his feet beside the
wheel, conscious of people gathering. Elizabeth's
cries had changed to low, hurt sobs.
He lurched to the front of the Conestoga, the whole
left side of his face bloody. For one
nauseous moment he thought he might faint. He
fought it, then noticed two odd things:
Not one wagoner stepped forward to lend Pell a hand.
And the bulldog, growling, didn't attack as
Abraham crept up behind the groaning man.
Pell was still on his knees. Abraham wrapped the
whip around Pell's neck, pulled with both hands-con
Pell tried to plead. Only gagging sounds came from
his throat. He struggled, clawed over his shoulder
at Abraham's fingers. But the fall against the wheel
had weakened him. Abraham jammed his knee
into Pell's back, tightening the rawhide noose.
Let him go, a voice cried in his mind. Don't
murder him. He's beaten-
But he could still hear Elizabeth sobbing. He pulled
harder.
His hands trembled from clenching so tightly; trembled and
turned white as bone-
Mercifully, he blanked out during the rest.
He felt his fingers being pried loose. He
blinked, relaxed his grip, stared down. Several
torches showed him Leland Pell, cheeks
purplish, tongue protruding. Pell's trousers
were still tangled around his calves. His underwear hung
open to reveal a tiny penis as dead as the
rest of him.
Abraham felt so ill he almost wept:
"Somebody cover him up, for Christ's sake! And
see to my wi-was
The bones in his legs melted. He tumbled to the
ground, unconscious. One hand lay across the
wagoner's distended right eyeball.
VI.
During the night, a man who claimed to be an
apothecary cleaned Abraham's face in the tavern.
He applied a stinging, sulphurous-smelling paste
to the wound, then wrapped Abraham's head with an
oval of rags, as though he were a toothache
patient.
The man told Abraham he had already administered
whiskey to Elizabeth. She was sleeping.
Abraham wanted to go to the wagon and see for himself.
But he hurt too much. Exhausted, he let the
groggy landlord spread a filthy blanket on one
of the trestle tables, help him up, then cover him
with a second blanket. In a moment, his eyes
closed.
By dawn the other wagoners had disposed of Pell's
body. Where, they didn't say. Nor did
Abraham ask.
The landlord reported that the fiddler-boy had been
treated by the same fellow who'd doctored
Abraham's face:
"The boy weren't as lucky as you. Even after the
burned skin sloughs off an' his hair grows back,
his face'll likely be ruined fer life."
Sickened, Abraham shoved away the fragrant
cup of coffee the landlord was extending. He tottered
into the frosty air where his breath plumed. He saw
Elizabeth peering at him over the front of the
wagon, her face as pale as marble.
He started running. But a few long strides set
his head throbbing. He walked the rest of the way,
trying not to be aware of the horror in her blue
eyes.
Stopping next to the wagon, he reached up. She
put her hand down to find his. Her fingers were stiff;
cold as the dawn air.
"Elizabeth, did he-?"
"He only touched me. Just-touched me, that's all."
Her voice shook.
Her fingers constricted around his suddenly.
"Abraham, let's leave. Please, please,
lets leave this place!"
Alarmed, he chafed her icy hands until
she calmed down. He promised they'd drive down
to the ford and cross the stream as soon as he made some
necessary inquiries about the dead man's rig.
Staring through him, she said nothing. He walked back
to a silent band of thoroughly sobered wagoners
gathered outside the tavern. The smell of their sweat
was rank in the crisp air.
"I know the outfit belonged to Pell," Abraham
said. "Did he have any kin?"
One toothless fellow spoke: "A wife and a
flock of young "uns in Harrisburg. But the
woman turned Leland out a couple of years ago."
"She still live there?"
"Think so."
"Still under the name Pell? Not remarried?"
"Not so's we've heard."
Abraham nodded in a grave, tired way.
"I'll get the rig to Pittsburgh. Make
deliveries of the freight as best I can, then sell
the wagon and the horses. After I deduct the
hundred he charged me for the trip, I'll deposit
the rest at the postal office. There 'is a postal
office-?"
"Yes, sir," said the toothless man.
"I'll leave the money for Pell's
wife. I'll leave it in her name. One of you see
it gets back to Harrisburg."
Murmurs of consent. Abraham stumbled back to the
Conestoga. Elizabeth had disappeared.
The eastern sky was empty of clouds. But in the
west, gray banks promised rain, or even early
snow, reminding him of the lateness of the season.
He climbed up the front of the wagon, glanced
into the crowded interior. Elizabeth was sprawled on
her blanket pallet, hands over her face. She
was crying, almost inaudibly.
He thought about going to her; decided she might
respond more favorably to the feel of the wagon in
motion. As if in penance, the other wagoners helped
him hitch up in record time.
Abraham dragged himself into the saddle on the left
wheel horse, picked up the jerkline. He
didn't have Pell's whip. He wouldn't have used it
if he had.
Just as he was maneuvering the rig into the water at the
ford, he heard a loud bark. He leaned out to the
left, looked behind, saw the bulldog, tongue
lolling, wet old eyes red in the dawn.
"Come on, Chief."
With a bound and another bark, the bulldog
shot to his customary place beneath the bright blue bed.
Abraham smiled, but the smile was empty. It
made his face hurt.
He started the six horses into the purling stream.
Listened.
Inside the huge wagon there was only silence.
Ark to the Wilderness
THE BRIM OF Abraham's hat and the shoulders
of his thick wool coat were as white as the sugared
buns he remembered with longing from breakfasts in
Boston. Tonight, as he climbed the unlit stairs
of the Pittsburgh rooming house in sodden boots,
feeling thoroughly downhearted, he thought of all the
splendid meals he had quite taken for granted as he
was growing up.
What a contrast between the luscious aromas memory
conjured and the stenches of this old building that creaked in
the winter wind. He smelled tobacco. Unwashed
linen and unclean bodies. The ghastly fish stew
served by the bad-tempered landlady for the evening meal-
Elizabeth hadn't eaten the wretched stew. She
hadn't felt well enough to go downstairs with him.
Poor health did have its blessings-to 
Ah, that was a shameful thought. He should be, and was,
desperately worried about his wife. Of
late she'd been unusually pale and fatigued.
He supposed it was the result of living cramped in
a single combination bedroom-sitting room for most of the
winter-and eating the landlady's swill when hunger
overpowered good sense.
Even Chief, laboring up the rickety stairs behind
him, looked bedraggled; moved with rheumatic
slowness. The old bulldog acted as tired as he
felt
secoueble light. Abraham paused, his attention
captured by sounds from behind one of the closed doors. With
bleak eyes he listened to the unmistakable rhythm
of a bed being strained up and down. He heard a
woman's strident moan-
At least one of the transient couples paying the
landlady's gouging prices while waiting for winter
to loosen its grip on the Ohio was managing to take
comfort in each other.
The reflection was more sad than angry. Elizabeth
had retired early every night for six or seven
weeks. She seemed incapable of any affection
save a prim, dutiful kiss now and then. How
long had it been since they'd last lain in each
other's arms? Centuries! he thought, though the truth
was less melodramatic: early
January-
He climbed on toward the third floor, Chief
panting behind him.
Abraham blamed the dead wagoner for the
apprehensive look in Elizabeth's blue eyes
whenever he tried to touch her. She still refused to tell
him exactly what Pell had done that night. But it
was obvious that scars remained.
He blamed himself a little, too. He lacked the
ability--the right words, the proper degree of
tenderness-to cut through her moods; her aura of
remoteness.
His failure in another area didn't help either.
He had been totally unable to find a way for them
to leave cold, crowded Pittsburgh with its heartless
profiteers and its hordes of gray-faced
immigrants who wore their hope like a badge.
Again today he'd tramped the docks along the
Monongahela; kept making inquiries and
returning to the notice board even after the snow began
to rage out of the northwest.
Yawning and shivering, he tapped the door of their
room, murmured a few words to identify himself.
He
heard Elizabeth's slow, shuffling tread
as she came to the latch.
The room was unbelievably small. They'd moved
the ancient bed against the wall to make room for their
trunks. Little extra space remained-and two
scarred chairs, a plain table and a wash stand took
up most of that.
As usual, the plank floor fairly radiated
cold. Elizabeth was already robed for bed. He shut
the door after Chief lurched in, flung off his
snow-soaked hat and coat.
"Still no luck," he said, sinking into a chair. "Every
man I approach seems to have a full load by the
time I get to him."
"Nothing new on the notice board?" "Nothing.
We may have to buy another wagon and go along
Zane's Trace after all."
Abraham referred to a new road cleared the
preceding year. It ran from Zane's Station, on the
Ohio's northeast-southwest salient,
to Maysville, where the river flowed generally westward
again. Traveling by land part of the way to their destination would
be possible, if extremely difficult.
Abraham and Elizabeth had arrived in
Pittsburgh in the late fall, just as the first snows
fell. After disposing of Pell's horses
and wagon and seeing to the delivery of his goods,
Abraham and his wife had agreed to make the
remaining portion of their trip by riverboat. It was
relatively safer, for one thing. The great number of
boats shuttling upstream and down had sharply
reduced the danger of Indian attack.
But even after recouping the hundred dollars paid
to Pell, Abraham couldn't afford to buy his own
flatboat. More important, the arks that plied the
Ohio required more than one man to handle them,
particularly if the boat was going on past
Cincinnati to the shallow but
treacherous rapids at the falls of the Ohio. A
shared-cost, shared-labor arrangement was the only
solution. Now it seemed no solution at all.
He'd trudged the docks literally for weeks,
unable to find anyone who needed an extra man come
spring. Part of the problem was the fact that a partner would
also have to transport Elizabeth and their baggage.
Space was precious on most of the riverboats.
Abraham sat motionless in the chair, listening to the
whine of the February wind. Snow ticked at the
windows. His eyes seemed to be focused on
Chief. The bulldog lay under the foot of the bed,
sleeping. But Abraham really wasn't
looking at the animal. He saw instead the comfortable
house on Beacon Street-
Aware of Elizabeth standing near him, he glanced
up. Pointed to his sodden coat:
"I did buy a recent paper. Just came in with a
pack
train from Harrisburg. In December, John
Adams was
elected to the presidency. But the second highest
total of
votes cast by the electors went to Jefferson, so
he's vice
president. I doubt papa's happy about that. It
shows the
Democratic-Republicans are gaining strength and
influ-was
He broke off, startled. Elizabeth was staring at
him in
a most peculiar way. There was a glow in her eyes
such
as he hadn't seen for months.
She was smiling!
He shot to his feet, seized her chilly hands.
He could only infer the smile was the result of some
new abnormality in her physical health
or her mental state: "Elizabeth, what's
wrong?"
"Nothing, darling. In fact, for the first time since we
set foot in this wretched town, I'm happy."
The smile grew. At first, he couldn't believe
what he suspected. But that smile gave him
encouragement. Happiness surged through him like a
tonic, washing away his exhaustion, his frustration-
Yet he still didn't dare to believe it. Not until
she spoke:
"I've been making a count of the days and weeks. I
think enough time's passed so that I can say with fair
certainty we're going to have a child."
"Oh my God. that's wonderful!"
He whooped, wrapped her in a hug, then leaped
back. He'd practically crushed her-
She laughed; really laughed. Faint spots of
color showed in her cheeks.
"Yes," she said softly, "I think so too."
Abraham whooped again, did a little dance step on the
cold floor. Chiefs head came up. The wet,
ugly eyes opened. They were already closing by the time
Elizabeth added:
"I just wanted to be sure before I raised any
false hopes."
Abraham started pacing:
"I know there are doctors in Pittsburgh. We
must get you to one immediately. No matter how much he
charges-was
He stopped, faced her:
"And I think we should stay right here until the
baby's delivered."
"Not see our own land till the autumn? I won't
hear of it! I want the child born where we're going
to make our home."
"But traveling just this far was taxing enough. And you
haven't been yourself since the first of the year-was
"Because I'm going to have a baby! It--it frightens me
more than a little."
"That's why you've been so-?"
He didn't finish.
"So cool? Yes. I suspected I might be
pregnant right after New Year's, but as I told
you, I vowed I wouldn't speak until I was
positive." Her radiant expression
dimmed as she surveyed the cobwebbed corners of the
mean, dingy room. "I simply won't stay here
once the weather breaks. It's a prison. And a
filthy one at that."
She put her hands on his shoulders, smiling
again:
"Besides, everyone we've talked to says river
travel is much smoother than going overland in a
wagon."
"Yes, I know, but-was
"We must double our efforts to find passage."
Her blue eyes narrowed. He had seen that
prologue to an angry outburst many times before.
"I mean it, Abraham. I will not stay in this
dreadful room, this vile town, any longer than is
absolutely necessary. I'm strong enough to make the river
trip-was
"I'm not sure-was
"I am! We must go!"
He doubted her claim about her strength. But he
didn't doubt her determination. He knew further
argument would be useless. So he gathered her into his
arms while the snow of February, 1797, whined the
lodging house windows, and he said:
"All right, Elizabeth. We will."
II.
The luck of the Kents seemed to change with the coming of
sunshine and a late February thaw. The notice
board near the docks, where new arrivals posted their
partnership propositions, sent Abraham
running to a wagon camp at the edge of town. There
he located the Clappers, a family from the
Genessee River valley in upper New York
state.
The Clapper clan consisted of Daniel, the father, a
barrel of a man with a gray-streaked red beard and
huge, hair-matted arms; his wife, a leathery little
woman named Edna, and their two youngsters. Daniel
Junior was sixteen; tiny, doll-like Danetta,
nine.
Yes, Daniel Clapper said, Abraham had
read the notice correctly. He meant to sell his
wagon-but not his horses or all the merchandise the
wagon had carried- and invest in a one-way ark.
"What's your destination, Mr. Clapper? The
notice didn't say."
"Destination?" Clapper combed out his beard with thick
fingers. "Wherever it strikes my fancy to squat,
I reckon. I'm a storekeeper, you'see-was
He led Abraham to the wagon, showed him an
assortment of goods from bolts of cloth to kegs of
nails.
"Had a right good location up New Hampshire way
for eleven years. All of a sudden one day, I just
got sick of it. We packed up our
goods, toted 'em cross country and opened a new
store near the falls of the Genesee. Kept that
seven years-till the movin" fever come on me
again. We been bogged down north of here for a whole
month, waitin' for the snow to melt. I can't get out
o' Pittsburgh fast enough--just look at all these
damn people -!"
His wave encompassed fifteen to twenty cook
fires comglowing in the twilight among immigrant
wagons of every description.
"I'm fixin' to go towards the Ohio land, where there's
a tad more room," Clapper continued. "Got all
I need to open me a store the day I arrive.
Put up my tent, lay a board "twixt two
kegs and I'm in business. I'll sell what I
brung with me till I can pick up more from the
packets comin" downriver. I'll use my
horses to peddle in the back country, an' there I
am-set up as pert as you please!"
Abraham tried to put the conversation back on
course:
"According to the sheet you posted, you need three men for your
ark. One more besides you and your son-was
"I need some cash, too." From his coat pocket
Qapper pulled two paper-covered
pamphlets, opened the first, shut it again. "Wrong
one. That's the river map with the islands an' hazards
marked--I can't afford me one of them high-priced
pilots-was
Tucking the pamphlet away, he handed Abraham
the other one:
"This here Compleat Guide to the Western
Territories says arks run four dollar a
foot. I need one about sixty feet, I guess,
to haul the wife and Daniel and Dan-etta and my
horses and goods."
"That's about two hundred and forty dollars."
"Yessir."
"I'd be willing to put in half."
"She wouldn't all go to waste, y'know." Clapper
pointed at the pamphlet. "Says in there someplace
that you can recover about a quarter o' what you spend for a
boat if you tear her up and sell the lumber at the
other end."
"Fine with me. Do we have a deal?"
"Hold on, Mr. Kent! We ain't covered all
the details."
"What details?"
"Well, frinstance-are you travelin' all by yourself?
I never seed so blasted many bachelors in
one place in my life!"
"I'm married. I have my wife to take along--a
small amount of luggage--a bulldog-was
Clapper scowled. "Does he bite?"
"Don't think so."
"Good. Miz Rachel hates mean dogs. That it?"
Abraham smiled. "Yes and no."
"What the hell's that mean?"
"My wife's expecting a child in the fall."
"Why, congratulations to you!" Clapper grabbed
Abraham's hand and pumped it, squeezing so hard the
younger man winced.
Pale, Abraham said, "Any more details?"
Clapper pondered. "Nope. It don't take me
long to make up my mind about a feller's cut,
Mr. Kent. If you're agreeable, it's partners."
"Partners," Abraham said, declining to shake the hand
Clapper once again extended. Anxious to tell
Elizabeth about their good fortune, he started away,
then stopped short. He pivoted back to the huge
tree of a man who was busy pulling a few chips of
wood from his chest-length beard. "Mr. Clapper,
there is one very important detail we didn't
settle."
"What, Mr. Kent?"
"You still don't know where my wife and I want to
go."
Clapper thought again, then shrugged:
"Don't much care. You can tell me if you want
to."
"I've a deed to a plot of land on the Great
Miami River, above Cincinnati."
"Used to call it Losantville "bout ten years
ago--I read that in one o" them guide books.
I got a whole box of guide books about the new
country-was
He jerked a thumb at his wagon. Over the
end-board, a red-headed young man and a little
rose-cheeked girl were watching.
"Where you're goin' sounds all right to me, Mr.
Kent. Maybe I'll head on west, maybe I
won't. Miz Rachel won't much care. She
sighs a lot when we move, but she follers wherever
I've a notion to go."
"You mean it really doesn't matter to you where you end
up?"
"No, sir. I always like a place for a spell
while I'm there. But then the itch sets in--can't
explain it any better'n that. It's the goin', not the
stoppin', I enjoy the most. Suppose that
sounds crazy, huh?"
It did, but Abraham was too polite to admit
it:
"I understand perfectly."
"Will you have a talk with Miz Rachel sometime? She
sure as hell don't."
"How about this evening? I'd like to bring my wife over
to get acquainted-was
"Bring her to supper! Miz Rachel don't mind
fixin' for one more."
"Shouldn't you ask her?"
"Never ask a woman anything, Mr. Kent. She
might tell you what she wants. Then wouldn't you be
in a fix? Listen, you get a move on! The
sooner we lay our plans, the sooner we'll be
shed o' these damn mobs of people!"
Abraham vanished in the blue wood smoke of the
cook fires Daniel Clapper continued to eye with
disgust.
April came, bringing longer days, warmer air, the
first warbling birds, the first shoots of green on the
coal-veined hills around Pittsburgh.
To Abraham and Elizabeth, it seemed that the new
season marked an end to their own long night of
frustration and hardship as well.
To those with enough money, obtaining one of the huge
flatboats known as arks was no problem. Any of
several yards along the two rivers could hammer one
together in the space of about two weeks. Morning after
morning, Abraham and Daniel Clapper watched
theirs being constructed: a rectangular scow
sixty-two feet long, twenty-two feet wide.
The ark hull was built of timbers ten inches
square, carefully caulked to minimize leakage.
The entire deck was enclosed with four-inch planks that
rose flush with the vessel's four sides.
A door in the larboard side near the stern was large
enough to admit Clapper's horses to their appointed
space. Forward of this, canvas hanging from the
slightly
pitched plank roof created temporary walls.
One large area was set aside at the bow for
communal dining and socializing. The partners agreed
to pay extra to have a mud-brick hearth and chimney
installed. The ark was quite literally a floating house and
stable in one.
A ladder from below gave access to the roof through a trap
door. From the roofs stern, a great steering oar nearly
as long as the ark itself trailed into the water. She was a
clumsy-looking craft, Abraham thought.
He already felt confined just glancing into the
canvas-partitioned sleeping cubicle he and
Elizabeth would share. The ark had no windows,
only small loopholes through which muskets could be
poked in the event of an Indian attack from shore.
But that danger was minimal, everyone said, at least
above the falls.
The real hazards, according to Clapper's pamphlets,
were sunken obstructions. Limbs and occasionally
entire trees were swept away from the banks into the
current. A few of the largest planters-trees whose
upper ends protruded above the surface-and
sleepers-trees with their upper ends submerged-were
marked on Clapper's map, along with islands and
sandbars. The map also noted a few well-known
sawyers, submerged logs whose upper ends rose and
fell in cycles as long as twenty minutes to half
an hour. These were the most dangerous obstructions of
all. Unfortunately, the map located only a
fraction of them.
But that didn't intimidate the Clappers or the
Kents. They watched families with just as little river
experience confidently board their arks and set off
around the bend of the Ohio in high spirits. One or two
vessels a day departed from the Pittsburgh
landings.
Finally, one brilliant morning in late April,
so did theirs.
Abraham and Daniel Clapper leaned on the end
of the great sweep. Daniel Junior cursed down
below,
struggling to calm the panicky horses. Edna
Clapper, Danetta and Elizabeth were at the
hearth, forward, preparing breakfast.
It was a smooth and auspicious beginning.
IV.
The Ohio was more beautiful than Abraham
remembered it. Their journey, while requiring
long, tiring hours at the sweep, was almost like a
holiday in some respects. Every sundown, they
anchored in midstream, as did all boats
traveling up and down the river. The Kents--
Elizabeth growing noticeably around the middle--
shared the physical warmth of the hearth at the bow, as
well as the less tangible but very real human warmth
generated by the Clappers. Indeed, the younger couple
already felt themselves almost part of the family.
Elizabeth was unstinting when it came to helping
Mrs. Clapper with the cooking. And she did her share
of the washing that hung on a line strung across
the roof. All of them took pleasure in innocuous
chatter about the sights of the day, or in the lusty singing
of a few hymns--Daniel Clapper enjoyed
hymns--after the spring sun went down. Chief grew
fatter on the scraps Rachel Clapper fed him.
At night, lying close together in their cubicle
while Daniel Clapper snored noisily beyond the
canvas partition, Abraham usually asked
Elizabeth for reassurances that she was feeling
well. Her spirits seemed remarkably improved but
her color didn't.
She gave him the reassurances--truthful or not,
he was unable to tell. He still felt occasional stabs
of guilt over not being more sensitive to his father's
warnings about the hardships they'd face in the west.
He now saw clearly that he'd permitted his passion
for Elizabeth, as well as their shared defiance of
Philip, to lure him into
the false certainty that love would sustain them in the
face of all difficulties. Elizabeth's
extreme fatigue every evening, and her parchment-white
cheeks, were constant reminders that it just wasn't so.
Despite his concerns, the unvarying routine of the days
and the continual pageant of towering forests and tiny
settlements slipping behind them began to lull
Abraham into a sense of security he enjoyed. A
week passed without a mishap of any kind. He
looked forward to one or two more such idyllic weeks
before they reached the little frontier settlement of
Cincinnati.
On a Friday evening, just at dusk, Abraham
came up from below with two mugs of coffee freshly
brewed by Mrs. Clapper. Her big, red-bearded
husband was seated near the chimney. His legs hung
down over the bow wall. Daniel Junior was
taking his turn manning the sweep.
The river here ran straight and smooth. Some two
or three miles ahead, Abraham glimpsed
another ark preceding them. Half a mile behind, a
two-way boat was being cordelled upstream against the
four-mile-an-hour current. Its crew plodded
along a clear stretch on the south bank, the long
tow rope strung across their shoulders.
"Thankee," Clapper said, accepting the coffee.
He squinted into the sunlight falling through the
cathedral-like trees and burnishing the river. "Be
dark soon. Time to drop anchor." He sipped from
the mug. "Your wife seems to be weathering the Ohio
mighty fine."
Abraham sat down; drank some coffee.
"Did you think she might not?"
"She's a lovely lass, but she is a mite
frail." Clapper stared at the younger man with disarming
directness. "Surely you had doubts of your own."
"Yes. I did."
That seemed to conclude the subject. Abraham
led to another that had kept him curious for days:
"Have you come to any decision about your final destination?"
"No, sir, I feel the same as I did in
Pittsburgh. We agreed to split up the ark an'
sell off her timbers in Cincinnati. I'll
decide where we're goin' after that. Told you before-it
don't make a hell of a lot of difference. I know
a little about plenty o' things, but not enough to be a success
at any one. In a way, that's mighty fortunate-was
When he grinned, his teeth literally materialized in
the midst of the red hair covering the lower part of his
face.
"I can relax some. Don't have to feel the least bit
ambitious."
Abraham smiled, nodded, Clapper had a way of
putting an immutable period at the end of certain
conversations. Though he would have liked to question the older
man about the origins of his odd attitudes, he
didn't. Instead, he contented himself with
savoring the coffee and the sunlight scattering golden
sparks on the river.
The sweep creaked in its mounting as Daniel
Junior changed course slightly. Ahead, the
other ark was coasting out of sight around a bend.
Clapper surprised him by saying, "What do you
want out here, Mr. Kent? You don't exactly
fit."
"Why not?"
"Fer one thing, it's plain you're more of an educated
man than I'll ever be."
"I'm not sure about that, Mr. Clapper. There's
all sorts of education-was
"You know what I mean, Miz Edna, she keeps
say-in', Daniel, that young Mr. Kent's got
all the marks of a real gentleman."
Abraham chuckled. "I suppose that means
I'll be a bad farmer?"
Clapper sugared the truth with a smile:
"Probably won't make it any easier."
"To answer your question, I first came out here with the army.
I served in the campaign of '94."
"Under Mad Anthony?"
"Yes. I liked the look of the country. And when I
got home to Boston, I decided I
didn't care to stay in the east. Right now my wants
are simple."
"F'rinstance?"
Abraham shrugged. "The obvious things. To see
Elizabeth content. To raise a family. To be
happy myself-
"As a dirt farmer?"
"I'm not sure. We'll find out."
"Least you're honest."
"Mostly I guess you could say I came west because
I knew what I didn't want."
"Life in a big city-was
"That's right."
He thought of Philip, but he let the reply stand
without amplification. The river burbled around the ark's
hull. A hawk swooped through the green gloom of the
woods to starboard. Abraham took another sip
of the potent coffee, said:
"I didn't give you much of an answer, did I,
Mr. Clapper? Knowing what you don't want--
having to search for something else you can't even name--that's
a pretty poor excuse for taking up a new
life. The only trouble is, in my case it's
true."
"You needn't look so glum about it. You
think any of the other young people pilin' down this river are
any smarter "n you in that respect? No, sir."
Clapper shook his head. "All they know is the
same thing both of us know-what they don't want.
They hope to heaven there's somethin" different out here-was
He waved the mug at the bend where the ark ahead had
disappeared.
"comb don't ask "em to name it! "Puts them on a
spot, does it?"
"Right smart! They can't answer. Not so's a feller
who's been around can believe 'em, that is. Oh,
you'll hear plenty of gab about how everybody's
free an" equal in the western lands--free an'
equal, yes, sir! The west is democratic,
ain't that what that Mr. Jefferson says? No rich
nabobs to crowd a young man, or make him feel
second best. Maybe a mite of that's true-was
He held index finger and thumb close together.
was "Bout this much. I'll tell you something. If a
man could be happy in the east, do you imagine he'd
up and leave? Lord no! They can be loads o"
reasons why he ain't happy. Money. Women.
Mebbe he's ugly as that bulldog of yours-was
"I wouldn't wish that on another human being, Mr.
Clapper."
The other man still refused to smile:
"Lots of times, a man can't be happy and just plain
don't know why. He might have a bit of cash put
by, even some regular schooling-was
"But he leaves anyway?"
"Yes, sir, "cause he's so blamed
unhappy. Mr. Kent, believe me, that's the
whole reason. A man don't never cut the roots
if everything's right with his world-or his head. Folks can
turn it other side backwards all they want.
They can shout 'Free an" equal till they're
blue. But just like your case-it really ain't a matter
of goin' toward, it's a matter of runnin' from-was
Clapper encompassed the western horizon with a
sweep of the cup:
"And once you catch the urge to run away, you never
lose it. You just keep movin'--miserable as ever."
Abraham shivered. "That's a grim view."
"True, though."
"Well, if all you say about people being unhappy is
correct-was
"It is!"
"Then we're fortunate we have room to run, aren't
we? If we had to stay bottled up back east with
all the grief you describe, I
suspect we'd soon go crazy. So that makes the
western country a blessing. And people moving into it--that's a
good, healthy thing when you consider the alternative."
"Got to think that through a minute," Clapper informed
him, dubious.
"In my case it's a blessing. I had to have somewhere
to escape to, and that's a fact."
"Yeh, but you can't pin down what you're huntin'- you
said so."
"I know. Still, I'm hoping I'll find something good-
and be smart enough to recognize it for what it is."
"Something, something," Clapper parroted. Then, a
snort: "You feel that way "cause you're young."
"You don't feel that way?"
"Not no more. You want to keep hopin", Mr.
Kent, don't ask questions of folks my age."
"Why not?"
Cause you'll find that a mighty lot of the settlers
swarmin' out here have stopped other places before.
Lookin', always lookin'-for something. The ones that got
ten or fifteen years on you-they already found out."
"Found out what?"
"Something don't exist No place."
"But surely-was
"No. It don't." Without self-pity,
Clapper added, "I found out. Now you understand why it
don't make any difference to me where this boat's
headed, or where it stops?"
"Yes, I do."
Clapper bobbed his head once, and drained his cup.
God in heaven, Abraham hoped Clapper
wasn't right. He prayed he and Elizabeth
wouldn't reach their tract of land only to come face
to face with the futility of their flight--No, surely
the big man was in error; embittered by personal
failures barely hinted at. To believe what
Clapper said was too disillusioning-
The sudden, violent impact shattered his dour
reverie. With a great crunch, then a prolonged
grinding, the ark wrenched broadside to the current.
Clapper almost pitched into the water.
Abraham's grab saved him. He dragged
Clapper back as the bow of the ark came around, then
lifted sharply on the larboard side.
Both men were nearly hurled off the roof as the ark
rode up on some underwater obstacle, slid off and
slammed down.
Below, the terrified horses neighed and kicked against
the plank walls. The kicks were loud as gunshots.
"Sweep broke clean off, pa!"
Daniel Junior yelled from the stern. "We musta
hit a sawyer-was
"Damn! The log was probably way down when that
boat ahead of us went by. Then she bobbed up--go
see how bad we're busted up, Daniel."
Abraham studied the tilt of the roof. "We're
taking water. She's listing."
Daniel Junior vanished below. Clapper began,
"We better-was
"Danetta!"
Clapper and Abraham exchanged terrified
looks. The cry came from Edna Clapper-and she
wasn't given to excesses of emotion.
All Abraham could think of was the ark's brief but
jolting rise and fall. Where was Elizabeth when they
hit-his
He ran to the roof trap and scrambled down the
ladder, hardly aware of Daniel Junior's
urgent cries from the stern. Clapper came down the
ladder after him. Chief was yapping. The horses
kept kicking the ark walls, bang, bang-
Mrs. Clapper screamed for her daughter a
second time.
Abraham batted canvas hangings aside, dashed
forward through sloshing water and burst into the
communal room at the bow.
"Elizabeth!"
Tumbled into an awkward position against the bricks
at one side of the hearth, his wife didn't
respond, or see him. Her eyes were nearly
closed. One of her white hands constricted on the
small mound of her belly.
Mrs. Clapper was kneeling beside her, partially
concealing Elizabeth's legs. Abraham felt
sick to his stomach as he watched Edna Clapper
withdraw her hands from beneath Elizabeth's twisted
skirt
The hands were bloody.
"She fell," Mrs. Clapper said in a faint
voice, as though holding great emotion in check.
"When we hit, she fell against the fireplace-was
Suddenly her eyes smoldered:
"This is no place for men! Find Danetta."
Anguish held Abraham rooted. He realized
Clapper had come up behind him-and even the big
red-bearded man seemed horrified into helplessness.
Edna Clapper turned her wrath on both of them:
"In God's name, will you hurry? Mrs. Kent is
losing the baby!"
Book Two The Enemy Land
The Cabin
"ONE FOR THE crow, two for the cutworm, three
to grow. One for the crow, two for the cut-was
Alarmed, young Daniel Clapper suddenly broke
off the monotonous chant.
He and Abraham Kent had been marching side
by side down the new check rows plowed with the help of
one of Daniel Clapper's horses. At every
transverse row marking the cleared four-acre plot
into yard-sized squares, man and boy dropped half
a dozen kernels of seed corn. Now'Daniel had
stopped.
A moment later, Abraham halted too. Looked
back. Young Daniel remained motionless, signaling
with his eyes:
"Yonder, Mr. Kent. Injuns on the ridge."
Slowly, so as not to show his concern, Abraham Kent
slipped the seed bag off his bare shoulder. He
wore only buckskin trousers and soft moccasins
padded with leaves for comfort. His glance traveled first
to the edge of the plot, where Chief rested next to a
smoldering stump. On the ground near the bulldog's
paws lay Abraham's Kentucky flintlock
rifle, his horn and his shot pouch. It would require
a good run to reach the weapon. But it was
primed and ready to fire, as always.
The wind this gray, thundery afternoon in late May,
1799, cooled the sweat on Abraham's chest in
an instant. His gaze moved quickly on toward the
cabin.
The windowless, twenty-by-sixteen building was half
hidden by the inevitable trees that made clearing and
planting even a single acre an exhausting task.
Abraham had felled the smaller trees around the
cabin. The larger ones showed the cuts where he'd
girdled them to kill them. Several other stumps he
was burning out fumed like the one at the field's edge,
mingling their smoke with the reassuring column rising from
the cabin chimney. The chimney's surrounding log
superstructure jutted from the end of the cabin facing the
river. The offset cut down the danger of fire, but
not much.
Near the cabin, their once-fat milk cow nibbled
at a patch of grass. In one of Elizabeth's
rare moments of good humor, she'd insisted on naming
the cow Henrietta Knox.
Pretending to draw several deep breaths,
Abraham finally completed the covert inspection.
Once again he had cause to regret the location of his
property: a good four miles above the
settlement at Fort Hamilton.
Finally he turned. He wiped his forehead with his
forearm to conceal his interest in the western ridge-line.
Just as he spotted the four tiny figures, young
Daniel let out a relieved breath:
"They're movin" again. They was just standin' and watchin'
when I seen "em first."
Abraham's heart slowed down. He picked up his
seed bag.
"We can finish, then."
He licked his lips, resumed walking. Young
Daniel followed along the adjacent row. But he
didn't continue his sower's chant.
The Indian danger kept Abraham constantly
alert. It terrified his wife. Although raids in the
district were infrequent comand were usually limited to cow
thefts or cabin burnings--they did happen.
Occasionally they were
augmented by atrocities. Usually the victims had
chosen to live a good distance from a fort or village.
The atrocities were by no means confined to one side,
though. Abraham knew several white men in the
settlement around Fort Hamilton who would
automatically shoot and butcher any Indians they
caught on the trails that ran parallel
to the river.
Trudging and scattering corn, Abraham said in a
listless voice, "I suppose they were Shawnee
again."
Young Daniel nodded. "Goin" back to their towns
north o' here, I reckon. Pap says General
Wayne never should of "lowed them to hunt in the treaty
lands. Only makes 'em resent what the gummint
took away-and crave it worse every time they travel
through."
Too tired to enter into a discussion of Indian
policy, Abraham kept walking. A few
spatters of rain landed on his bare shoulders. Although
it couldn't be later than four o'clock, the silver-gray
clouds sweeping out of the west were rapidly bringing
near-darkness. The wind had turned gusty. A little
less than half a mile away, the surface of the
Great Miami showed white riffles.
When the rain began to fall harder, Abraham
swore and closed his seed bag:
"We'd better wait till morning to finish,
Daniel."
"All right," the gangly boy agreed. "Be back
right after sunup."
"You want to rest in the cabin till the
storm's over?"
"I would, but pap's waitin" for me to unload them
tools we brung up from Cincinnati."
"I really appreciate your help, Daniel."
"Oh, hell, it's nothin'."
"I couldn't get by without it and you know it. I only
hope to God I can raise four good acres this
year, and give your father half."
"Mr. Kent, he don't expect you to settle up
right away."
"Well, I'm going to, Daniel."
Abraham was sincere in his promise to repay
Clapper the only way he could. Yet repeating the
pledge depressed him too.
Even if four full acres of corn matured,
half of the yield would barely keep the little family
over the winter, while the other half would hardly
make a dent in the various debts he'd run up
at the small store Daniel Clapper had
established near the fort, simply by partitioning half of
his large cabin and hanging out a sign.
Daniel was embarrassed by Abraham's sober
expression. Without understanding its cause, he tried
to dismiss it with a wave:
"Folks got to help each other, Mr.
Kent. Otherwise none of us'd make it, isn't
that right?"
"Yes," Abraham said in an absent way.
"See you in the morning."
Running, young Daniel disappeared into the trees west
of the cabin. As Abraham watched the boy go, he
noted that all the smoldering stumps were being drenched by the
rain. He'd have to relight them tomorrow. Another chore.
That was the extent of the out here: chores. Seven days a
week, indoors and out. The rigors of it had
stripped all the fat from Abraham's body;
thickened his muscles noticeably. But he felt
tired every waking minute.
He put on his linsey shirt, grimacing at its
wetness. He picked up his pouch, horn and
flintlock, taking care to shield the lock in the
crook of his arm. Burdened with those items plus the
two seed sacks, he tramped toward the cabin.
Under the protection of one of the big girdled trees,
he watched the clouds sailing out of the west and
reflected on the understated truth of young Daniel's
parting
remark. Without mutual assistance, few settlers
could survive the first year or so in the new land.
Abraham and Elizabeth had been
fortunate in several ways. He often forgot that in his
weariness and frustration -
Repairing the ark struck by the sunken log had been
fairly easy, thanks to the help of some
coarse-talking but genial boatmen who had come
upstream, sail raised to a freshening wind, an hour
after the accident. Elizabeth had indeed lost the
baby, and been weak for more than a month. But the
tragedy hadn't destroyed her ability to bear,
thank God. The evidence of that was in the cabin.
On their arrival at Cincinnati, Daniel
Clapper, that odd, cheerfully pessimistic man of
small education and large wisdom had declared that he and
his brood might as well open their store at
Abraham and Elizabeth's destination, because it was
"probably as good as anyplace else--in fact
just the same as anyplace else."
So the Kents and the Clappers had ridden the
thirty-odd miles north along the Miami in a
hired wagon pulled by Clapper's two horses.
On their property, the younger couple found the blessing
of a half-faced camp, ramshackle but serviceable
during the first weeks. People at the Fort Hamilton
settlement said squatters had been on the Kent land
the year before. But the squatters had moved
on out toward the Wabash River country. No one in
the settlement even remembered the squatters by name.
Leaning against the girdled tree and watching the rain
fall, Abraham recalled that first hard summer and
autumn. He particularly recalled his desperate
rush to hoe a few holes in the ground between the trees
and plant a small amount of corn to tide them over
the cold months. The corn not only failed to grow,
it failed to sprout. By custom, all men in the
district came to raise the
Kents' cabin in September of '97. Since that
time, Abraham had taken part in six three-day
cabin raisings for others.
During the winter of 1797-98, Abraham spent
almost all of his remaining money for provisions to tide
them through until spring. He bartered a clock
Elizabeth had brought from Boston to obtain the
rifle they needed for protection. A number of
settings of fine china were surrendered to storekeeper
Clapper for a pair of cheaper pewter plates, seed
and a plow. Abraham knew Clapper was getting the
bad end of the bargain. No one out here would purchase
that exquisite china off Clapper's shelf.
The last of the money paid for Henrietta Knox, who
delivered the milk he and Elizabeth
learned to drink sour, although they abominated the taste.
There was no way to keep milk sweet for long;
storing it in a crock in the cold, clear spring at
the back of their property only retarded the souring a
few days.
The following year, '98, Abraham had
laboriously cleared a two-acre plot, planted
it and harvested the corn. Half the crop was ruined
by a disease that blighted the ears as they were forming. But at
least the family had some food for the winter. The
baby, born in the fall with the help of a local
midwife, took its nourishment directly from
Elizabeth's breast.
Under the bellies of fast-flying clouds, Abraham
saw a wedge of birds streaming north. Plump and
tasty passenger pigeons. When they stopped
to roost, you could practically knock them out of the lower
branches with sticks. Abraham watched the birds
longingly. A cooked pigeon would have been a
welcome change from their diet of corn mush and sour
milk.
The movement of the birds against the strangely luminous
gray-and-silver sky drew Abraham's mind
back to the conversation with Daniel Clapper just before the
ark hit the sunken log. Abraham had
changed his thinking
since then. He believed Clapper was, in part if
not entirely, correct. The desire to see the other
side of the hill was rooted in discontent, whether it
took the form of a yearning for wealth the east denied, a
second chance to repair a wrecked life, misery
generated by crowded conditions in the cities-or even
plain, cussed boredom. In his case and
Elizabeth's, the goal had been escape from
Philip's domineering influence. Abraham could
admit that freely to himself now, without shame. He was
ashamed of his desire to see the Boston house again.
He never revealed it to his wife.
Still, it was odd, he thought as he watched the gray
rain pour down on his newly planted field--odd
that unappiness was the motive force behind so many people moving
west. And my God-they were moving west by the thousands!
Just this past March, he'd gone to Cincinnati with
Daniel Clapper and his son, to help them
transport an unusually large stock of new
staples and implements back to the store.
Cincinnati was no longer the tiny frontier outpost
Abraham remembered. It had boomed since the
Kents and Clappers passed through in the late spring
of '97. Population had spurted to over
five hundred, not counting the Fort Washington
garrison. What astonished Abraham most was the
river traffic. With boats tied up everywhere, pushing
off at all hours only to be replaced by new ones
coming down the Ohio, the river town actually looked
more crowded than Pittsburgh. Almost all the
transients were heading further west. Americans,
Abraham concluded, were the damnedest bunch of
perpetual malcontents civilization had ever seen.
As he strolled the packed, noisy piers, observing
families as well as young bachelors armed only with
hunting rifles preparing to set out, he recalled
Daniel Clapper's dour prediction that most of the
travelers would never
find the ideal life they sought. Yet they took
pleasure in haggling over flatboat passage, and
spoke glowingly in the taverns of all the freedom
and promise of the bountiful land waiting out ahead-
That country just had to be more attractive and comfortable
than the coastal belt, where a swelling populace
was growing more and more-alarmed over the undcld naval war
between America and her former ally, France.
From time to time, a letter written by Philip or Peggy
--a letter months in transit--expressed the
Kents' open hostility to Philip's
native country. The letters were further signs of how
Philip's conservatism was hardening into unqualified
pro-British sentiment.
The French Directory had been angered by Jay's
treaty with England, the letters reported. And despite
President Washington's specific warnings in his
farewell address against all alliances with foreign
nations except those alliances of the most temporary,
expedient nature, Minister Pinckney had gone
to Paris along with Commissioners Elbridge Gerry
and John Marshall to attempt to secure a treaty
guaranteeing friendship and, more important, commerce.
The commissioners were outraged by a request for an outright
bribe to be paid to foreign minister Talleyrand, in
return for consideration of the requested treaty. The
bribe wasn't to be paid directly, of course.
It was to be funneled through three intermediaries
tactfully dubbed Messieurs X, y and Z.
All but the most illiterate passing along the
Ohio had heard of--and by and large approved--the
ringing toast that had become a catch-phrase. The
toast had been given Minister Pinckney after his
furious refusal to pay Talleyrand, and his
return to the United States:
"Millions for defense but not one cent for
tribute!"
That was a sentiment Philip Kent heartily
endorsed in his letters-especially as it applied
to post-revolutionary France. He was pleased, he
wrote, that a Navy Department had at last been
created. He was delighted that Constitution and the other
frigates had finally been completed, and launched
to oppose French harassment of American shipping.
Most of the settlers Abraham talked with in
Cincinnati weren't articulate about the question of war.
But they were quite aware of its possibility. Thus they
had an added incentive to get as far away as
possible from the vulnerable seacoast.
Perhaps some would end up at a destination that satisfied
them. Or perhaps they'd pretend that was the case,
anyway, so as not to confront their families-or
themselves comwiththe sad truth of their error.
A few might actually better themselves. But no
gentle Edens awaited them, Abraham was
positive of that. The fact had come home to him long
before the Cincinnati trip. It had come home to him as
he lay beside his wife during the summer and winter
nights, his body hurting so badly from physical
labor that he literally couldn't sleep.
Something else struck him in Cincinnati--
struck with the power of a revelation:
He and Elizabeth were just as much prisoners of their
surroundings as they would have been had Abraham taken
a place and done Philip's bidding at Kent and
Son.
Thousands were moving west but they could not. They had
mortgaged their lives to twenty acres along the
Miami River, and were consumed by the challenges of
daily living: food, shelter, the Indian threat.
Survival.
He and Elizabeth would never see another place.
At
least not easily. Clapper said it made no
difference--one was identical with the next. Still, what
Abraham was denied, he somehow coveted.
After the excursion to Cincinnati, he began to think
of the twenty acres in a new way. No longer was the
land a haven. It acquired quasi-human
characteristics in his mind--especially when he tramped
to Fort Hamilton for supplies and wound up
accepting too much of Clapper's corn whiskey.
Then the land became a true opponent. A captor
whom he could and did curse aloud-
Even basic survival on the land was still in doubt.
Abraham was succeeding, but only marginally;
and that success would have been impossible without the
cooperative spirit that tended to tie the settlers together,
each helping the other.
The preceding autumn, for instance, Abraham had
worked all night many a night at husking bees,
since no man could husk a large corn crop
alone. He had lent his time and his strength to those
cabin-raisings, in return for the help he had received
with his.
Yet even with human allies, he found the land a
formidable foe. Many-like the vanished squatters who'd
built the half-faced camp he and Elizabeth had
originally inhabited-lacked the will and the wits to win
against it. Abraham had done his best; given the
struggle everything for nearly two years-and all he
had to show was a meager four-acre plot, and no
guarantee of a good crop on that.
It might be different if Elizabeth were stronger
physically, he thought. Tougher mentally-
But as he stared into the heavying rain that hid the river and
extinguished the last of his burning stumps, he
admitted she was not. He'd have welcomed an
occasional smile of pleasure at his small
accomplishments; a word of encouragement about the tasks
still to be done.
Elizabeth seemed incapable of giving either. Somehow
it doubled the rigors of his work.
A noise on a nearby tree branch diverted him
from the gloomy meditation. He spied a fat
squirrel perched where the limb joined the trunk.
He found squirrel meat in a pot pie not too
unpalatable. So he raised the Kentucky rifle
to his shoulder slowly, and aimed down the
acid-browned octagonal barrel. The trick was
to avoid hitting the squirrel and destroying the
flesh. Instead, Abraham would try to bark him.
The rifle exploded. Smoke curled. Chief
began to snap and run in a circle as Abraham
grimaced--it couldn't be called a smile. His
ball had flown true. Smacked the thick wood
where the branch met the tree. The concussion had spun
the squirrel to the ground, where it now lay stunned.
"Stay back, Chief."
The bulldog reluctantly obeyed as Abraham
picked up a stone and ran forward. He killed the
squirrel with one quick stroke that broke its head
open but left the carcass undamaged.
Abraham trotted to the end of the cabin opposite that
where the chimney rose. He stowed his corn sacks in
the little shed he'd built and chinked
carefully. He tied Henrietta Knox to the bar
on the shed door, although the rain was beginning to pelt
down so hard that the cabin wall would afford her little
protection.
The cow lowed uncomfortably. Stamped and jangled
her bell as Abraham felt her udder.
Full. Elizabeth hadn't milked her again.
Well, he'd have to do it when the rain let up.
More and more often this spring, Elizabeth seemed to be
forgetting or ignoring important work. He never
spoke of it. adding the burden to his other ones in the
silent hope that doing so might make his wife less
weary
too. Yet Abraham refused to give up the
effort to lighten her load. At the same time, the
lapses troubled him.
He returned to retrieve his rifle, horn,
pouch-and, by the tail, the squirrel. He slopped
through the mud at the front of the cabin. From several
feet away, he saw the thick plank door standing
slightly ajar. The thong that raised the inside latch
dangled from the small hole.
He always insisted Elizabeth keep the door barred
and the latchstring in, even when he was near the cabin.
She refused, claiming the cabin was confining
enough as it was. She shrugged off his statements that women
had been murdered by stealthy Indians while their
husbands worked only a short distance away.
As he reached the door, he heard one-year-old
Jared Adam bawling. His scalp prickled with a
belated realization:
Elizabeth should have come to the door when she heard the
shot.
Fearful, he jerked the cabin door open as the
blackening sky rumbled.
II.
Abraham stepped out of the downpour, held up his
prize:
"I picked off a squirrel for-was
His face froze in surprise.
Not one of the three tallow candles in tin wall
sconces had been lit. The cabin was dark except
for the flickering logs in the hearth.
Above the logs the family stew pot hung from a
pole mounted across the inside of the chimney. A
burned stench drifted from the pot. Elizabeth had
been cooking corn meal into mush. All the water had
boiled away.
There was an oppressive stillness. It was broken
only by the rattle of rain on the hand-riven
roof clapboards. By the tick of Chiefs
unclipped nails on the puncheon floor. And
by Jared Adam's fretful crying, off
to Abraham's right where the firelight failed to reach.
He saw his wife clearly enough. Her back bowed,
she sat on one of their two block chairs--
sixteen-inch hickory logs standing on end. Her
hands were fisted on the knees of her soiled dress.
Her blue eyes stared into and through the fire.
Angry, Abraham flung the squirrel on the
puncheon table projecting from one wall. The
squirrel struck so hard, the table's pole legs
quivered. The dead animal's head stained the wood.
He never noticed:
"Elizabeth."
No answer.
"Elizabeth, the baby's crying. Don't you hear
him?"
An eternity seemed-to pass before she turned her
head. Tears shone on her cheeks.
He dropped his pouch and horn, laid his rifle beside
the squirrel, rushed to her as the baby howled all the
louder. His rage left him in an instant,
replaced by grief. He gripped Elizabeth's
shoulders, felt them trembling, whispered:
"What's wrong?"
Her voice was feeble:
"I-I don't know. I sat down-I'm so tired,
Abraham. I felt so miserable all at once
and-I don't know," she repeated in a futile
tone.
Her face had a distinct pallor. She had lost
weight over the past months. The bosom of her
dress looked almost flat because her breasts sagged.
"Elizabeth, you're not carrying a child again, and
haven't told me-?"
She shook her head. The fair hair that once had
glowed so brilliantly was seldom washed these days;
it hung dull and tangly at her shoulders. She
began to rock back and forth.
"I don't know what's wrong, except I hate
this place. I hate it, oh God, I hate it-was
Sobbing, she covered her face and turned her back
on him. Unseen in the darkness, the infant still made
his presence known with his damnable howling. Abraham
came close to cursing him.
Struggling to keep his voice calm, he said, "I
brought in a squirrel. Elizabeth, do you hear?"
She gave no sign.
"I thought a squirrel pie might be a
welcome change. I'll fix it-was
"I'm not hungry."
"You've eaten next to nothing all week!"
"I don't know why," she said. "I don't know."
Terrified by her glazed eyes but not knowing exactly
what to do, Abraham gripped her shoulders again,
tried to lift her from the block chair:
"Let me put you in bed. I'll see to the boy-was
She offered no resistance. He guided her to the double
bedstead in the angle of two walls. The bed's outer
corner was supported by a pole similar to those beneath the
table, but thicker. He lowered Elizabeth gently
to the double deerhide spread over a thick matting of
corn husks. Despite the padding, the bed was as
hard as anything he'd ever slept on, the earth
included.
Elizabeth started shivering. He covered her with one
of their few luxuries--a hand-made Kentucky
quilt in the simple yet beautiful Star of
Bethlehem pattern.
In a moment or two, her shivering stopped.
Abraham knelt. He suspected the chill and
misery were products of her mind, not her body.
He kissed her wind-roughened cheek:
"Don't fret, I'll have the baby
quiet soon. Don't worry about a thing-was
She began to cry again:
"I don't know what's wrong with me, Abraham.
I knew the corn meal was burning. I could smell
it. I sat there and didn't care-was
"There's nothing wrong with you except lack of rest,"
he said. Neither of them believed it:
"No, Abraham, it's something else. I'm not
strong enough for you. For this-was
"My God, don't say that! You've done so much
work-was
"But I hate it, I despise it, sometimes I just
don't want to go on-was
She controlled her crying; wiped her eyes; looked
at him and spoke more lucidly:
"You've never heard much about my father, have you?"
"Only the talk at home. What has he to do with
us?"
"He has a great deal to do with me, I think."
"What do you mean?"
"Mama told me more about him than she ever told
anyone else, including your father. He was-a
peculiar man. Wild and--and brave in some ways.
But weak in others. He ran from whatever he disliked.
Or drank to forget it. Perhaps-no, listen
to me, Abraham, you must hear this--perhaps his nature
was strength and weakness in one. Mama calls it the
Fletcher blood."
"I've never heard her mention-was
"Fletcher blood. I have it. I know it's one
reason I resented your father so, and insisted we come
to this place."
"Don't forget that took courage, Elizabeth.
Great courage."
The moment he said it, his mind showed him an
image of Daniel Clapper. He heard
Clapper speaking why men fled toward another
horizon, then another, another -
"I don't have any courage left," she said.
"Two years out here and-any that I may have had-it's
gone. All I feel is hate. Tiredness, and
hate-was
Her hand closed on his, iced claw:
"I know what I am-was
"Stop."
"I don't want it to hurt you-was
"Elizabeth, don't-was
"Most of all I don't want it to hurt baby
Jared."
A long silence. Then:
"How could it?"
"He has the same blood, doesn't he?"
Abraham felt a terror so deep and devastating
that he couldn't speak for several moments. The child's
howls dinned in the confined space, ceasing only when the
baby gulped a breath. He tried to ignore the
squalling; tried to quell the fear Elizabeth's
strange ramblings generated. He soothed her
forehead with a palm, and lied:
"You're feverish. You need rest."
She stared up into the darkness where the timbers of the loft
floor were barely visible. He tucked the quilt
around her throat and shoulders:
"I'll pile an extra log or two on the
fire--it promises to be a foul night. Maybe
you'll feel like eating something in a few hours-was
She closed her eyes. Tears ran down her
cheeks as if she were in great pain.
"See to the baby," she whispered. "See to the poor
baby."
She rolled onto her side, away from him. He
covered his eyes, wondering if what she'd rambled
about was true. Did some streak of inherited
temperament drive
her to these despairs that grew deeper and more
frequent as the weeks passed?
Or was it the land? Some weren't strong enough to win the
struggle with the land. Was she one of those-his
Forcing himself to activity, he placed two smaller
logs atop the others, then walked across the cabin as
flames leaped up beneath the stinking pot of burned
mush. Jared Adam kept shrieking.
Abraham reached down for the bundled boy, raised
him to his shoulder, felt the sopping wetness of the
coverlet in which Elizabeth had wrapped him.
"Papa's here," Abraham whispered. "It's all
right, Jared. Papa's here."
The infant cried less stridently. Chief
tick-tacked across the floor to the cradle
Abraham had hollowed from half a gum log and
finished with crescent rockers pegged to the ends. The
bulldog sniffed the aroma of urine permeating the
crib, lumbered back to the corner where he always
slept. Outside, Henrietta Knox lowed
loudly, her bell clanking.
Abraham started for the trunk to find clean rags for the
baby. After he'd discarded the soiled ones, he
wrapped Jared carefully, then went back to the
trunk for a dry coverlet. As he picked Jared
up again, he glanced at the bedstead.
Elizabeth lay motionless under the quilt. Her
eyes were shut but he didn't believe she was
asleep.
All at once he couldn't tolerate the ripe
smells poisoning the air in the cabin. In spite
of the downpour, he jerked the latchstring, stepped into the
open doorway-
My God, how dark it was! And not even
nightfall yet.
Gusts of wind blew cool rain in his face. He
covered Jared's head hastily.
He pondered what his wife had said about the
Fletcher blood. Despite a death some called
heroic, Fletcher had been a tainted man. There was
certainly mounting evidence of a similar taint on
Elizabeth-
Had it passed to the baby boy on his shoulder?
Unconsciously, he tugged up the blanket, all
but hiding the dark-fuzzed skull.
Westward, the clouds had lowered. The western ridge
had disappeared in the murk. The small amount of
daylight remaining showed Abraham the damaging
effects of the flash storm. All his check rows were
washed away. The rain had cut new channels in the
ground. He would have to start again. The plowing,
the seeding-everything.
With his wife lying silent behind him and Jared fretting
on his shoulder, Abraham stared at the storm-raked
field and almost shook with rage.
What an accursed land! It treated a man's
hopes and a man's labors and a man's loved ones
with inhuman indifference -
He stood there for almost half an hour, looking at
the rain but seeing his mortal enemy.
Old Ghosts and New Beginnings
ONE AUTUMN SATURDAY a year later,
Abraham walked back from Clapper's store
to find the farm unexpectedly quiet.
He stopped at the edge of the property, frowning as
he scanned it. His eye drifted from the cabin to the
small barn built in the spring with the help of
neighbors. Henrietta Knox grazed near the
barn. From within came the mournful bellow of the ox
he'd bought using money Daniel Clapper loaned
him. He was deeper in debt than ever before.
His gaze moved on to the cultivated ground--eight
acres now, the corn already standing in shocks that cast
long shadows in the cool amber sunlight of late
afternoon. In addition to the corn, he'd put in patches
of turnips, which had done well, and
watermelons, which hadn't.
He quickly shook off the lethargy induced by a generous
amount of Clapper's whiskey. Elizabeth had
planned to make soap today. The process took
hours. She boiled wood-ash lye and fat which she'd
saved, producing harsh, slimy lumps of soap that
seemed to remove more skin than dirt. But
Abraham saw no smoke rising from the chimney
into the flurry of leaves whirled across the roof by the
wind.
No smoke-nor any sign of activity in or
around the cabin. He didn't see Elizabeth or
their two-year-old son anywhere.
He put down the jug of New Orleans
molasses he'd
obtained at Clapper's. Packet boats brought
the sweetening up the Mississippi and the Ohio
regularly now. He'd lacked the exact change
for the purchase, so the storekeeper had snipped
another piece from one of his few paper dollars.
A second close scrutiny of the property
produced no evidence of trespassers. But just in
case, he made sure his Kentucky rifle was
loaded and ready to fire.
"Elizabeth? Jared?" His voice boomed
back at him in the stiff wind-Elizabeth?
Jared?-unanswered. Henrietta Knox turned her
head briefly, then resumed chewing the brown
grass.
Moving slowly toward the cabin, he saw
Elizabeth's splint broom lying abandoned in the
dooryard. Damn! She was supposed to stay locked
inside while he was gone.
Again he called her name. Again no answer. He
prodded the cabin door open with the muzzle of his
rifle.
He saw nothing but darkness. Not a single
tallow-dip
was lit against the coming dusk. The river murmured in
the distance.
It was the letter, he decided. The damned, hurtful
letter from his father. A pack train had delivered it
to Fort Hamilton thirty days ago-
During the past twelve months the elder Kent's
letters had changed noticeably. The tone grew
steadily less cheerful, and items of interest concerning
the east and Europe had become more and more sparse. The
last bit of information Abraham could recall his father
reporting with genuine enthusiasm was months old.
Philip Kent's boyhood friend,
Lafayette, had finally been released from prison
in Austria and allowed to return to France. There,
living in relative seclusion, he had resumed
correspondence with his old comrade in Boston. Of
late, however, Abraham found himself relying almost
totally on other settlers for news-
News of President Adams' refusal to go to war
with France, for instance. Adams resisted war even
though many in his political party-including Philip,
presumably comfavored it.
There were new developments in France. By means of a
coup, a military leader had seized power. The
soldier named Bonaparte was a man of vast
ambition, it was said. As first consul of his country, he
announced his intention to deal with the United States in
an amicable way--no doubt to prevent an
American alliance with France's traditional
enemy, Britain.
Bonaparte's avowed friendship might end the
hostilities between American and French naval
forces. People in the east were suspicious of the new
ruler, though. Didn't he openly express his
dream of a worldwide French empire? Might he not
press the Spanish to recede the vast Louisiana
territory-including the port of New
Orleans-in return for France's surrender of
portions of Italy? The anti-French faction east
of the mountains claimed such negotiations were in fact
underway in secret. Ultimately, Bonaparte could
endanger the use of the Ohio and Mississippi as
commercial routes for the western part of the country.
Philip hardly touched on these matters.
Abraham heard about them from men gathered around
Clapper's cracker barrel. When the recent,
extremely brief letter arrived via pack train,
Abraham at last understood his father's silence on more
general subjects.
Philip wrote that in late February of this year,
1800, Peggy Ashford McLean Kent had died
of a wasting disease that shriveled her body and tortured
her senses for six months before death gave her
release. Since reading the letter, Elizabeth had
lost her appetite, gone listlessly about her
chores, paid little attention to Jared and less to her
husband.
They still slept side by side. But Abraham
hadn't touched her in a month, sensing her unspoken
wish that he refrain. As a result, he often
felt angry with her. His anger found an outlet in
Saturday visits to the settlement. She
seldom felt strong enough to walk with him. He usually
came home more than a little drunk-
"Elizabeth!"
This time he shouted. The echo rolled away through the
trees and died under the murmur of the wind. Invisible
in the brush that screened part of the river bank, someone
answered:
"Papa?"
Exhaling loudly, Abraham hurried forward:
"Jared, you stay right there-was
What in hell was the child doing outside, unattended?
Abraham clambered noisily down through the brush.
He heard Chief's feeble bark. The bulldog was
ancient now, barely able to walk.
Once more Abraham searched the woods and the portion
of the river bank visible to him. Still no sign of
Elizabeth. Fear turned to wrath again as he parted
a screen of low branches and discovered his son.
Moccasins off and feet dirty, Jared was seated on
the ground, alternately scooping dirt from a hole
and building it into a small mound. The boy looked
up with bright blue eyes--the Fletcher eyes he'd
inherited from his mother. Chief, lying a few feet
away, lolled his tongue but made no effort to rise
and greet his master.
Jared's tawny hair hung matted over his neck.
His hide shirt showed rips at the elbows--more
indications of Elizabeth's neglect. Almost
fearfully, the boy continued to stare up at his stocky
father.
"Why did mama leave you alone, Jared?"
Although Jared was only two, Elizabeth had been
able to teach him to use rudimentary sentences. He
answered with one:
"Don't know."
"Where did she go?"
The boy looked away. "Down there." A grimy
hand pointed.
Abraham scowled. "The river? Whatever for?"
"Don't know. She said to play. Then she left."
As if to show that he'd tried to do as he was told, he
glanced down at the mound of dirt.
Abraham started to say something. A faint sound from the
bushes behind Chief brought his head snapping around. His
hand turned cold on the stock of his rifle.
Eyes fixed on the brush concealing the source of the
rattle, he said:
"Jared, listen. Get up. Come to me."
Jared frowned. "Want to finish-was
"I said come to me!"
Abraham's palms were slick with sweat. He dared
not look away from the brush for an instant-
Tears appeared in Jared's eyes. But he rose
obediently and walked to his father-moments before the head
of the snake jutted from the underbrush.
"Get behind me, Jared!"
The boy was gazing up at his father. He didn't
understand the reason for the harsh command. The snake coiled
out of the shadows, rattling.
The snake was sixteen or seventeen inches long.
Its brown ground color was blotched with black.
Its puffy head darted a few inches to the right, then a
few inches to the left. Abraham stepped around his
son, jammed the rifle against his shoulder and fired.
Chief barked, struggled to stand up as Abraham's
ball missed the head of the pygmy rattler, blasting
up a
shower of leaves and dirt. The rattler's fangs
glistened as its head shot forward. Chief yelped when
the rattler bit.
By then Abraham had lunged forward. He drove the
rifle's brass butt plate toward the front part
of the snake's body. The snake whipped its head
back a moment before the rifle struck. The blow
cracked the snake's skull.
Using the rifle stock as a kind of shovel,
Abraham hoisted the snake and hurled it away.
On his belly, Chief tried to turn his head far enough
to lick at his wound. The old dog was too stiff; his
tongue wouldn't reach.
Jared clutched his father's leg.
"What--what was it?"
"A snake."
"What?"
"Snake, Jared. Dangerous. Hurt you."
"Didn't see it-was
"I know you didn't. That's the reason you should never
play out here alone. That's why mama should never leave
you here alone!"
The boy pointed to the floundering bulldog. "Chiefs
hurt."
Abraham doubted he could do anything for the animal.
The bite of a pygmy rattler was seldom fatal
to a grown man. But the venom might affect a
dog-or a child-differently. He seized Jared's
hand, pulled him away:
"If we leave him alone he'll be all right. Come
with me and we'll look for your mother."
The wrath in Abraham's weary eyes made Jared
obey without complaint.
"Baby? Baby, where are you-?"
Elizabeth's voice!
Running, he broke from the trees twenty feet from
the river bank. When he saw her, a lump
thickened in his throat.
He halted. Surveyed the area to be sure it was
safe. He saw nothing to threaten the boy. He
leaned his rifle against a maple, said:
"You wait here while I speak to your mother, understand?
Wait here."
Fidgeting, the boy nodded. Abraham turned
around, grief-stricken at the sight of his wife
wandering aimlessly through the reeds along the shore. The
wind blew her dirty hair around her cheeks. Her
plain, patched dress was soaked and mud-spattered
from the knee downward.
Abraham deliberately made noise as he
approached. She didn't seem to hear. Her
fatigue-ringed blue eyes darted back and forth across
the shallows:
"Baby? Baby, I know you're here. Don't
hide from me."
"Elizabeth!"
The loudness penetrated her daze. She faced him,
a peculiar half-smile curling her
mouth. She hardly resembled the bright, fiery-spirited
girl he'd taken into his bed in Boston. Barely
into her twenties, she had become a pale, sagging
old woman-
But she recognized him:
"Oh. Abraham dear. You've come back from the
settlement."
He splashed toward her, his moccasins soaked in an
instant. On the far bank of the Miami, the
autumn-colored trees shimmered and flamed in the
wind.
He gripped her arm. "Why did you leave Jared
by himself? It isn't safe!"
"Please let go." She pried at his fingers with a
cracked and reddened hand. "Please, Abraham. I
only left him for a short time-was
"I shot a pygny rattler up there. Right where the
boy was playing!"
"Shot?" She shook her head. "I didn't hear
any shot." Again that pleading smile. "But I've
been busy searching for the baby."
His spine crawled. "What baby?"
"Ours, Abraham. Our baby-the first one. I
don't remember the baby's name, but all at
once, up in the cabin, I remembered the
baby was lost on the river."
"You lost the baby on the Oh-was Sick and stunned,
he couldn't continue.
"Please help me look, Abraham. I know the
baby's here somewhere. Help me look before it's too
dark-was
Tears started in the corners of his eyes. He fought
to hold a rein on his emotions--the self-hate; the
sadness. How had this happened?
He knew Elizabeth had been growing weaker and more
distant month by month. But what had pushed her into this
delusion? This retreat into a world of phantoms where the
miscarried infant somehow cried out to her? Her mother's
death? The hardships of the land? Both-his
Empty of anger, he curved his arm around her and
tried to speak gently:
"It's growing dark. We should go back to the cabin."
"The baby's lost, Abraham!"
"I'm sure we'll find the baby tomorrow, when the
sun's up. I'll help you search then if you'll
come with me
now."
She eyed the reeds and gleaming river. Then, with a
sigh, she leaned against him:
"All right. I am tired. I would like
to rest. I've been searching an hour or more."
In utter despair, he comforted her against his shoulder
as they worked their way out of the shallows to solid ground.
They walked up the shale slope to the tree where little
Jared watched, white and wide-eyed.
The man, the woman and the boy plodded toward the
cabin. Elizabeth's voice grew fainter in the
shadows lengthening among the trees. She murmured
sadly, absently, about the lost child that needed finding.
Abraham lighted one of the wall candles and tucked
Elizabeth into bed. He got the fire going in the
hearth, and then he and Jared left the cabin.
They hunted for Chief. They found him dead where
he'd fallen. Abraham dug a shallow trench in
the loamy soil. They laid the bulldog's body
in it. Crying, Jared helped cover the grave with
handfuls of earth.
They finished the work in almost total darkness.
Abraham sheltered the weeping boy against his side
on the way back to the cabin. He could feel little
sorrow about the dog. Chief was old. Elizabeth was
young. And she was dying too.
He knew some of the reasons: grueling work for which she
wasn't suited; loneliness; the absence of
amenities with which she'd grown up. Women
grew old too soon on the frontier. Abraham
saw such women every time he visited the settlement.
Women of twenty-five or thirty with lusterless
eyes, leathery hands, browned, foul-smelling teeth.
A few like Edna Clapper, were hardy enough to thrive.
Those who weren't hardy, the land destroyed.
And I brought her here so she could be killed,
Abraing as they were living now.
The unseen trees hissed in the wind, almost like
laughter. He made up his mind that he'd find them
a means of escape as soon as possible. He
hated being defeated almost as much as he hated the land-
But accepting defeat was better than seeing his wife
destroyed.
IV.
The next day was the Sabbath. Abraham opened the
cabin door as soon as he got up. Elizabeth
woke a few minutes later. The sight of the
sunshine spilling onto the cabin floor seemed
to put her in good spirits immediately.
She had been restless during the night. But she
greeted him normally enough, making no reference to the
incident on the river.
As they ate their morning meal, Abraham read a
few verses from their Bible. Elizabeth
listened with a cheerful expression. Yet he remained
tense. At any moment he expected her to recall
his pledge to search for the lost baby.
Nearly an hour went by with no mention of it. The
nervousness persisted. He went for a stroll in the
sunshine, kneading his knuckles against his chin as he
walked.
God, what he'd give to be able to share the
excitement and optimism reflected in the
Saturday talk at Clapper's store. A few
months before, a whole new century had opened. The
successful settlers in the district discussed it with
high hopes. President Washington's
death the preceding year at age sixty-seven seemed
to bring one era to an end and set a new and better one
in motion.
A new president would be elected before this year was
out. Many around Fort Hamilton predicted that
Federalist John Adams was finished; would be
replaced at last by a less aristocratic
candidate-one who recognized the growing importance
of the west and acted accordingly. The ideal man, of
course, would be Mr. Jefferson.
Already there were sixteen states in the union. More would
certainly be organized and admitted as the
tide of migration swept on west beyond the Ohio
country. The future looked splendid indeed-
Until you brought it down to a personal level,
Abraham thought as he walked back into the cabin.
Elizabeth welcomed him with a smile. She was
busy tending a skillet over the coals. Preparing
the johnnycake they'd eat for Sunday dinner even
though they'd already eaten the same thing for breakfast.
Jared sat silently in a corner, building bits
of stick into a cabin. Abraham bent down to watch.
The boy accepted his father's presence silently, without
a smile.
Soon almost two hours had passed, with no reference
to yesterday. Abraham relaxed a little. Apparently
she'd forgotten-or, more correctly, the memory had
somehow been locked away again in the recesses of her
mind.
Still, he had been thoroughly shaken last night. He
didn't intend to forget his silent vow to change their
situation.
How he'd do it, he didn't know. As a first step,
he'd ask advice from his friend Daniel Clapper.
During next Saturday's visit to the settlement.
Having decided just that much buoyed him a little; it
was a positive step. Out of it would come an
eventual answer. Not too late, he hoped.
"It's your business how much you slosh down,"
Daniel Clapper said the following Saturday
night. "But Daniel Junior's off at the camp
meetin' with the girl he's courtin', an' I'm
damned if I want to carry you home."
Abraham tilted the jug and poured more whiskey into a
small earthenware cup.
"I'll make it fine on my own, Daniel."
Clapper looked skeptical.
Abraham had already consumed two cups of whiskey
while waiting for the other man to close up the store
for the night and join him behind the curtain that separated
business from daily living.
In addition to the family's everyday furniture and
utensils, and curtained areas for sleeping, the rear
half of the large cabin was crowded with goods for which
Qapper had no room up front: boxes of
slates and slate pencils; small kegs of
gunpowder; cartons of foolscap paper--even a
fresh shipment of books. Waiting for Clapper,
Abraham browsed through them. He discovered three
copies of a Kent and Son edition of Pilgrim's
Progress. The moralistic work was popular among
the settlers who could read.
He held the book a few moments, staring at it,
then replaced it in its box, wishing he could put
memories of Boston aside as easily.
Having built his cabin within sight of the others that formed
the settlement around the palisaded walls of Fort
Hamilton, Daniel Clapper had allowed himself
the luxury of window openings with shutters. Away from
a
settlement, windows were a disadvantage. They could
let in marauders along with sunlight and fresh air.
Now the red-bearded storekeeper pushed open one
pair of shutters next to the stone fireplace.
Abraham drew a deep breath between gulps of
whiskey. The blazing logs in the hearth made the
room stifling.
Clapper seemed to sense something important on
Abraham's mind. His forehead furrowed as he
watched his guest drink. Abraham didn't say
anything. Clapper gazed outside again as a squad
of mounted soldiers clattered toward the fort.
In the distance the horizon glowed orange. The light
came from torches around the camp meeting tent. The
week-long event was being conducted by a Bible-brandishing
Methodist evangelist who'd ridden up from the state
of Kentucky. People had driven rigs or
come on horseback from as far away as thirty or
forty miles, just to attend tonight's final meeting.
Abraham could hear the shouts of praise and joy as
the crowd replied to the evangelist's exhortations.
Clapper's wife Rachel and his daughter
Danetta, as well as Daniel Junior and his
young lady, were attending the four-hour service that
combined hymn singing, hellire preaching, public
confession of sin and the evangelist's promise of
salvation. Maybe I should be there, Abraham thought,
pouring one more drink-
Clapper stayed his hand:
"Listen, I been waitin' ten minutes! Speak
your piece!"
"I need to ask your advice."
"Ask away."
"The reason is-I'm going to give up the farm."
With a sigh, Clapper ambled to the table. He poured a
little whiskey for himself, then combed fingers through his long red
beard.
"Figured it might be comin' to that. Of late you been
lookin' mighty spiritless."
"It's Elizabeth I'm worried about. She--
well--she's been acting strange."
"Expect you want to talk about it. Else
you wouldn't bring it up, am I right?"
Slumping in his chair, Abraham nodded. He
poured out the story, finishing:
"She was hunting for the baby she lost on the Ohio,
not Jared."
"Yep, I caught that drift."
Abraham peered into his cup. "I don't even
know whether it was a boy or a girl."
"Don't know myself. If Miz Rachel knows,
she's never said-and I ain't asked. I do know what
she'll discuss and what she won't. Women things is
on the won't list."
"I don't suppose a doctor could explain
what's wrong with Elizabeth. Something in her mind,
maybe. Her father was supposedly half crazy."
"Never heard that before."
"It's true."
"I told you once I thought she was a mite
frail-was
"I remember."
"Why'd she ever agree to come out here?"
"Oh, a lot of reasons. I went along with them.
Obviously we both made a mistake."
He filled his cup again, ignoring Clapper's
frown.
"The point is," he said, "I've got to remedy the
mistake before things get worse."
"So you're puttin' the farm up for sale."
"I think I should be able to get rid of it, don't
you?"
"Lord yes! On my last trip south, the Ohio was
blamed near solid with boats."
Abraham grimaced. "We're already being passed
by--I saw that for myself when I went with you
to Cincinnati."
"Don't get to thinkin' it's too civilized around
here," Clapper cautioned. "The Shawnee, they're
still burnin' farms and stirrin' up trouble. I musta
seen a dozen of "em when I was out peddlin" the first
of the week. They been a lot more active ever since
Tecumseh's brother set up his town on the
Wabash. Soldiers at the fort say Tecumseh
an' the Prophet are preachin' some sort of wild
scheme to pull all the tribes together, from New
York State clear down into the Creek Nations."
"Why?"
"To push out the white people that took Injun land, why
else?"
"The tribes signed a treaty with Wayne-was
"Not that Tecumseh. "Cording to what you
told me, he never set foot in the door at
Greenville."
"That's true. We're off the subject. I'm
going to sell the farm, but I don't know the next
step. I hate like hell to crawl back to Boston
and tell my father I failed."
"This father of yours--the one what printed the Bunyan
book in the box yonder--he a pretty
strong-minded soul, is he?"
"A banker friend of his once said my father could make
Satan look indecisive."
"Sounds like an all-right sort. You an"
Elizabeth could go back an' see him if things
really got bad, couldn't you?"
"I'd rather not. I was hoping maybe I could find a
way to make a living here in the settlement.
Elizabeth might be more comfortable with more people around."
Quietly, Clapper asked, "Did the two o' you
ever sit yourselves down and decide what it is you
want?"
Abraham shook his head. "Pointless. We don't
know. I've come to believe what you told me on the
ark, Daniel comt most people who chase after some vague
hope are only running away from problems."
"Absolutely right! Mebbe I got one
answer for you, though-was
Abraham noticed a peculiar glint in
Clapper's eyes. The storekeeper fingered his beard
a while before he continued:
"The urge is on me again, Abraham. I want
to pick up an' head out. Injuns or no, this part
o' the country's gettin' crowded. Ten years ago
there wasn't more'n three or four thousand souls
settled north o' the river. Now I hear there's
ten times that many. People are sayin' there'll soon be enough
folks in the territory to make Ohio state
number seventeen. I need elbow room,
Abraham! Next spring, I'm goin'!"
"Does your family know?"
"Miz Edna's been watchin' me mighty close
lately. She can feel it comin'. You're the first
to hear, though."
Abraham thought a minute. "Are you suggesting
maybe I could take over the store?"
"Yep."
"I don't know as I'd be any better running a
place like this than I am at running a farm,
Daniel."
"Hell, it's easy! Everythin' practically
falls off the shelves-was
"Except that china I traded to you."
"Well, that's fancy stuff. The necessary things sell
themselves-an' like you say, Miz Elizabeth might be
easier in her mind livin' closer to the fort. Havin'
womenfolk to visit with regular-was
Abraham did see how the plan could work. With a little
more animation, he said:
"If the pattern of the last couple of years holds
next year too, there'll be new families arriving
in the spring. I could sell the farm to one of them, buy
you out and pay you every penny I owe you-was
"I'll only sell you the building an' half my
goods. I'll
need some stocks to set up when I get where I'm
headed."
"Got any idea where that is?"
Clapper grinned. "Nope. I'll light there
same way as I lighted here. But once I take
a notion to go, I want to git fast. So I won't
gouge you on the price, an' it'll be a fair deal
all around."
For the first time in weeks, Abraham laughed aloud:
"By God I think I've found the answer, thanks
to you."
Now it was Clapper's turn to stare into his
whiskey cup. "Hope so."
"You don't think I have?"
The big storekeeper's eyes locked on
Abraham's. "I don't want to discourage you,
boy. You need encouragement-was
"But you think we won't find living here any easier
than on the farm?"
"Easier, maybe. Not better. Even this far west,
I see a mighty lot o' people movin' on,
Abraham. Movin' on for the fifth an' sixth
time-was
"I think Elizabeth can be happy here. I've
got to believe that, Daniel. The only other
choices are to go on west--and she's not strong enough--
or to head home to Boston--and I'm not ready
to give up that completely. The settlement will make
everything right-was
"Sure," Clapper nodded. "Forget what I
said."
A hymn thundered by scores of voices drifted from the
camp meeting. Clapper squeezed his friend's
shoulder:
"What's true for me ain't necessarily true for
you. Things'll get a lot better if you move in
here. Provided you don't pickle your
liver in the meantime--gimme that cup!"
"No, let's have one more. To celebrate."
Abraham poured whiskey to the brim, raised the
cup. "I give you Mr. Abraham Kent,
merchant." Daniel Clapper raised his own cup
but for some reason wouldn't look Abraham squarely
in the eye.
VI.
Elizabeth greeted Abraham's plan with
complete agreement and overwhelming enthusiasm. As
winter approached, she began taking better care of
herself. She watched Jared more attentively;
Abraham was busy making frequent trips to the
settlement mill. There he had his corn ground,
retaining what the family would need during the cold
months and selling off the rest.
There were no repetitions of the search for the lost child.
During January and February, Elizabeth kept
busy cooking, mending, doing laundry-and teaching
Jared how to recognize and pronounce part of the
alphabet. Watching his mother print large block
letters on a slate, the little boy seemed happier
than ever before. He enjoyed trying to say the names of the
letters correctly. Elizabeth, surprisingly
patient, encouraged him. Before long he had
progressed to the letter M.
At least once an evening, Elizabeth's conversation
returned to the forthcoming change in their lives.
Abraham was glad. She was affectionate again.
Amenable to lovemaking. Several times she clasped
him with an ardor that reminded him of the first night she
came secretly to his room.
According to the way Abraham figured it, new
families should be starting up the Great Miami about the
first of April, either to squat or to settle on
ground whose deed they held. At the end of February
he began thinking about the wording of a notice for the
settlement's public message board. He felt
confident that if he
could find some squatters with money, he could convince
them that buying his prime bottom land was a better
investment than occupying free land someone else might
eventually claim. Most good river acreage in the
district was already taken, and that was in his favor.
The first of April, 1801, began to loom as a
magic date: the end of their hardships; the start of a
new, more rewarding life. Abraham consciously
avoided thinking about Clapper's dour philosophy.
For Elizabeth's sake, he couldn't permit himself
to believe that disillusionment always waited, no
matter how far a man roamed, or where he
settled.
Occasional traders working their way through the ice-bound
forests brought trickles of news:
Congress had at last convened in the district christened
Columbia. There, the new capital city was
rising, named in honor of the country's first
president.
The unwieldy electoral college system had
turned January's national election into a shambles.
Jefferson and Aaron Burr deadlocked in a
first-place tie with seventy-three votes each.
John Adams, his popularity waning, ran third
with sixty-five.
The tie vote threw the contest to the pro-Federalist
House of Representatives. After thirty-six
ballots and much behind-the-scenes maneuvering,
Jefferson was named president in February, with
Burr vice president. Whereupon, the traders said,
certain devout Federalist ladies in New England
buried their Bibles in their gardens, fearing secret
agents of the "godless" chief executive would seize
and burn them.
The results of the election reached the Great Miami
in mid-March, just as the weather turned
unusually warm and sunny. Elizabeth took to singing
as she worked around the cabin. Abraham too was
anticipating the day that symbolized a fresh start
for the Kents.
Six days before the month ended, the Indians came.
The Burning
SHE TOUCHED HIS arm in the chilly darkness. Her
fingers closed, rousing him from the fog of sleep. He
felt her homespun nightdress touching his forearm;
heard the murmur of the March winds. He heard other
sounds he didn't recognize.
"Abraham-was
Her anxiety brought him upright, knuckling his
eyes.
"What-?"
She covered his mouth with her other hand. "Be still and
listen! There's someone outside."
His mind sorted out sounds: Jared breathing on the
small bedstead he had built in the opposite
corner; the low of the ox; the thump of a hoof on the
side of a stall--perhaps that was Henrietta Knox.
Then, alert and alarmed, he made out a human
voice, barely audible.
There was a louder thump, as of someone stumbling against a
wall. Two voices overlapped one
another; the second was angry.
The ox bellowed. Abraham wiped his upper lip.
"They're out by the barn," he said.
"Can you hear what they're saying?"
"Not clearly. But I don't think they're white
men."
Elizabeth covered her face. "Oh God help
us-was
"Ssshh."
As quietly as possible, he crawled out of bed.
He
struggled into his trousers. With the tail of his
nightshirt still hanging out, he pulled on his boots.
He guessed the time to be dawn. A thin line of
light defined the edges of the cabin door.
His heart lubbed loudly in his inner ear. He crept
toward his rifle propped against the wall, listening for the
intruders. Either the men were being exceptionally quiet
now or they were gone-
Another bellow from the ox told him his hope was
false. His throat felt parched. He returned
to Elizabeth. Knelt and whispered:
"Whatever you do, don't wake the boy. And stay
inside with the door barred."
He could just discern the white oval of her
face as she leaned close: "You're not going out
there-?"
"Yes, I'd better. Maybe I can frighten them
off."
"But I heard at least two voices!"
"Perhaps all they want is food."
"You mustn't go--you've only one charge in your
rifle-was
"And this."
He groped a hand toward the puncheon table, found his
long-bladed Barlow knife of English steel. He
tucked the knife in his right boot.
"I'll be all right. They'll probably run as
soon as I show myself--a lot of them don't own
rifles or muskets."
"But some do. I've heard people at the settlement
say-was
"Don't raise your voice! I've got to see
what they're up to--suppose they take a notion
to fire the cabin? I tell you'll be all right," he
finished, sounding more certain than he felt.
He patted her hand, stole toward the door. He
raised the latchstring slowly to free the bar from its
bracket. He inched the plank door open.
"Lock yourself in, Elizabeth." He
slipped outside. He leaned against the cabin wall,
drawing long, deep gulps of air. The leafless
trees looked black and stark against the silver of the
eastern horizon. A warbler trilled down by the
river. The water purled over stones. He heard the
soft chunk of the bar being lowered back in place. Now
he could move. Cautiously, he advanced to the
corner of the cabin, then on around. The chimney
jutting from the end of the cabin concealed the barn. He
leaned toward the edge of the chimney, risked a glance-
He saw a black rectangle. Someone had opened
the barn door. A moment later, a man laughed
softly inside. Questions rumbled through his mind. were there
really only two? How were they armed? He wished for
his pistols, hanging on pegs inside. But they were
useless, he remembered. He hadn't loaded or
primed them since the last time he fired them-
So it came down to the ball in his rifle, and his long
knife. Against whatever the intruders might be
carrying.
He decided to wait them out. Running to the barn, a
clear target, would be foolish. He leaned his
forehead
against the chimney logs, listening.
He heard shuffling feet. An occasional
word growled in an unfamiliar language. The two
animals kept stamping. Time seemed to stretch out as
the warbler sang down by the shore.
The light brightened. The outline of the barn became
clearer. Suddenly Abraham sucked in a
sibilant breath. A man had appeared in the barn
door.
An Indian, right enough. Fat and toothless and old.
His huge belly stretched his filthy army coat.
The coat had been stolen from some other white man,
Abraham assumed.
The old Indian trailed an ancient musket from
one
hand. A bedraggled wild turkey feather stuck up
from the greased gray of his braided hair. He waved
disgustedly for the benefit of someone still invisible in the
barn.
Heart knocking faster than ever, Abraham kept
one eye pressed to the chimney corner, hoping the
poor light would prevent the Indian from spotting
him, A second man lurched outside.
This one was younger, with a hard brown face and eyes like
black stones. He wore hide trousers and shirt.
His only visible weapon was a spiked war club.
From the way the younger Indian weaved on his
feet, Abraham guessed the pair had stolen
whiskey somewhere, and now wanted more. He presumed
both were Shawnee or Miami, but he couldn't be
positive. If he were lucky, they might abandon
their search and slip away to try their thievery in
another place-
The younger one barked words Abraham didn't understand.
He lifted his spiked club, pointed it toward the
cabin. The meaning was unmistakable.
The fat one seemed hesitant. He finally shook
his head, growled a reply that angered his companion.
The younger one started walking-straight toward the jutting
chimney where Abraham crouched.
He had to scare them off. But he didn't dare
expend his one rifle ball to do it. He screwed
up his nerve, took another deep breath-
Stepped from concealment, the rifle aimed at the
breastbone of the younger Indian.
The fat one yelped in surprise. Abraham's
nerve almost crumbled away when a cold smile
curved the mouth of the younger one. The Indian was still a
little drunk-
Abraham had seldom seen such hateful eyes.
"Meneluh," the Indian said.
Abraham shook his head to show he didn't
understand. The young brave's smile vanished!
"Meneluh, meneluh!" A sharp gesture with his
spiked club. "Drink!"
Abraham drew in a quick breath. Though the young
Indian articulated English with difficulty, at
least he understood it; perhaps from encounters with itinerant
traders. Certain less than scrupulous white
men had discovered a new and profitable market
by introducing alcohol among the tribes. Heedless
of long-term consequences, such traders were frequent
visitors at the Indian villages, supplying
rum and whiskey in return for pelts. If the
savage had learned bits of English in such
meetings, at least Abraham had a chance of
communicating. Trying to do that was better than launching
into a fight.
Aware of how his legs trembled, he shook his head
several times, then said slowly and clearly:
"No whiskey."
The young brave grinned. "Whis-key. Meneluh!"
Abraham shook his head again. "No. No. I do
not have any whiskey." He bobbed the rifle's
muzzle at the trees. "G. Go into the woods.
Get off my land." He pointed at the ground. "This
is mine." He jabbed his thumb against his
chest. "Mme. The Shawnee can only hunt where there
are no settlers-was
The scowling Indian clearly didn't comprehend the
last word.
"No white men. White-was Abraham touched his
face. The Shawnee continued to scowl. Abraham
wasn't certain whether the next thought would have any
meaning: "The treaty says-was
"Trea-ty!" The young Shawnee spat on the
ground. Then he pronounced a name Abraham
couldn't decipher.
"What?"
"Panther-Passing-Across. Panther-Passing-Across
curses white man's trea-ty. Curses you!"
"Who--who is the Panther?" Abraham asked, still
stunned by the violent reaction.
"Chief. Tecumseh. Other-was A garbled,
obviously derogatory word. "comsmoked calumet
with Wayne." Derisively, he pretended to puff
an invisible pipe. "Not Shaw-anese. Not
Tecumseh. This land not his--not yours--not any
man's to-was A hand darted outward. "Trade.
Moneto gave to all!"
Another angry arc of the club made Abraham
start. The fat old Indian giggled,
revealing stumps of teeth in wrinkled gums.
"Moneto made land for all!" the young man repeated.
"Cannot be-was Again the outward gesture. "Given."
He pointed his club at the breaking light in the
east. "Can kesathwa be given?" Supple fingers
pantomimed falling rain. "Can gimewane be
given?" He shook his head. "So land cannot be given.
Not by one-not by many!"
The Shawnee began walking forward, sensing
Abraham's gut fear now, and playing on it. He
shook his head again, angrily. Then:
"Woods people who took Wayne calumet--sat with
Wayne-was More unintelligible phrases,
savagely spoken and plainly showing what the young
brave thought of those Indians who had negotiated
with the general. "com did not own this." He stamped the
earth. "Moneto's land. For all. If we
want-stay. If we want-go." A sly smile.
"Look there-was The club jabbed toward the cabin.
"Whiskey."
Abraham raised the rifle to his shoulder:
"No. I'll kill you. Do you understand? I'll
kill you."
The Shawnee understood. Abraham jerked the rifle
barrel toward the fields.
"Get away! Get off this-was
He was unprepared for the sudden whipping motion
of the brave's arm. The war club tumbled end over
end toward his head. He lunged out of the way,
stumbled, fell on his left side as the club
struck the chimney logs and bounced away.
The young Shawnee reached the club in three long
strides. He raised it over his head with both hands,
brought it forward and down, the spike aimed at
Abraham's torso. On the ground, Abraham
braced the rifle against his hip and fired.
Inside the cabin, Elizabeth screamed. The ball
only slowed the downward arc of the war club.
Abraham rolled to the left. The bone spike
raked his shoulder- The club dropped from the
Indian's hand. He seized the chimney logs for
support, slowly sank to his knees. The shot
had blown away his left eye and part of his cheek.
Vomit rose in Abraham's throat. The young
Shawnee's trousers darkened as he urinated
uncontrollably. On his knees, he moaned and
slumped forward against the chimney. As he sagged all
the way to the ground, his face left gore and bits of
bone on the logs-
Abraham struggled to his feet, pulling
his knife in case the fat Indian attacked.
Marginally aware of a second voice raised in the
cabin--Jared's--he heard a sound that turned his
bowels to water: The rattle of the door latch.
"Abraham?"
Dammit, he'd warned her to stay inside! Always,
always, she defied advice, did as she wished-
"Abraham?" she called again. She came running
around the corner of the cabin, hair streaming at her
shoulders.
"Elizabeth, stay ba-was
The fat Indian's musket roared.
Abraham was facing his wife. He saw her
literally fly backwards as the ball hit.
For a moment he stood numb, his gaze swinging back
and forth between Elizabeth and the Indian. His wife lay
on her back, a black hole oozing blood onto
her right temple. The toothless old man lowered the
musket as a curl of smoke drifted from the
muzzle.
Howling, Abraham ran at the Indian, knife
raised. The Indian wheeled and lumbered off around the
barn, his grunts of fright trailing behind him.
Abraham pursued him only a dozen steps. Then
he halted. Shock set his teeth
to chattering. The Barlow knife fell from his fingers.
He faced about; faced the sight of Elizabeth
sprawled in her nightdress, her mouth open and her
eyes too.
He knelt beside her, both palms on her cheeks.
He heard Jared's voice from the cabin doorway:
"What's wrong, papa? Why is mama lying there?"
"Go back inside! Close the door!"
Frightened by the wild look of his father's face, Jared
vanished. Abraham rocked back and forth on his
knees, rubbing his wife's face:
"Elizabeth. Elizabeth-was
It became sobbing:
"Elizabeth, no. No, Elizabeth-was
The brightening dawn only heightened her waxy
pallor; accented the color of the blood that flowed
down past her eye to her ear, clotting in her fair
hair. She had washed her hair to shiny brilliance
just last night-
Still kneeling, Abraham cradled her corpse in his
arms, speaking her name over and over. The cabin door
stood slightly ajar. He never noticed.
Nor did he see the huge eyes of a small boy
staring at the blood on his mother's face.
In the pleasant March sunlight,
Abraham walked the four miles downriver with
Jared. His step was slow, his expression stony. The
boy kept glancing up at his father, but never spoke.
When Abraham had finally carried Elizabeth's
body into the cabin, Jared had repeated his questions.
Abraham answered in a dull voice, saying
Elizabeth had gone away from them and would not be coming
back.
Jared's face showed his confusion: When Elizabeth's
still form lay before him, how was it possible for her to have
left the cabin-his
Then and now, as Abraham and Jared walked, a
forbidding expression on the father's face kept the son
from voicing any of the fear and turmoil the morning's
events had produced.
People stared at Abraham's white face and feverish
eyes as he led the boy to Clapper's.
Waiting on a customer, Daniel Clapper
immediately recognized that something dire had taken
place. He bid the customer a quick good morning and
followed Abraham into the rear of the cabin.
In a monotone, Abraham reported what had
happened--producing a burst of tears from
Clapper's wife. She recovered quickly. She
hugged Jared to her shapeless bosom, drew
the boy aside to comfort him.
Abraham said to Clapper, "I'm going back
to take care of her body and to collect my things."
"Let me go with you, Abraham. You're in no
state to-was
"Yes I am," Abraham said, his face
animating into fury. He pushed Clapper's hand
aside. "I'm going alone."
Seated on a chair with Jared on her lap, Mrs.
Clapper said to her husband:
"Don't let him, Daniel."
"I'm all right!" Abraham insisted. "TO PACK
what Jared and I need for traveling and be right
back."
Clapper goggled. "My God, boy-your wife just
got shot an" you're goin' traveling?"
Abraham's eyes burned. "What good can I do
her by staying here?"
A long silence. Then Clapper asked:
"Where you goin'?"
"East. Home. Away from this accursed place. I
killed her bringing her out here."
"A couple of drunken Shawnee killed-was
"I did."
"Listen, Abraham, that little boy's
scairt to death--look at him!"
But Abraham wouldn't. Jared burrowed his face in
Edna Clapper's shoulder, began to cry.
Clapper stepped close to Abraham, whispered,
"I know it's a grievous thing, Abraham, a
grievous an' terrible thing. But you're carryin' on
like a crazy man. You got to take hold of-was
Clapper stopped. Abraham's face was like a
death's-head.
"I'm going alone, Daniel. I'll be back
presently for Jared. Don't chase after me or
you'll get hurt."
Pivoting, he ripped the curtain aside and
disappeared into the front of the store.
No one followed.
III.
There was a demon in Abraham Kent that morning; a
demon whose hate lent him the strength he needed to do
what had to be done.
First he dragged the young Shawnee down to the river.
Keeping his eyes away from the destroyed face, he
lifted the corpse and flung it in the shallows. He
broke off a tree limb, waded out and prodded the
body into the current. When it was floating, moving
slowly in the sun-dazzled water,
Abraham threw the branch away and returned to the
barn where he loaded his rifle.
The barn smelled of fresh manure. Abraham
sighted down the muzzle to a spot between the horns of
Henrietta Knox. The cow kept chewing slowly.
Abraham began to tremble. At last he gave
up, unable to pull the trigger.
He led Henrietta Knox outside. The ground was
damp. The night's frost had melted, moistening the
black earth. He rubbed the cow's back a moment,
then let go of her rope and walked away. In
similar fashion he brought the ox to the field and
left it standing.
Inside the cabin, he spent an hour with
Elizabeth.
He sat on the puncheon floor beside the bedstead, his
eyes closed, his hand straying to her face occasionally.
Soon her skin became so cold that touching it was
unbearable. He rose, carried the newly packed
knapsack out into the sunlight:
He deposited the knapsack on top of a stump that
still bore the black traces of last fall's
burning. He brought his rifle, shot bag and powder
horn to the same stump. Back in the cabin, he
used flint and steel to light tinder beneath the
hearth logs.
When the fire was burning well, he broke off one
of the pole legs of the table. He thrust the leg into the
flames for a minute. Then he set the table afire.
As soon as it caught, he bent and kissed
Elizabeth's cheek.
Coughing in the smoke, he walked outside and torched
the barn. Then he picked up his gear.
He sniffed the fire as he walked toward the track
leading to the settlement. He heard the cabin walls
beginning to crackle, but he wouldn't look back at
the puffs of black smoke. The smell was enough
to remind of how he'd erred; failed; lacked the
strength and wisdom to deny Elizabeth's wish to start
a new life in the west. The smell was enough to remind
him of how much he hated this barbarous land that permitted
only the hardiest to survive, destroying the others.
Henrietta Knox mooed at him as he hurried
by the field where she stood in the glare of noonday.
He wouldn't look at her either, nor could he have seen
her clearly if he had. Tears blurred his eyes.
He hated the earth under his feet. God, how he
hated it-to 
And himself.
Blind to everything except his consuming need
to escape, he stumbled on toward Fort Hamilton
as the treetops around the cabin began to burn.
Clouds of smoke billowed into the noon sky, shot
through with fire.
IV.
The unkempt strangers trudging up Beacon
Street on a hot morning in early July,
1801, attracted the attention of everyone from
housemaids bustling on errands to gentlemen climbing
into carriages to be off for the day's business. There were
whispers and stares--the pair hardly resembled
Bostonians from this part of town--or any other!
One was a heavily bearded man of twenty-five or
so. The other was a tow-haired boy whose face looked
pinched and gray. The man carried a grubby
knapsack on back straps, and a rifle in the
crook of his left arm. He held the boy's hand
tightly. It was hard to tell which of them wore the
filthier coat and fringed trousers.
The pair caused no end of curiosity as they
climbed the stoop of one of the most substantial
homes on the entire street. The man let the
knocker fall three times.
A mobcapped girl opened the door. Abraham
didn't recognize her.
The maid took a step backward, overpowered
by Abraham's stench. He smelled rank for good
reason. He'd obtained a small sum of money from
a hasty sale of the farm to a Fort Hamilton
speculator. The money had run out two weeks
ago, as they approached Philadelphia.
Abraham and his son had made the rest of the journey
on foot, sleeping in the open, begging or stealing
food where they could, and never bathing.
The maid's reaction was automatic:
"Beggars are not allowed at the front-was
"This is my home. I am Abraham Kent."
The maid caught her breath. She recognized the
name. But her face showed her doubt and bewilderment.
How could this greasy, bearded person in frontier
garb be Abraham Kent?
The man's brown eyes piercing into hers were so
terrifying, she didn't dare speak the question aloud.
"I wish to see my father. I wish to come in--will you
stop goggling? I live here!"
He thrust her aside roughly, dragging the little boy
after him like a mindless dwarf. In the middle of the
front hall, he put down his knapsack and
rifle, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and
demanded:
"Where is my father? And my brother? Have they gone to the
firm already?"
The maid stammered, "Yes, Mr. Gilbert left
an hour ago-was
"Is my father about the house, then?" "Sir--sir-was
"What the hell's wrong with you, girl?"
She'd remembered some talk she'd heard about the
whereabouts of Philip Kent's son. That would explain
the crude, hideous clothing. She swallowed hard.
"If--if you are Mr. Abraham Kent from the
west-was His mouth twisted. "Don't I smell like
it?" "I know Mr. Gilbert wrote you two
months ago-was "Wrote what? My boy and I have
been traveling for over three months. Any letter that
was sent to me two months ago, I never received."
So weary he could barely stand, and maddened beyond
endurance by the maid's fluttery behavior,
Abraham raised his fist to her:
"Damn you, speak out! Where is my father?" "Dead,
sir," the girl whispered. "He died in his sleep
on the thirtieth of April."
Problems of a Modernist
IN THE MATERIAL as well as the intellectual
sphere, Mr. Gilbert Kent was an avowed
modernist.
He deemed that orientation eminently suitable to the
new century, and to the rapid changes taking place
in the nation. He refused to close his mind to ideas
simply because they had never been tried before, or were
foreign to his experience.
His Beacon Street home, for example, boasted
not one but three of the innovative banjo wall
clocks introduced the previous year by Mr.
Willard of Roxbury. He had adopted two
new and novel fashions--regular bathing and the
donning of clean underwear every day. He hadn't gone so
far as to embrace the Napoleonic custom of a
daily bath; once every two or three days seemed
sufficient in a city that considered bathing the entire
body bizarre.
His apparel would have found favor in fashionable
circles in Britain. At eleven o'clock on a
warm morning in midsummer, 1803, he approached
Kent and Son wearing clothes that could only be termed
impeccable:
His coat was one of the new, longer gentleman's
models, lacking the severe cutaway so popular with
conservative members of the business community. His
shirt was linen, custom-cut, and featured the new
detachable collar. His waistcoat was cut
low to show off his stock and shirt ruffles. The basic
ensemble was completed by snug boots over long
pantaloons--the very combination said
to be preferred by the elegant George Brummel,
whose sartorial preferences were religiously aped
by all in England's upper classes-including
Brummel's intimate friend, the prince-regent.
To top off the outfit, Gilbert wore a dark,
soft hat of beaver, the brim drooping slightly at
front and back but rolled on the sides. The
jaunty hat bobbed up and down briskly as he
made his way through the crowds this humid morning.
Most of the better dressed people on the street
recognized the owner of Kent and Son. Those who
didn't know him personally identified him from his
costume precisely the way he wanted to be
identified--as a modernist.
Perhaps in reaction to his late father's Federalist
bias, Gilbert Kent was that rare creature-a
New Englander who was also a Jeffersonian. After
much thought and study, he had concluded the president was
correct in his contention that all men, while perhaps not
equal in their abilities, were certainly equal in
their rights. He was convinced the country should be governed
not by a coterie of highly educated
aristocrats--to which group he would certainly have belonged
by reasons of birth, wealth and talent--but by the consent
of all, highborn or otherwise. He knew
by heart-and despised-Alexander Hamilton's
cynical expression of the opposing Federalist
philosophy:
All communities divide themselves into the few and the
many. The first are rich and well-born, the other the
mass of the people. The people are turbulent and changing; they
seldom determine rightly. Give, therefore, to the first
class a distinct, permanent share in the government.
They will check the unsteadiness of the second.
It was a persuasive argument, Gilbert
recognized. But in his eyes it was nothing less than
evil, for if it were
espoused wholeheartedly, then the principles of
American liberty became a sham and a deceit.
Gilbert's view wasn't a popular one in
Boston. In the growing number of states in the west,
and in their swelling populations, the great merchant
families saw a threat to New England's
traditional control of the nation's affairs. Gilbert
Kent believed that to serve, not to control, was the proper
function of the government in Washington comandthe duty of the
private citizen of more than average
means. A subtle difference but, to his way of
thinking, a crucial one.
Not that Gilbert Kent had anything against being
successful in the private sector. He watched the
Kent ledgers closely, usually examining them at
midnight or later, at home-he seldom slept
more than four hours a night, to his wife's
annoyance--and he seized every prudent opportunity
to expand the family wealth. Indeed, he had just come from
a meeting with that purpose.
The meeting had been held at the Rothman Bank.
It was attended by a consortium of rich gentlemen of
Boston. His father's old Revolutionary War
comrade, Mr. Royal Rothman, presided. Before
the meeting broke up, Gilbert pledged one
hundred thousand dollars of risk capital to help
finance the Blackstone Company, a new
cotton-spinning firm going into competition with
Slater's decade-old spinning works on the
Blackstone River in Pawtucket, Rhode
Island.
In a private session with Rothman after the other
investors left, Gilbert informed the banker that he
wanted his partnership to be a silent one. His shares
were to be held by the bank so that future
profits would go directly to the child his wife was now
carrying, as well as to any other issue of their
marriage.
Rothman naturally asked the reason for the
arrangement. Gilbert gave a candid reply. He
wanted his wife to
have her just share of his estate when he died-
"And don't say it's too soon to think of that,
Royal. I've already lived more than half the
lifetime of many
men."
"Go on."
"My wife has a number of good qualities, but
self-denial isn't one of them. She buys whatever
she wishes for herself or the house--heedless of the cost.
I don't mean to sound unkind, but I don't
believe she could manage and conserve a large sum
successfully. I'd feel more comfortable if a part of the
Kent estate was held in reserve, where she could never
touch it. Indeed, I don't even want her to know
about it. The profits of the printing house should be ample
to sustain her should something happen to me."
"I wish I were as optimistic about the success of the
Blackstone Company as you seem to be," Rothman
observed with a wry expression.
"Oh, I'm very optimistic. Textiles will soon
become the heart of New England's economy-along
with shipping."
"The bank will naturally honor your request about the
confidentiality of the shares."
"I'll visit my attorney next week and have
him draw up the legal papers."
"Old Benbow senior is going blind. He should
retire and turn your affairs over to his son."
"His mind's as alert as ever. He'll live to be
ninety."
"Which you may not-at the pace you drive yourself."
Gilbert ignored him, using a quill to scribble
Benbow and Benbow on a slip of paper. He
tucked the slip in his waistcoat pocket and stood
up, extending his hand:
"To the Blackstone Company. May it enrich my children
and yours."
Drning," Rothman smile. "I admire your
progressive spirit, Gilbert. But I fear some of the
other gentlemen found it incomprehensible--not to say
dangerous."
Gilbert shrugged. "They gave in."
"Because you refused to commit Kent money otherwise."
"No, not until they agreed
unconditionally to provide schooling for the children who'll
be hired to operate the spinning machinery. I'd
actually prefer to hire adults-
"At least you're realistic enough to understand that's
unprofitable. Children can be had for a fraction of adult
wages."
"Still, it bothers my conscience."
"The other gentlemen salved it for you. Gave in to your
demands for a free school-was
"Gave in grudgingly! I tell you, Royal, one
day we'll have to face the question of profits at the
expense of people. Children shouldn't be working twelve,
fourteen, sixteen hours a day-was
"And one man should not own another?" Rothman added,
having heard it all before.
"Yes, there'll be a confrontation on the slave question
too, you mark me."
"I wish you wouldn't suggest we're somehow involved
in slavery!"
"The next thing to it."
"Would you do away with factories, then?"
"How could I? They're being built everywhere."
"My dear boy, you're unreasonable! If a child
takes a job at the Blackstone Company, that's
entirely voluntary!"
"When a family is poor but much too large, and the
young must be put to work at seven or eight or face
starvation--you call that voluntary?"
"It's an imperfect world, Gilbert. We can either
refuse to deal with it altogether, or content ourselves with
altering it a little at a time. The trouble with you is,
you've a strong streak of idealism and a sharp business
sense. As the factory system grows, those two
sides of your nature are becoming incompatible.
Today you were lucky. You satisfied both."
Gilbert sighed. "I suppose it's the best that can
be done. You will remember about the shares?"
"Certainly."
"I'll have Benbow senior call on you to settle the
details--provided there's no reneging on the
school!"
"Don't worry, I'll see that doesn't
happen," Rothman assured him.
"I insist it doesn't."
"I know," the banker sighed. "In some ways, you
are a very radical fellow."
It was true. But he was honest with himself about it. Much
of what he thought and said and did sprang from a solid
core of conviction. At the same time, his modernism
was a mechanism, deliberately employed
to show his much older peers in the business world that he was
their match; perhaps even a step ahead.
Gilbert had been thrust into unexpected control of
Kent and Son when his father died two years earlier.
For a young man of eighteen to be in charge of his own
affairs was not at all unusual. For a young man of
eighteen to be solely responsible for a large and
growing fortune as well as a prestigious publishing
company was highly unusual. Therefore Gilbert had
to demonstrate to the world-and to himself-that he was in every way
capable of accepting the responsibility.
In a way it was fortunate that he had been a frail
child. Of necessity, most of his time had been devoted
to sedentary pursuits, chiefly reading. A year at
Harvard
before Philip's death only demonstrated
to Gilbert that he'd already learned much more than his
professors could teach him.
Close association with his father during adolescence had
familiarized him with every phase of printing house
operation long before Philip's sudden and sad
demise. Philip had died resenting Abraham's
decision to carve a new life for himself in the west.
But Gilbert was there, ready and eager to take up the
reins-
So, at age twenty, the modernist made his way
along Boston's crowded thoroughfares until he
came in sight of the familiar gold-lettered signboard
with the tea-bottle design. He felt in
excellent spirits until he reached the main entrance.
There, in the shadow of the swaying sign, he saw
several large, dark splotches on the cobbles. His
pale face lost its aura of good humor.
Tall and extremely slender--at nearly six
feet he was a phenomenon in the Kent family--he
ducked his head to keep his beaver hat from being knocked
off by the sign and rushed through the front door to learn
the cause of bloodstains at Kent and Son's
doorstep.
The presses for the book-publishing part of the business
still occupied the main floor. But now, instead of the four
wooden flatbeds Gilbert remembered from
childhood, six presses with cast iron frames
crowded the long room. Gilbert had imported them
from London.
Perfected in 1798 by the Earl of Stanhope, the
new presses were operated by the familiar screw
lever. But the iron framework all but eliminated
breakdowns due to main members warping and splitting.
Additionally, the iron could bear a greater
load, critical to the inking
and printing of the woodcuts Kent and Son was starting
to incorporate in some of its school primers.
Twenty men and several apprentices worked busily
in the press room. Among them Gilbert noted a
singular absence. His parchment-pale cheeks took on
an even whiter cast. On the second floor of the
main aisle he detected still more bloodstains-and, behind
one press, a pile of ruined sheets.
A jowly young man in a leather apron approached,
moving slowly and refusing to look Gilbert in the
eye.
"Good morning, Mr. Pleasant," Gilbert said
to his press room manager, the son of the deceased
editor of Philip Kent's Bay State
Federalist. "I'm afraid I see evidence of a
fight."
"Aye, and a royal one," Franklin Pleasant
answered.
"What was the cause?"
"I don't know, sir. I was up checking the paper
stores when it broke out. The other lads pulled the
two apart after a couple of minutes.
Regrettably, that was long enough for Tom Naughton
to suffer a broken hand and an addled head."
Pursing his lips--usually the strongest indication of
displeasure he allowed himself--Gilbert asked,
"And the other combatant, Mr. Pleasant?"
"Well, sir-was Pleasant's eyes still avoided
those of his employer. "He walked out."
"To go where?"
"I wasn't informed, sir. The truth is, your
brother was in such an ugly mood, I didn't wish
to ask. The lads said he tore into Naughton in
what they call the frontier style-was
Gilbert sighed. "Just as on the other occasions?
Kicking? Butting? Gouging eyes?"
Pleasant gave a somber nod.
Gilbert forced himself to the hardest question:
"Was my brother drunk again?"
"The lads say he stank of it. I don't doubt
he traipsed off for more after he did his damage
to Naughton. I--I have no right to speak about a
relative of yours, Mr. Kent-was
"You certainly do. He works for you."
Less apprehensive, Pleasant went on,
"Since you gave Mr. Abraham a job last
year, he's done nothing but disrupt this press
room."
"And it took him twelve months to shake
off his despondency and reach the point where he'd even
consider a menial job."
"I realize he suffered hard blows, losing his
wife the way he did, then coming home to the shock of
finding Mr. Philip dead and buried. But the fact
remains, he can't get along here."
"Nor anywhere, it seems, except in the
taverns."
"Yes, a couple of the lads have told me he
consorts with the worst drunkards and trulls on the
waterfront. Of course," Pleasant added
hastily, "that may be no more than vicious gossip.
Repayment for some of the difficulty he's caused-was
"It's not gossip, it's fact. Abraham's
frequently gone from the house two or three nights
in a row. I don't doubt he's visited a
score of those poor women you dignify with the name
trull. However-was Gilbert waved. "comx's not the
facts that are wanting, Mr. Pleasant, it's the
solution to the problem, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"See you send Naughton an extra week's pay
for his injuries. And my apologies."
"Oh, sir, the president of the firm needn't
apologize to-was
"Enough, Mr. Pleasant. I want it done."
Pleasant looked pleased. "Very well, it shall be."
"Tell Naughton I rose later than usual this
morning--well after seven. Abraham had already
left the house. Sometimes, when I catch him at the
table early, I can sober him up with coffee and a
threat or two."
"Most days, he still manages a rum before reporting
for work."
Gilbert's eyes strayed to the stains on the floor.
"That would seem to be the case. It must have been an
unusually strong draught today-was He cleared his
throat. "Mr. Pleasant, be assured-and pass the
word-that brotherly charity is not unlimited. Six
brawls in as many months are five more than I should
have permitted."
He indicated the working men, a few of whom were
watching him in less than friendly fashion.
"Let it be known that I'll take immediate steps to bring
Abraham into line. I'd hoped a job, however
lowly, might help put his sad experiences out of
mind. Obviously my hope was groundless. I will
take steps," he repeated firmly, moving toward
the stairs to the second floor.
A couple of the workmen waved and called a
greeting. On normal mornings, most all of them
did. Gilbert's reply was perfunctory.
He climbed to the third floor, to the cluttered
office originally occupied by his father. There, along
with his usual portion of day's work, he confronted the
question of what to do about his half-brother.
He sympathized with Abraham, but he could no
longer tolerate Abraham's sullen,
destructive behavior. Nor, for that matter, could
Abraham's son Jared.
He pondered the problem a while without success.
Finally he put it out of mind and turned to other things.
Often when a business difficulty needed a
solution, he found that the answer came
spontaneously if he mulled the subject, then
forgot it for a few hours.
He prayed the process would repeat itself today.
Gilbert Kent's first task was to check on the
forthcoming issue of the firm's expanding newspaper, the
Bay State Republican. Immediately on taking
charge of Kent and Son, he had raised the paper's
price to the prevailing six cents, added the job of
general editor to his duties, and ordered a new
masthead designed, sans the word Federalist.
The alteration in name and philosophic
approach made him unwelcome in certain homes
in Boston. But that was offset by generally widespread,
if grudging, admiration for the courageous declaration of
his own principles via the new name and the increasingly
favorable coverage of the Jefferson administration.
Gilbert believed it was not only right but practical
to provide an alternative to the viewpoint of most
other New England papers. His judgment was rewarded
by a slow but steady increase in circulation. Now the
Republican appeared twice weekly.
With his coat off, his waistcoat unbuttoned and a
quill in hand, he marked some minor changes on the
foolscap copy describing the background of
Commodore Edward Preble, newly named commander of the
naval squadron Jefferson had reluctantly
dispatched to the Mediterranean in an effort to get the
Barbary states to end their outrageous piracy
coupled with their demands for tribute. The tribute was
supposed to guarantee the safety of American
shipping. In fact, it didn't.
Gilbert inked a few rousing sentences at the end of the
story, predicting that Preble would soon have the
bandit-like Bashaw of Tripoli wishing he had not
increased the sum he hoped to extract. Should some of
Treble's crack marines storm
Tripoli's shores, the
Bashaw would regret his greed and his declaration of war
on the United States.
He returned the copy to one of the two men who
wrote for the Republican:
"Very good, Mr. Morecam."
"Thank you, sir."
Gilbert watched Morecam work for a few minutes,
then moved over to stand behind the other reporter. Neither
appreciated his hovering presence, but neither
protested. Shortly he went back to his office
to see to the day's correspondence.
Much of it was inconsequential. But the pile contained
two important items, the first being a lengthy letter
from one of Kent and Son's best-selling authors,
Mason Locke Weems.
Parson Weems as he was usually called--he was
an ordained Anglican, and now a bishop--was a
rare bird indeed: a theologian who doubled as a
bookman--both writer and seller. Additionally,
Weems had an uncanny sense of what the reading
public would buy.
His Life of Washington, written to the popular
taste in 1800, was already into several editions.
Gilbert had negotiated to print a
deluxe volume that was selling handsomely to the
well-to-do who maintained private libraries.
Weems' letter reported on his progress in
revising his text for yet another edition. The
parson tiptoed around the question of "embellishing" the
biography with some "possibly apocryphal"
material.
Gilbert smiled. The good parson had raised the
subject in his last letter too. Gilbert sensed
Weems intended to invent anecdotes about the first
president in order to add novelty to future
printings.
His suspicion was confirmed as he read on.
Weems said that "reliable sources in Virginia"
had provided a
story about young Washington hacking down a cherry
tree, then manfully admitting his guilt when
confronted by his father.
Gilbert sharpened another quill in preparation for a
reply. He didn't allow himself the luxury of a
male secretary. Even though his handwriting was
small and difficult to read, he preferred to write
his own letters to keep costs down.
In his reply, Gilbert tactfully suggested that
George Washington's life was
dramatic enough without "apocryphal embellishments"
and that Weems might do well to refrain from including
such material, since it would only befuddle future
generations hunting the truth. Since Weems was
important to Kent and Son, Gilbert closed with
an assurance that of course he would rely on the
parson's "honesty and good judgment"-and accept the
revised text exactly as submitted. He was
cynically certain said text would include the invented
material.
The second letter of importance was addressed in a hand
Gilbert recognized at once; its owner had
written him twice before.
With anticipation, he broke the letter open. It was
dated the first of July.
Dear Mr. Kent-
The President has requested me to tender his
thanks to you for your eminently fair and reasoned
support of the purchase of the Louisiana Lands
completed May second last by Minister Monroe in
Paris. Your recognition of the importance of this
Acquisition, and your praise of the treaty of cession
in your most excellent Newspaper, have come to the
President's attention, and are deeply
appreciated. The President is
particularly gratified that you share his view of the
purchase, viz., that it is a transaction
replete with blessings to unborn millions of men.
As you might assume, contrary opinions expressed
in various New England gazettes have distressed
him.
Gilbert could well imagine Jefferson's ire
over some of the extreme reaction. A number of
northeastern editors claimed flatly that because the
new land would eventually be parceled into states, the
influence of New England was already destroyed-and
therefore, the northeast should consider seceding from the union
in order to establish itself as a separate country.
Gilbert had personally written two
Republican editorials to prick that hysterical
bubble, dismissing the notion of a "southern plot"
to wrest control of the country from the easterners. The
editorials hadn't increased his popularity among
Boston Federalists. But then, it was his opinion that
the party had seen its heyday. Incurring the wrath of
its diehard supporters troubled him not at all.
He started to re-focus his attention on the letter. A
sudden spasm in his throat prevented it. He
coughed. Then again, harder-
Damn! He hadn't been bothered with the cough
for several weeks. Now it was nearly doubling him
over.
He thrust the letter to the desk, gripped the arm of his
chair with his other hand. He squeezed his lids shut,
still coughing. Water trickled down his cheeks from the
corners of his eyes. With the cough came the familiar
chest pain.
As he rocked back and forth in his chair, he heard
the voice of one of his writers:
"Mr. Kent? Shall I summon the doctor?"
Through sheer will he raised his head, opened his eyes:
"No, I-I'm over the worst."
His cheeks still shone from the tears. But the strangled
feeling in his chest had lessened.
The reporter hesitated in the doorway. "Perhaps you
ought to keep a window raised in here, sir."
"Air won't do a bit of good," Gilbert
answered, wiping his eyes. "When one of those damned
spells hits me, I can't get enough air no
matter how many windows I throw open. When the
spell passes, so does the struggle to breathe. The
doctor tells me many people are afflicted with the condition
and suffer nothing more than occasional discomfort all their
lives."
He was fully recovered, and affable:
"Thank you for your concern, Mr. Morecam."
With a bob of his head, the writer vanished.
Gilbert cleaned his cheeks with a kerchief. God,
how the infrequent but painful seizures angered him!
He detested them because they impaired his ability
to function at full efficiency. It was one of the few
segments of his life he was unable to control.
Breathing normally again, he resumed reading:
The President is likewise grateful for your
restraint in withholding an account of his special and
confidential message to the Congress of January
eighteenth last, even though he is well aware that
certain details of that message reached you
promptly as a result of your wide acquaintance
with the legislators of your state. By now you surely
know that the President's request for the sum of two
thousand, five hundred dollars to fund an
expedition into the remote Western reaches of the continent
has been approved by the Congress. The purpose
of the expedition is twofold--to expand our national
commerce, and to perpetuate friendly relations with the
Indian tribes.
That amused Gilbert. The piqued Massachusetts
conservatives from whom he'd heard about the January
request complained they were being asked
to indulge Jefferson's "literary pursuits"-and his
desire to increase scientific knowledge of the vast land
mass west of the Mississippi. Gilbert had
assumed there was more to it, and still did.
Gazing at the letter, he wondered who had recopied it
for the author. Jefferson's aide was known to be a
wretched speller, only able to approximate the
sound of certain words. An ironical failing for one
who held the title of secretary, Gilbert thought
Now, sir, it is my privilege to report that my
letter is undoubtedly the last you shall receive from me in my
present post, as the President has signally
honored me by naming me commandant of the aforementioned
Expedition. Together with my fellow officer, Mr.
Wm. Clark of Virginia, whom I chose for his
courage and intelligence as well as for his remarkable
skills in drawing and map making, I have plans
to embark with a small party of explorers from the
settlement of St. Louis in the spring of next
year. Our route will take us to the headwaters of the
great river Missouri, and thence to the Pacific.
Hopefully, we shall complete this last stage of our
journey by means of the Northwest River Passage
long rumored to exist. I shall be leaving my present
duties within a very few days to seek my
companions, who must be good hunters, stout, healthy,
unmarried men, accustomed to the woods and capable of
bearing bodily fatigue in pretty considerable
degree. I will also be making diverse stops at the
Federal arsenal for military equipment, at
Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, etcetera for good
calico shirts, looking-glasses, jewelry,
beads, scissors and
other items to be presented to the various tribal
chieftains in the most friendly and concilatory manner.
It is no longer possible to keep a venture of this
magnitude entirely secret. However, a certain
prudence is still necessary in view of the Nation's recent
acquisitions in the approximate geographic
area to be traversed by our Corps of Discovery.
Your cooperation in referring to said Corps as a
purely scientific body will be most deeply
appreciated.
With kindest good wishes for your continued prosperity, and
humble thanks for your many editorial expressions of
support for the Administration, I trust I have the
honor of remaining
Your obdt. friend, Meriwether Lewis (capt.),
Secretary to the President
With a delicious shiver of excitement,
Gilbert reread the closing passages of the letter, then
smiled. The Federalist newspapers had exercised
no restraint at all concerning Jefferson's
secret message, growling about "frivolous and
costly intellectual endeavors"-which proved they were
exactly as confused as the president meant them
to be. Some of Captain Meriwether Lewis'
oblique phrasing, however, invested the undertaking with a
significance--a purpose-Gilbert believed he
understood.
He laid the letter aside, turned in his chair
to regard his expensive beaver hat. Such hats were
increasingly popular; here too it was the Englishman,
Beau Brumel, who set the fashion. If
Brummel adopted a beaver hat, every gentleman
must have a beaver hat! Gentlewomen too--with
suitable alterations in design, of course.
Gilbert's thoughts turned to the source of the fur
which the hatters brushed and worked into such soft, lustrous
nap. Montreal and the straits of Michilimackiac
were already major gateways through which fur gathered around
the lakes reached the European fur markets.
Most sought after were castor gras tfhiver--the winter
skins of the beavers. The winter pelts were premium
priced because only they yielded the
superlative felt for the hats such as Gilbert
wore. But other, less choice furs and skins were in
demand as the growing middle and lower classes
developed an appetite for small touches of
luxury. From elk and deer came the leather for
gloves. Muskrat and raccoon and the hide of the
fabled bison could be turned into modestly priced
coats, coat linings and collar trim.
The British in Canada dominated the fur trade
on the lakes and in the country along the Missouri.
Hired Frenchmen wintered on the distant reaches of that
unmapped river, trapping or trading for pelts.
In the spring they took their bundles
to Michilimackinac or to posts of the Hudson's
Bay Company north of there. Though
Michilimackinac now belonged to the United
States, commercial licenses issued to the
Canadians permitted them to use the island as a
headquarters.
But a few of the French winterers--the men whose fathers and
grandfathers had pioneered the trade years earlier--
disliked all Englishmen, and journeyed down to St.
Louis on the Mississippi to sell their catches
to Americans trying to gain a foothold in the
lucrative industry. Gilbert didn't
doubt that one of the objectives of Jefferson's
western expedition was the discovery of new routes
to help American traders capture a larger share
of the fur business. Because national rivalries were
involved, a purpose like that would, of necessity, be
kept secret until it was accomplished-
As would other details of the mission, simply because the
president's monumental purchase-which some New
Englanders called totally illegal-was sketchy
on certain questions of boundaries. By exploring,
Captain Lewis might help settle future
disputes. Possession, as the old saying claimed,
was still nine points of the law.
Establishment of territorial rights would blunt the
thrust of Canadian expansion, too; balk the
fur entrepreneurs already pushing their trapping parties
west and south.
The Louisiana acquisition had made it all
possible. It had also come as a stunning surprise
to the country.
Minister Plenipotentiary Monroe had sailed
to France the preceding January to investigate the
possibility of buying the port of New Orleans,
and perhaps some additional territory in the West
Floridas, for no more than two million
dollars. On arrival, Monroe was offered not
merely the requested territory, but all of the
Louisiana lands west of the Mississippi and north
of the Gulf!
The turnabout in French policy-marking the abandonment
of Bonaparte's vision of an empire in the western
hemisphere-had two causes: the failure of the
French military to suppress a decade-long
slave revolt on the island of Haiti, and,
closer to home, the threat of renewed hostilities
with Britain.
More than eight hundred and thirty thousand square
miles were involved in the offer. Astonishingly,
Jefferson quickly accepted it-and the price of sixty
million francs, or about fifteen million in
dollars. The sum included the payment of some
American war debts. By Gilbert's reckoning,
the purchase itself amounted to something like three pennies
per acre-which had to be one of the most remarkable real
estate bargains of recorded history.
Gilbert had already read an edited text of the treaty
of cession. For safety's sake, three copies
of the full document had been rushed to the United
States by three different couriers aboard three
fast packets. The Senate had yet
to ratify the treaty, however. And in the inevitable
debate, old positions were being turned topsy
turvy:
The president, known to favor strict interpretation
of the Constitution, adopted a somewhat broader view
where the purchase was concerned. He argued that
constitutional power to govern territory implied the
right to acquire it. The majority of New England
Federalists, normally loose constructionists, had
likewise reversed themselves, insisting that nowhere in the
Constitution was the president authorized to buy new
land. Gilbert suspected Jefferson had made a
pragmatic decision, bending principle
to accommodate his conviction that the purchase would enrich
the country in everything from minerals and timber-and
fur-bearing animals-to much-needed land for
settlement and agricultural cultivation.
From reading the edited text, Gilbert was well aware
that the boundaries of the ceded land were vague, especially
in the north and far west, where a vast mountain chain
separated the inland prairies from the Pacific
coastal region which a Boston skipper had
explored in 1792. Discovering a great river that
poured down out of the mountains--the western end of the
legendary Northwest Passage, perhaps?--
the skipper had christened it with the popular name
"Columbia."
Gilbert admired Jefferson's labyrinthine
thinking. With one stroke--the expedition--he could
solidify the nation's claim to new territory and
aid an increasingly important sector of the
economy.
Suddenly he sat upright. Snatched Lewis' letter
and scanned it.
He blinked several times. A smile slowly
lifted the
corners of his mouth, something-to 
He rose quickly, tucked the letter into the pocket of his
coat which lay neatly folded over another chair.
He paced back and forth for a minute. Then he sat
down. He tented his fingers and tilted his chair
back, soothed by the faint and rhythmic thump-thump
of the book presses churning out pages on the first
floor. Despite his youth, he resembled nothing so
much as a frail old man cogitating.
Gilbert knew what his critics said of him. That
he had an almost driven desire to succeed--to be a
good steward of the assets left by Philip Kent's
passing. As a result, he sometimes behaved like a
man three times his years. He never let
it trouble him. Thinking without the passion of youth could be
an advantage.
It proved so now, as he looked at Abraham's
problems in an objective way.
He believed the problems sprang from three
interrelated sources. The first was Abraham's
obvious guilt about being responsible for his wife's
death.
The second, perhaps as deep and fundamental as the first
--although Abraham had never even mentioned it
to Gilbert--was the rift between father and son when
Abraham and his bride set out for the west.
Philip's death during Abraham's absence had
effectively prevented any healing of the wounds of either
party.
The third source of the problems was Abraham himself.
Looking back to his own boyhood, Gilbert could
recall very nearly worshiping his half-brother. His
precipitous entry into the world of adult affairs had
purified his thinking on many subjects; burned
away old illusions. He could make a more
accurate appraisal now: Abraham was a man of
weaker character than their father.
Gilbert didn't consider it callous to form such
judgments of the living and the dead. In all
things, he tried to be rational. He knew it would have
been difficult indeed for almost any young man, himself
included, to have matched Philip Kent's mental and
physical toughness.
To offset his limp, Philip had kept himself in
perfect condition. He had constantly educated himself
--a process made easier by his professional
involvement with books and journalism. Gilbert,
sickly as a child, had never faced the necessity of
competing with his father on both fronts. Physically he
was no match. That gave him leave to devote himself
to keeping up with Philip's mind as best he could.
Abraham, sadly, had lived completely in
Philip's shadow-and suffered by comparison. When
Abraham married Elizabeth, stirring the
so-called Fletcher temperament into the brew, no
wonder explosions resulted.
Against that background, Gilbert analyzed the idea
that had popped into his mind a few minutes ago.
A mad idea, some would say; perhaps even Abraham
himself! Yet Gilbert embraced it because he could no
longer permit Abraham's behavior to go
unchecked. Not only was his half-brother destroying
himself with his drinking and trouble-making, he was harming his
son. Perhaps irreparably.
As Gilbert sat and pondered, beams of slanting
sunshine turned his cheeks to the color of warm
ivory. His mind roved over tales told by fur
factors who had made the difficult trip to the
country's western outposts, St. Louis and
Michilimackinac, there to bargain with the trappers whose
wanderings had taken them into the country Lewis
proposed to cross and map. The factors brought
back astonishing, almost fanciful accounts of a sea of
grass stretching west toward the mountain
rampart. They spoke of gigantic herds of the
bison like those the Kentucky settlers had slain and
eaten for years.
Out there, it was said, the red tribes were different from
Indians of the east. They raised and rode horses,
acquiring a dangerous mobility lacked by nations such
as the Shawnee.
And now Mr. Meriwether Lewis was captaining an
expedition to that very land. Abraham had soldiered with
Lewis under General Wayne. Yes, andwiththe other
one--the younger brother of George Rogers Clark.
By God, it was perfect!
Even though the solution carried an element of risk,
Gilbert didn't shrink from it. In the two years
since he'd taken charge of Kent and
Son, he had proved over and over that risk-taking
could pay off handsomely. The only difference now was in
the nature of what was at stake. Not money, but a
man's life and sanity.
The question, then, was whether to consult Abraham first or
present him with an accomplished fact. Thinking a
few minutes more, Gilbert decided on the latter
course. Abraham must have no excuse to back out;
no more latitude in which to indulge his excesses. The
press room was nearing the point of mutiny.
His mind raced. Much remained to be done before he
went home for the evening. And much remained after that.
He'd have to speak to Abraham as soon as his
half-brother returned from whatever den he'd
crawled into after the fight.
Beyond that, he needed to gain his wife Harriet's
consent to her role in the plan. She had disliked
Abraham and Jared-but particularly
Abraham-since the day the two had come home after
Elizabeth's death. The fact that Harriet was now
in her eighth month of her first pregnancy wouldn't
make Gilbert's job any easier. It
would require extra effort on his part to make sure
dinner this evening was composed and cordial--an
appropriate forum for him to share his plan
with his spouse before broaching it to Abraham.
Yes, he had much to do--commencing with the draft of a
letter.
IV.
He found fresh paper, inked his quill and began
to scribble in that small, compressed hand others found so
difficult to decipher:
My dear Captain Lewis,
I am in receipt of yours of the first instant, for which
my deepest thanks. I hope I do not place you
under an undue burden by tendering a most urgent
request which, at the same time, could well work to your
benefit. Ten minutes later, Gilbert stepped
to the office door. "Mr. Morecam?" The
reporter hurried over. "Sir?" "Can you spare
an hour from your duties?" Gilbert asked
rhetorically. "You've a good hand-and I have a letter that
needs to be copied three times-and kept entirely
confidential. I want the letter to go to Pittsburgh,
Cincinnati and Louisville, so that I'm certain it
reaches the recipient--just like the purchase treaty,
eh?" "I'll be happy to make the copies, Mr.
Kent." "Bring them in as soon as you're finished and
I'll see about the posting."
"By the regular mails? I can do that for you."
"Speed is essential. I want to engage
private couriers."
Morecam goggled, contemplating the expense of that.
Gilbert wheeled back into his office-and rushed out
of the building an hour later. Seldom had
employees of Kent and Son seen the youthful owner
depart in such haste-and so early! A full hour before
closing.
Nor had they ever seen such an intense luster in his
dark eyes-or such touches of emotional color in his
cheeks.
If Mr. Gilbert Kent the modernist was
engrossed in another venture, it had to be a very
important one indeed.
The Mark
"YOU MAY SERVE the plum pudding," Harriet
Kent said to the girl in the striped cotton dress and
gingham apron. "No hard sauce for the boy. But
refill the milk pitcher."
On the side of the dining table opposite
Abraham's empty place, Jared Adam Kent
made a face:
"I don't want any more milk, Aunt
Harriet."
The maid hesitated. The young woman at
the foot of the table glared:
"Jared, I am growing tired of your impertinence. You
behave like a dock boy instead of a child reared in a
Christian home."
"Harriet," Gilbert said softly, pursing his
lips.
"The boy is disrespectful! To me, to the servants,
to everyone! He's a willful, headstrong child-was
As if to confirm it, Jared said, "I won't drink
any more even if you whip me." He was handsome for a
five-year-old, with long tawny hair and
brilliant blue eyes. But his face had a
fatigued, pasty look.
And his retort made Harriet furious:
"You see what I mean, Gilbert? He not only
looks like his mother, he acts like her!"
Jared reacted with a stunned look, then with obvious
anger. In a controlled voice, Gilbert said:
"Raking over the past is futile and cruel.
Especially in front of-was
"I disagree. We've tiptoed around the issue
too long.
You've told me how his mother behaved. Defiant of
everyone-was
"Please stop," Gilbert broke in,
aware of the hurt and hostility in the boy's eyes.
Harriet opened her mouth; hesitated; then glanced
sharply at the maid.
"Bring the milk, Esther."
"Papa wouldn't force me to have it," Jared said.
Harriet leaned forward awkwardly; she was
approaching the end of her term. Her huge stomach
couldn't be minimized; not even by the expensive,
high-waisted maternity gown of lavender lawn she
wore over a matching petticoat. Gilbert pushed
his chair away from the table, noting unhappily that his
wife's features had taken on a familiar,
pinched look. It had to do with her dark eyes. When
she was angry, she tended to slit them, and frown. The
contraction changed the proportions of her features
subtly.
"Your father is not in charge of this household," she said
to the boy. "Indeed, if he were present for meals a
little more often--present and sober--he'd take you in
hand."
Rapping his palm on the table, Gilbert said, "That
will be quite enough, Harriet."
"Why? It's true--but you're always evading that
issue, too." She gestured to the vacant place.
"Abraham's gone more than he's here!"
"We had a great deal of work at the firm today. I
asked him to stay late to help with it."
Harriet's pale lips compressed, branding the lie
for what it was. She had an oval face, dark
hair, fine patrician features. But bad
temper destroyed the total effect.
Gilbert glanced at Jared. The boy sat on a
pillow that raised him to table height. His downcast
expression showed that he too disbelieved Gilbert's
statement. Jared had seen his father's place empty
too many
evenings; watched Abraham come stumbling in from
Beacon Street, unkempt and incoherent, too many
times. Sadly, Gilbert reflected that Jared
might not understand the word sober-or its opposite. But
instinct surely told him his father's behavior was
abnormal, and wrong.
The maid waiting nervously for a final resolution
of the milk question started to speak to Harriet. Gilbert
was quicker:
"We'll not have any more milk, Esther. Nor the
pudding either. You may retire."
"Yes, sir." She curtseyed and left.
"Jared, be so good as to go up to your room," Gilbert
said.
The boy started to protest, then took note of
Gilbert's stern expression and slipped off the
pillow. Irked by her husband's intervention,
Harriet stared at him, spots of color showing in
her cheeks. The color deepened when Jared
blurted:
"You don't like papa, do you, Aunt Harriet?"
"That is not a suitable question for a boy your age! This
house is partly his-was
"But you wish it weren't, don't you?"
"Jared, go," Gilbert said, soft but firm.
Jared paid no attention. "You wish we'd both leave
and never trouble you again, don't you?"
"Jared!" Gilbert rose half way out of his
chair.
Eyeing his uncle, Jared looked less pugnacious
all at once. Gilbert sat down again:
"You owe your Aunt Harriet the same politeness
she owes you. And please remember, she's expecting
a child. That makes a person--well, rather cross at
times. You do understand?"
Jared's tawny hair shone in the light of the chandelier
candles. His blue eyes were almost venomous as tears
sprang into them and he cried:
"I understand she doesn't want papa here
--or me!" He spun, dashed to the hall and
clattered away up the stairs while thunder muttered
in the distance.
The moment Jared had gone, Harriet vented her
anger:
"I'm sick of the way you coddle that boy. You've
said time and again how willful his mother was-and when he
flaunts his temperament, you overlook it!"
"Harriet-was
"Must we suffer another Elizabeth Fletcher in this
house? Abraham is bad enough, but-was
"The immediate concern is the father, not the son. I don't
believe we should continue to discuss-was
"Why not? The boy resists the slightest imposition
of authority! Absolutely refuses to behave as
any respectable boy shou-was
"God's sake, Harriet!" he burst out, in such
an unusually loud voice that his wife recoiled in
her chair. "Is that all that ever matters to you--
respectability? Did you look at that child? He's
tormented with fear!"
"Of me?" she asked in an arch way.
"Of you and his father. Harsh discipline won't
alleviate the problem. Nor will constant harping about
his mother's faults. You'll only make him
feel worthless- and his behavior will get worse."
"Do you deny he's headstrong?"
"Of course not. But the way to cure it is with
kindness, not rancor. He hasn't lived like
normal children. Have you forgotten he saw his own mother
murdered?"
"And whose fault is that?"
Gilbert uttered a dismayed sigh. "Is it necessary
to place blame? It happened, that's all."
Harriet leaned forward again, a movement that
emphasized her bulk and clumsiness:
"But it would not have happened if Abraham hadn't
subjected his wife to the hardships of the west. Had
he stayed in Boston, Jared wouldn't be a spoiled
only child. He'd have an older brother or sister-was
"You're now blaming Abraham for Elizabeth
losing her first baby?"
"Yes, he was responsible."
"Nonsense. Utter nonsense!"
Harriet's dark eyes suddenly became very bright.
Her voice grew cool, malicious:
"Is it? My dear, you told me a few weeks
after Abraham returned that Elizabeth was the one
instrumental in their departure."
"I don't see how that makes him
responsi-was
"He was manipulated because he's weak! As a man
--the husband--he could have refused her unreasonable
requests. He could have said no. But he didn't.
And he was repaid for his cowardice by the death of his first
child, and then by Jared-who has inherited the worst
qualities of both his parents!"
Gilbert seethed. "I wish I'd never repeated
one syllable of the story! You twist it all so
terribly to fit your view of Abraham--justify
your dislike-was
"He is weak," Harriet repeated emphatically.
"God judged him so, and exacted punishment. You can
see that in the way Abraham behaves-and his son
too!"
Almost on the point of shouting at her, Gilbert
controlled his temper with difficulty. He put the
palms of his slim hands on the dining table. Through the
strained softness of his voice he tried to show his wife
how angry she'd made him:
"May we leave metaphysics out of this? The
problem is tangible, urgent--and heaven has damn
little to do with a solution."
"I would appreciate your refraining from cursing in
my-was
"You drive me to it!"
He drew a deep breath, leaned back in his
chair, finally went on:
"Harriet, it's absolutely pointless to debate
who was responsible for what happened. That there's any
debate at all is my fault. I was foolish
to discuss past history and Abraham's confidences-was
"But you did."
Gilbert's mild demeanor seemed to harden:
"I do ask you, as I've asked you before, never
to mention any of what I told you. Don't mention it
in Abraham's presence-or, from now on, in mine."
"That has the distinct sound of a threat."
"No, no," Gilbert said hastily. "A
request."
Harriet gave a-sniff of disbelief.
Gilbert's eyes fastened on hers:
"But it's a request I expect to see honored."
Harriet averted her glance. She pretended to be
hurt.
Gilbert wasn't sure he'd succeeded in making his
point. In public, Harriet accepted her
husband's dominance, as did most wives of her station
and circumstance. But the festering dislike she felt for
his half-brother was an unusual factor
in a marital relationship. In the privacy of the
family, she might not bow to his politely
phrased intimidation.
But he hoped she would. He was sure Abraham
carried quite enough guilt without the burden being increased
by his sister-in-law's spite.
During the ensuing silence, the tension between Gilbert and
his wife gradually diminished. Finally he felt
comfortable enough to try to return the conversation to its
original course:
"The problem, Harriet, is not in the past but in the
present. Abraham is not himself-was
"How long are we expected to suffer because of that?"
Gilbert struck the table. "Enough!" For the second
time, Harriet looked genuinely alarmed. He
drew his hand back, wiped the damp palm on his
trousers, swallowed once and went on:
"Let the past rest. I don't excuse
Abraham's behavior, but I understand what drives
him to it. I see nothing to be gained by punishing
him-if indeed he deserves punishment, which I
doubt. I see a great deal to be gained--I should
say lost--if we fail to bring his son safely through
this difficult period. You know very well that whenever
Abraham walks in the door, Jared can't
predict whether his father will hug him or hit him.
We have a duty to alleviate that situation if we
can." "A duty I don't accept." "But it must be
accepted. It must be!" Harriet obviously heard
the strain, the emotion in her husband's voice. She
seemed unmoved:
"Trying to help Jared is useless, Gilbert. He
comes of bad stock, and he'll never overcome that."
"No, not if you keep telling him so. But I
repeat-my first concern is with his father. I ask you to be
tolerant just a short while longer. Just until I
persuade Abraham to follow this plan I have in
mind. Today I received an unexpected letter from
Meriwether Lewis, the president's secretary.
You'll remember Abraham served with him out west-was
Rapidly, Gilbert told his wife about the
forthcoming expedition, and the chance he saw for Abraham
to become part of it. By the time he mentioned the three
letters he'd dispatched, enthusiasm had gone out of his
voice, though. Harriet's face was growing more and more
sour.
The moment he finished, she said, "The very idea is
idiotic."
He pursed his lips. "Indeed. That's your considered
opinion? Having thought it over for all of
five seconds?"
"I don't need to think it over."
"Just condemn it out of hand? It may be an unusual'
plan, but it's not an impossible one."
"I disagree."
"Why?"
"Because I know Abraham. He'll have nothing to do with
it. He'll laugh at you. Perhaps he'll even thrash
you--that would be like him. He's a beast! Drunken,
uncontrollable--what's the matter?"
Gilbert started to answer, then quickly lifted a hand
to cup his mouth. The spasm of coughing went on for almost
a minute.
At last, recovered, he asked:
"Why are you so averse to the plan? Why do you resist
my efforts to help Abraham and the boy? Why do you
detest them?"
"Abraham occupies too much of your time! I
want this household to put attention where it belongs--
on our lives. Our child!"
Unconsciously, her hand dropped to her swollen
middle. Her features softened. She looked at
her husband in a pleading way:
"Even if you can get him to agree, it still means
we'll have to care for that vile-tempered little
boy a year or
more."
"That's true. But with Abraham gone, we might
find Jared more tractable. I honestly think fear of
his father has a great deal to do with the way he acts-was
"He has bad blood in him! He'll never amount
to anything!"
"Help me give him a chance!"
After a moment's silence, Harriet sighed and
struggled up from her chair.
"Very well. Speak to Abraham. I want this
intolerable situation resolved."
"I will speak to him," Gilbert nodded. "Tonight- when
he returns."
She couldn't hold back a last thrust:
"If he returns."
She turned clumsily and waddled through the door that
led to the kitchen and pantry, a sagging, somehow
slovenly figure despite her elegant clothes.
Gilbert almost went after her. Instead, he forced himself
to remain in the chair, one hand over his eyes. The
verbal duel had drained and exhausted him.
Presently his angry feelings moderated again. His
features smoothed out. He sat up straight. He
brooded a good half hour before uttering a
short sigh and rising.
His plans for a cordial, peaceful meal during which
he would win Harriet's cooperation were in ruins. As
he consulted the banjo clock and noted the lateness
of the hour, he had to admit the prospects for the
remainder of the evening didn't appear much better.
Abraham might not come back until tomorrow-or next
week!
The trouble in the household wasn't entirely
Abraham's fault. Harriet exacerbated the
difficulties. But much as he disliked certain
facets of his wife's character, Gilbert couldn't
place all the blame on her either. Jared Adam
Kent was impertinent; rebellious; resentful of the
most common and proper forms of discipline.
Though he felt he was being a traitor to his mother's
memory, he again asked himself whether Harriet might
be correct. Perhaps there was something bad in the child's
bloodline. Something inherited from Elizabeth, who
had in turn drawn it from that shadowy father about whom
Gilbert knew so little-
Useless speculation. Bury the past! Hadn't he
just urged that on his wife? Yet here he was,
exhuming it as
he desperately tried to fathom and
resolve the turmoil Abraham and Jared caused.
The challenge lay in the present, not the past. With more
than a little apprehension he fixed his mind on that
fact. He left the table looking far older than his
twenty years.
III.
The July evening with its threat of thunderstorms turned
the air in the house sweltering and heavy. Gilbert
loosened his stock and detached his collar as he
crossed the hall to Philip's old library.
Even lighting one lamp seemed to raise the room's
temperature drastically.
Gilbert had converted the library into an office, with
furnishings of dark wood. He slouched in the chair
beside the littered desk and regarded the large oil
portrait of his father hanging between the windows on the
outer wall.
The portrait had been painted the year before
Philip's death. Gilbert stared at the strong,
almost truculent face on the canvas. Probed the
painted eyes that appeared to defy the world. How would
Philip have dealt with the problem of his older son-his
A boom of thunder roused him. The reverie was
futile. No one could resolve the dilemma
except Gilbert himself. That inescapable
fact gave his eyes a remote, gloomy look as
the curtains belled at the partially open windows. The
lamp flickered. He heard the first spatters of
rain on Beacon Street.
Gilbert loved his wife. He appreciated that
pregnancy put her under a strain. Still, there was a
sour, even cruel streak in her makeup that he
wished were absent.
The coldness of her nature carried over to the
marriage bed. She lacked spirit there; took no
pleasure in
making love. Though Gilbert had never been so
indelicate as to question her on the subject, he
suspected she'd been taught that sexual
intercourse was basically sinful, to be indulged in
only for the purpose of begetting children.
He found that disappointing though by no means unbearable.
Perhaps because he'd always been less than robust, or
perhaps because he was usually preoccupied with business
affairs, he did not often experience a strong
desire for sex. That reduced Harriet's
reluctance to little more than an inconvenience. What he
missed most in her was simple, straightforward
affection.
For this and a number of other reasons, he had
never considered then Watch perfect. But he'd
learned at an early age that little in life was
perfect, so he was reasonably content.
Harriet Lebow of New York City was one year
older than Gilbert. She was the only child of a
prosperous commodities dealer whose family had
settled on Manhattan island four generations
ago, when a majority of the residents were Dutch.
The family originally spelled the name Lebouwe.
During his first year managing Kent and Son,
Gilbert had found it necessary to float a loan for the
new presses. The Rothman Bank provided the
funds. With the money assured, Gilbert took a
trip to New York to visit a machinery
importer.
After inspecting one of the presses, Gilbert placed
his order. He remained in the city a few more days,
spending most of his time at the one place with which no
rising American businessman dared be unfamiliar
--the center of the country's expanding commerce, Wall
Street. He was told an actual wall had
once stood there, defense against attacks
by Indians who lived in the woods at the north end
of the island.
On busy Wall Street, Gilbert
met Harriet's father
through a mutual friend to whom he presented Royal
Rothman's letter of introduction. The friend entertained
Gilbert at the Tontine Coffee House
building, which housed the growing Stock Exchange.
Among the gentlemen gathered on the Tontine porch
was the wealthy Lebow.
Later, Gilbert's friend provided some of Lebow's
background. The commodities dealer had managed
to keep his Tory leanings concealed during the
Revolution. After the war, he built his fortune
by speculating in the government certificates issued
to soldiers in lieu of pay.
By 1783 these promissory notes had declined so
sharply in value that their owners, pressed for cash, were
eager to sell them to speculators like Lebow for as
little as twelve cents on the dollar. Lebow, in
turn, was gambling that the government would eventually
untangle its finances and make good on a major
part of its obligations.
Under Secretary of the Treasury Hamilton, it
did--though as everyone knew, Hamilton had
traded the location of the new capital city,
Washington, for the southern votes necessary to pass his
financial legislation. Mr. Lebow, now
an avowed Federalist, blessed Hamilton ever afterward.
He prospered mightily as a member of what Mr.
Jefferson sneeringly described as "the stock-jobbing
herd."
While Gilbert was conversing with Lebow on the
Tontine porch, Harriet called for her father in the
family carriage. More introductions were performed.
Soon Gilbert found himself making return trips
to New York, first as a regular guest at the
Lebow table, then as a prospective
son-in-law.
Gilbert found Harriet intelligent and
attractive, if overly concerned with matters of
status and appearance. In the rational way his mind
worked, he decided she would make an eminently
suitable wife for a substantial
businessman. She would also give him important
connections in New York's financial community.
Though her parents were both dead now, those connections
remained intact.
He did love her-as much as a man of
deliberately dispassionate temperament could love
another person. He doubted that she loved him at
all. He suspected love was alien to her
experience-except as it applied to herself.
Still, it wasn't a bad bargain-
Except at times like this, when Harriet's
personality disrupted the entire house and created
genuine ill-will among those living there.
A glare of lightning lit the office as Gilbert
paced back and forth, still pondering the various
approaches he might make to his half-brother.
A quarter hour passed. Another. He was becoming
convinced Abraham would be gone all night. He was
almost relieved. Tomorrow or the next day, he'd be
better rested. This evening he was edgy; prone
to anger-
His relief was short-lived. At the end of a long
rumble from the night sky, he heard irregular
footsteps on the walk outside. Then an oath.
He didn't bother to glance out a window. He opened
the double doors and waited in the dim hall, watching
the front entrance.
In a moment, Abraham lurched through the doorway.
IV.
Gilbert Kent was eight years younger than the
shorter, stockier man who stood blinking at him in
a vaguely hostile way. Yet Gilbert somehow
seemed the older of the two.
Another lightning-burst lit Abraham's
filthy, unshaven cheeks. His brown eyes looked
addled. His ink-stained shirt, leather vest and
homespun breeches bore
an assortment of stains. He smelled of rain and
vomit.
Gilbert said, "Come into the office please,
Abraham."
Abraham slammed the door, started by, his step
unsteady. "Spare me the lecture on
self-discipline and deportment, will you? I've a
terrible throbbing head-to 
"That's not my doing." Gilbert seized
Abraham's arm.
Abraham looked at his brother's hand
resentfully. But Gilbert refused to let go:
"It's imperative that we speak privately. You
can clean up later."
Releasing Abraham's arm, he re-entered the
library, not glancing around. The sound of
Abraham's shuffling footsteps signaled that he'd
won the first skirmish. But he took no
satisfaction. The major engagement remained to be
fought.
Gilbert crossed to one window, then the other, opening
them wide despite the rain that soaked the
curtains. He could barely tolerate Abraham's
stench.
Abraham rolled the double doors shut. He took
a chair, turning it, Gilbert noticed, so that his
back was toward the portrait of their father.
Gilbert glanced at the letter on the desk, then to his
half-brother's sullen face.
"May I ask where you have been all day?"
"You can ask but you won't get an answer."
"Be so good as to speak to me in a civil way,
Abraham! I'm your brother, not one of your tavern
cronies."
Abraham covered his brow with a dirty hand. A
small raw spot shone on one finger.
"I'm tired. Can't this wait?"
"No, I'm afraid not. This morning you completely
disrupted operations at the printing house-for the sixth
time. I don't count your innumerable verbal
assaults on my employees."
"I didn't start it! That damned Naughton-was
"Whose hand you broke. A man can't set type with a
broken hand."
Abraham pretended not to hear. "He made one
sneering remark too many."
"About what?"
"About me not being fit to hold a job at Kent's."
"Don't sound so proud! Unfortunately, the
remark appears to be correct."
"The bastard said I was only kept on because I'm
your brother."
"In that, too, Mr. Naughton is
regrettably accurate. I've given you repeated
warnings, and you've disregarded every one. Therefore-was
Here was the delicate part; the first stroke of
strategy so necessary to the working of his plan:
"comI've no choice but to discharge you."
That, at least, fully caught Abraham's
attention. He raised his head. Stared in disbelief
that changed to fury. A blue-white flash suffused
the office, putting an eerie sheen on Philip's
portrait.
"Thrown out? Is that it?"
"Yes."
"Out of the house too? That would make your wife
happy!"
"I don't deny Harriet has little admiration for
your gutter ways."
Abraham's jaw clenched. "I wonder how she'd
feel if she saw you shot down, the bitch."
Gilbert turned scarlet. One hand
closed into a fist. Abraham noticed. The harsh
mask of his face seemed to crumble, revealing a man
abruptly ashamed and vulnerable. Very softly, he
said:
"Forgive me for that."
The scarlet faded.
"Certainly."
He walked over, laid a hand on Abraham's
shoulder.
He could feel the trembling; the physical
manifestation of misery. Abraham's hand hid his
eyes again. Gilbert asked:
"Would you let me pour you a rum?"
"That would help. That's all that seems to help any
more."
Gilbert fetched the decanter and a glass from the
cabinet where he kept liquor for business
visitors. "I'll only pour you a small
amount, because I want you to listen to what I have
to say."
The older man accepted the drink, tossed it off
quickly, extended the glass. Gilbert set the
decanter on the desk beside the letter.
"I told you-no more until we've talked."
Abraham peered ruefully into the empty
glass. Then he stretched his legs out. His body
seemed flaccid; defenseless.
"All right. Lecture away."
"No lecture. Just facts. I can no longer
tolerate your presence at Kent and Son. For the
sake of efficiency, of morale-was
"Efficiency. Morale!" Abraham snickered.
"Good old Gilbert! An eighty-year-old clerk
in a boy's body."
Gilbert pursed his lips. "Unlike you,
Abraham, I didn't have the benefit of good health
when I was young. I had very little to do except follow
father about and- and practice being old, perhaps you could
say. On the other hand, I think every family needs
someone with a clerk's mind, to keep its affairs in
balance. The affairs of the Kents are definitely out
of balance right now. They--Abraham, kindly stop
staring into space and give me your attention!
Destroying yourself is one thing. Destroying your son
is quite another."
Abraham's gaze seemed to re-focus on the
reality of the room. "Jared? What about him?"
"Have you watched him closely these past months?"
A vague gesture with the glass. "I see him when
I
can-was
"Once or twice a week? For a moment or two?
Do you seriously believe that's enough?"
Abraham shook his head. "Who knows?"
"Even when you do speak to Jared, you're seldom
sober. He's mortally afraid of you! Why, he-was
Shocked and angered, Gilbert stopped. The older
brother was smiling in a strange, joyless way.
"You find this amusing, Abraham?"
"No. Oh, no. I was just thinking of a picture that
comes into my mind sometimes. A picture of-was
He indicated the painting.
"I see him with his hand raised to me. He's
angry, though I can't hear what he's saying. Father
once told me that when he came home from the
Continental army, wounded and unable to walk properly
--came home to Boston with my mother dead--well,
he said there was a period of nearly a year when he
treated me very badly. By his own admission-treated
me very badly! How unlike Mr. Philip Kent
to admit he had faults, eh? In any case, I
was apparently terrified of him-was
A humorless laugh. Silently, Gilbert
waited.
"You know, Elizabeth always worried about the
Fletcher blood being in Jared-was
"We are not discussing Elizabeth's parentage."
"Oh, no reflection on your mother--I just thought of it
because-was He shrugged wearily. "combecause the Kent
heritage has proved damned near as damaging.
I'm acting the way my father did, if what you say
is true."
"Isn't it?"
A lengthy pause.
"Yes." Once more he shielded his eyes. "God,
yes-was
Pressing his advantage while Abraham's
defenses were weakened, Gilbert pried the glass from
his
half-brother's hand. The rain beat heavily against the
front of the house.
"I understand what you're going through, even though I can't
condone your actions. You drink because Elizabeth died
and you blame yourself-was
"Sufficient reason, don't you think?"
"comy hate the western country for what it did to her-was
"You're quite astute. Shall we drink to the land of
opportunity beyond the Alleghenies-?"
His eye on the decanter, he started to rise.
Gilbert pushed him back. Undeterred,
Abraham took the glass from Gilbert's hand,
raised it in a mock toast:
"To the great and glorious west-and the thousands of others it
will ruin."
"What a strange enemy for a man to have," Gilbert
said. "Land. You think it took Elizabeth, so you
ran from it-was
"What the hell should I have done? Stayed there? The
land destroyed her!"
"Land is land, Abraham. It can't be good or
evil. Only the men who inhabit it have those
qualities."
"No philosophic quibbles, thank you,"
Abraham snarled. "I've heard that argument till
I'm fairly sick of it! Yes, I know two
Shawnee came to the farm, and one shot her. But that's
still the land as far as I'm concerned-was
Abruptly, he fixed his half-brother with a
penetrating stare:
"Do you remember when we visited the president's
home in Virginia?"
"Monticello? Yes, I recall a little of the
trip-was
"In the orchard-I remember it distinctly--Mr.
Jefferson went on at great length about the
nation's future lying in the west. About the bounty of the
land-was
Abraham spat.
"Of course it's very easy for a gentleman to find good
in something he's never seen with his own eyes."
"You don't believe he was correct?"
"How can you even ask?" Abraham wiped his
perspiring forehead. "I've mentioned the Clapper
family to you, haven't I?"
"A few times."
"Did I ever tell you what Clapper said about the
west?"
Gilbert shook his head.
"He said people went there not to seek something but to escape
something."
"What?"
"Unhappiness."
"I think that view's wrong. Wrong and warped."
"Is it? I went to Ohio to escape his influence-was
A hand jabbed toward the portrait. "So did
Elizabeth."
"That doesn't make the generalization valid for
everyone. Nor cancel the truth of Mr.
Jefferson's words."
"I disagree--even though that makes me--
what was your word? Warped-?" He shrugged. "You've
been saying that in one way or another ever since I
came home."
Gilbert bowed his head slightly, as if to avoid the
scathing bitterness. Abraham exhaled loudly.
Then:
"Well-perhaps you're right." One hand lifted
absently to scrub at the stubble on his dirty
face. "I can't help how I feel. I admit
I'll never think of the western country without
prejudice-was
"When a man allows himself to be defeated by an
enemy, he has difficulty living with himself.
Hides from himself. Destroys himself, sometimes-unless that
enemy is overcome. If you had a second chance
to defeat what you hate so much, you should take it."
"A second at?"
"I believe you understand."
"You're not suggesting I go west again?"
"That," Gilbert said, "is exactly what I am
suggesting."
Violently, Abraham turned away. "Christ
on the cross! Of all the insane, ill-concvd-was
Speechless, he couldn't finish.
On the precipice now, one misstep
away from failure, Gilbert spoke with extreme
care:
"I don't think you fully understand everything I've
said. I want you out of this house. I want you out of
Boston. I will see to it that you can't find decent
employment anywhere in this city--believe me, I have
the connections to do that."
"I know you do." Again Abraham shook his head.
"What kind of monster have you turned into?"
"Call me that if you like. I have reasons for what
I'm doing. I'm absolutely convinced you'll never
hold your head up again--never drag yourself out of this
slough into which you've fallen--unless someone forces you
to best the enemy that bested you."
For a long moment, Gilbert was afraid Abraham
still didn't comprehend one syllable, or his
seriousness. Then, slowly, the older man lifted his
head to stare at his taller brother:
"You've something in mind. Something you haven't
mentioned."
"Indeed I do. Here-was
He snatched the letter from the desk.
"Sit down and read it through. I'll pour you another
drink."
As he filled Abraham's glass,
ashamed of resorting to such bribery, he heard the
sheets crinkle. Abraham exclaimed softly:
"Meriwether-his This is from the president's
secretary."
"Yes."
"I didn't realize you and he were in touch."
"Read it from the beginning," Gilbert urged.
He held out the glass. Abraham took it but
didn't drink, concentrating on the letter. He read the
sheets and dropped them on the floor one at a time.
A gust of wind blew rain against the back of
Gilbert's neck. A carriage went rattling
by in the aftermath of a thunderclap. Finally Abraham
finished. The last sheet fluttered down. He
drank the rum in a gulp, said:
"I don't understand why you wanted me to read that."
"Come, of course you do! You fit the specifications
for the type of man Lewis wishes to recruit.
Single, strong, in good health-was
"I am not precisely single. I have a son."
"Harriet has already agreed to care for Jared."
"She doesn't like me or Jared. And you'll soon
have your own child-was
"I'll see she fulfills the promise. I
swear that as your brother."
"What-was Abraham almost chuckled. "What kind of
insanity has possessed you-?"
"A fear of the insanity that's possessing you."
He knelt beside Abraham's chair; rested one hand
on his half-brother's forearm:
"You've our father's blood. He could never tolerate
being beaten by anyone or anything. You hate the western
country because of what it did to Elizabeth--right or
wrong, that's how you feel. So what I'm saying is
that you'll never be whole until you prove you're
stronger than what defeated you. If you don't do
it--if you don't try to win back your
self-respect--you'll end up in some Boston
alley, and your son will despise your memory."
Abraham jumped to his feet. "I still say it's
the maddest, most absurd-was
"It is exactly what you need!" Gilbert sank
the last barb: "Unless, of course, you're willing
to admit you're too weak and cowardly to set foot
beyond the mountains a second time. Do you feel that
way? Do you mean to say you couldn't survive?"
"I don't know, goddamn it!"
"Then find out! Look your devil in the face!"
Abraham bit his lip; gestured at the fallen
sheets of the letter:
"I--I'd be gone a year. Maybe two-was
"Yes, the expedition could take all of that and more.
What of it?"
"It wouldn't be good for me to be away from Jared for so
long."
Gilbert had the feeling that Abraham was arguing every
question except a central one-which he was being careful
to avoid. Uneasy, he contented himself with countering the
surface argument:
"You know damned well being close to your son in your
present state is next to worthless. I tell you,
Abraham, you lost more than your wife in Ohio.
Without self-respect, no man can survive."
"Yes, you're right about that, anyway-was
"Gain it back! I know we can arrange it. You
served with both officers in charge of the expedition-was
Abraham nodded, a strange, bemused look in his
eyes. "And thought well of both, too. Brave
men. Good soldiers-was
"I'm certain they'd take you on-was
He'd come to the turning point; he drew a long
breath.
"coms certain that I've taken the liberty of writing
Captain Lewis a letter." Disconcerted
by Abraham's lack of reaction, he
rushed on: "Three letters, in fact.
Each a copy of the other, and already dispatched by courier.
One went to Pittsburgh, one to Cincinnati, and the
third to Louisville--blast it, why are you
smirking?"
The bemused expression grew into a smile:
"Because your grand intentions and your efficiency will come
to nothing."
"Even though Lewis is on the move, I'm sure
one of the letters will reach him."
"That's not the point. I didn't particularly want
to burden you with my personal problems-was
He reached for the decanter and glass. Spine
crawling with inexplicable fear, Gilbert didn't
protest.
"comb the truth is, you've trapped yourself. You've
discharged me. Ordered me out of the house--to go back
on those decisions would be difficult for a man of your
principles. But I know Captain Lewis won't
accept me. I fail to measure up to all of his
lofty specifications."
"What the hell do you mean?"
Glass and decanter held in one hand, Abraham
showed Gilbert the other. The small, raw sore
Gilbert had noticed before gleamed in the
lamplight.
"During my various jaunts around town in search of a
bit of amusement-was
Not amusement. Punishment, Gilbert thought.
"comI've spent time with certain women-was He
wriggled his hand. "Surely you understand. I am not in
the excellent health Captain Lewis demands.
Even lying wouldn't conceal the evidence for long."
Gilbert started to turn away.
"Look at the sore, damn you!"
Slowly, Gilbert swung around again. Abraham's
hand held steady a moment, then dropped to his
breeches.
"I've worse ones here. I've caught the pox."
"Oh my God."
The house shook with deafening thunder. Lightning lit
Abraham's face, and Philip's on the
canvas.
Gilbert sank down in the desk chair. He rested
his elbows on the litter of papers and held his head.
Face locking into that odd smile again, Abraham
said, "You're a remarkable fellow, Gilbert. How
old are you?"
"What does that matter, for Christ's sake?"
"Just answer. You're twenty, aren't you?"
"That's right."
"I marvel at your understanding of people. I suppose it
was a necessity, eh? When our father died, someone had
to take over the business and operate it
successfully, else it would fail-and you're not the
sort to accept failure readily, just as he
wasn't. You've learned a great deal more than I
did by age twenty--everything from accounting to dealing with
press room helpers with bad tempers and worse
morals. Well, I'm sorry none of your
skills will avail this time, but they won't. I
believe I'd better go upstairs. I expect
you'll be wanting me out of the house immediately. Harriet
wouldn't tolerate a man carrying the pox-was
Gilbert had grown light-headed. He sat watching
his half-brother between the hands pressed to his
temples. Abraham continued trying to make light
of the situation, showing Gilbert the decanter and
glass:
"I'll take these along if you don't mind.
I'll pack up quickly--I wouldn't force you
to compromise yourself by having to renege on the discharge,
either. I--I do thank you for your good intentions." The
last few words were barely audible.
"We'll consult a physician-was
Gilbert began.
"You know the pox can't be cured, only abated for a
few months or a few years."
Gilbert rose abruptly. "I won't let you
leave."
"You have no choice. I'm going up to get Jared."
"You're not going to take him?"
Abraham's smile disappeared in an instant. "Of
course I am. I wouldn't under any circumstances
leave him with a woman who hates him the way
Harriet does. That would be worse for Jared than
living with a father who has the pox, don't you agree?"
"No, I don't. I won't permit-was
"You've nothing to say about it, Gilbert."
Weaving a little, Abraham jerked the library doors
open. The ringing in Gilbert's ears--his feeling of
being disconnected from reality-intensified in that awful
instant when Abraham swore and stepped back from the
listener outside.
The glass and decanter slipped from his slack
fingers, shattering. The splattering rum stained the hem
of the maternity gown of lavender lawn.
"Well," Abraham said, and again, "Well. I can
keep secrets from no one, it seems."
Suddenly his face grew ugly. Harriet
let out a small, startled cry as he thrust the
sore-marked hand toward her face:
"You've snooped and heard about it, my dear. Now you
can see the evidence for yourself."
For a moment Gilbert thought Harriet would faint
away into the dangerous litter of glass. She
clutched her immense belly, looking very nearly as
pale and stricken as Gilbert himself. He stumbled
away from the desk to Intercede before things worsened-
Abraham acted first, shoving Harriet aside, not
gently:
"I'm going to fetch my son. You'd be wise to stay
out of my way."
CHAPTER VI.
Blood
ABRAHAM STARTED FOR THE foot of the staircase.
Shadows clotted in the hall. The one lamp burning
there had been extinguished by the gusting wind that came with the
storm, slamming doors all through the house. The almost
constant flickering of lightning cast a bluish tinge
over furnishings and faces.
On the second floor, another door closed,
loud as a pistol shot. A nimbus of yellow
seemed to float across the landing. One of the maids,
invisible behind the bobbing ball of light; the
maid was bound for Jared's room, Gilbert
suspected. Frightened of the storm, the boy cried out as
Abraham climbed the first half dozen steps.
Hampered by her swollen belly, Harriet lurched
after him. Hands on the railing, she dragged herself up
two steps, then two more. She looked behind her:
"Gilbert-?"
"Harriet, come down!" he shouted, knowing somehow that the
situation was careening toward an ugly conclusion.
Lightning glowed. Harriet's cheeks looked
sweaty as she hung on the rail at the fifth
riser, trying to locate her husband in the gloom of the
lower hall. The wind played with distant doors,
crash and crash. In Gilbert's old room,
Jared's incoherent voice grew strident.
"Help me, Gilbert!" Harriet cried. "You
can't let that filthy creature touch the child-was
Four steps above, Abraham spun around.
A drunken feeling overwhelmed Gilbert as he
staggered around the shards of glass and the spilled rum.
His pulse raced. His head buzzed. It was as if
he had taken some unfamiliar drug that had coursed
through his bloodstream in seconds, affecting his mind-
In the next burst of lightning, he saw
Abraham's wrathful face:
"Such concern!" Abraham jumped down two steps,
to tower over Harriet. "Such sudden and unexpected
concern for a boy you've treated like scum. You'll
pardon me if I don't believe your little
turnabout."
Harriet cringed away. "You depraved, bestial-was
"You're contemptible!" Abraham roared. "You
pretend to protect Jared so you can revenge yourself on
me! The worst dock whore has better morals
than you, woman!"
At the foot of the stairs, Gilbert clenched his
hands. The wild, dizzy feeling increased.
Frustration and fear edged his voice:
"I don't care for your language, Abraham.
This is Harriet's house, and if she wants you
to keep away from the boy-was
"The boy is my son!"
Abraham whirled and started upward again. Harriet
let go of the railing, groped toward him, managed
to catch one of his boots:
"I won't let your diseased hands touch-was
Abraham twisted, kicking out the leg Harriet
clutched. Gilbert leaped forward, trying to catch her
even as he realized he was in the wrong position.
Harriet sagged, tumbled down the stairs,
struck his legs and sprawled. She shrieked.
Then, panting, she still managed to wrench her head
around, seeking above:
"You-seem to have-a skill-for harming-women with unborn
children-was
"God damn you!" Abraham howled, rushing down
at her. He shoved Gilbert aside, bent and
lashed her cheek with the back of his hand.
Gilbert heard the sickening thump as her head hit
a riser. She arched her spine, dug fingers into the
lavender fabric of her gown. She slid to the hall
floor and lay there, eyes closed as she hugged her
heaving belly.
Abraham's mouth dropped open, as if he himself were
stunned by what he'd done. He stumbled down one
step, one more. Incoherent emotion destroyed
Gilbert's reason. He knew Abraham was going
to strike her again-
He spun and ran.
In the front sitting room, lightning guided him
to the mantel. He jerked the French sword from its
pegs. He never recalled returning to the hall, was
only peripherally aware of colliding with a woman.
A face distorted by fright swam in lamplight as he
passed in a rush-
Abraham crouched by Harriet, the sore-marked hand
moving toward cheeks that glistened with perspiration.
Harriet moaned, struggled to roll out of his reach.
Gilbert raised the sword:
"Get away from her!"
"Gilbert, I'm sorry I-was
"You'd better do as I say!"
"Don't be a damned fool. Put that sword
down. Give me a hand with her-was
"Don't touch her!" Gilbert cried. Lightning
lit the sword as it slashed down, cutting edge
foremost.
The maid with the lamp uttered a cry of alarm.
Abraham tried to scramble out of the way, banged
against
the wall of the staircase, wrenched his head aside-
The blade hacked his left cheek, glanced off.
Abraham swore, jerking his head back and cracking
it on the wall. He shot a hand out, clamped
Gilbert's sword arm in a tight grip. The
sword fell with a clatter.
The left side of his face streaming blood,
Abraham pushed Gilbert hard. Gilbert nearly
fell over the maid, who was kneeling beside Harriet.
The hall seemed to tilt as Gilbert
skidded, windmilling his arms to regain his balance. His
mind cried his anguish:
What has happened in this house? WHAT HAVE I
DONE?
Unreasoning terror had driven him to attack--he,
Gilbert Kent, who had never used a weapon in his
life. The kneeling maid pressed her hand
to Harriet's stomach. Ashen, she turned to search the
hall's darkness:
"Mr. Gilbert? I think--I think the child is
coming."
Gilbert lunged to the dining room door. "Esther?
Esther -!"
A faint voice replied from the rear of the house:
"Yes, sir, what is it? I'm coming-was
"Run for Dr. Selkirk--run!"
"Yes, sir, at once-was
Someone slipped past him. The front door
banged.
Gilbert wiped sweat from his eyes. Took one
shaky step toward Harriet's convulsing body.
"Let's move her to the sitting room-was
"I think we'd best not move her at all," the
maid said.
Slowly, Gilbert raised his head. His
eyes sought his half-brother on the stairway. The
maid had set her lamp on the floor. Abraham
was visible at the edge of the circle of light, his
bearded cheek bloody and one hand as well: he'd
touched the deep cut.
That same hand left wet red marks on the wall as
he braced himself then started upstairs.
Gilbert shouted his name.
Abraham turned. "I didn't mean to hurt-was
"Get out."
"Gilbert-was
"Leave this house. I've never harmed a living
creature in my life, but if you don't go I'll
pick up that sword and do my best to kill you."
Abraham started to answer. His dark eyes welled
with a grief Gilbert perceived only dimly, and
responded to not at all.
Thunder muttered. Lightning flickered. A second
lamp was placed beside the first; another servant had come
to help.
Gilbert couldn't bear to look at his wife more than
a moment. His mind bore an image of white hands
pressing against the great lump of her stomach-
Abraham's beard glistened with little drops of
blood. He bobbed his head suddenly,
left a red handprint on the railing as he resumed
his climb to the second floor. On the landing, the
ball of lamplight shone again. The unseen maid had
rushed back from Jared's room.
"Leave now!" Gilbert demanded.
"I want my son."
He kept on, dragging himself almost as Harriet had,
his reddened fingers smearing the railing. Gilbert darted
for the fallen sword.
Bent over, he checked; straightened; glimpsed a
pale oval at the top of the stairs; recognized
Jared's face lit by the serving girl's lamp.
Abraham kept climbing toward the boy, his
bloodied hand outstretched:
"Jared, come to me. We're leaving-was Two steps
below the landing, he closed his hand on the boy's gray
ankle-length nightshirt. Suddenly Jared seemed
to comprehend the meaning of the great red stains
on the staircase wall and railing. He jerked
back, cowering against the maid's skirt.
His sudden movement startled Abraham. He let go
of the boy's garment. He and his son both looked down
at the same time.
Jared's nightshirt was sticky with blood.
The boy flung his arms around the maid's
legs, closed his eyes and screamed.
Abraham shouted at the boy--what, Gilbert
couldn't hear above the thunder and Harriet's sudden
wail and Jared's too. Again Abraham tried
to touch his son. The boy literally flung himself away
into the darkness. His shrieking rose and rose, a
mindless keen.
Abraham's red-slimed hand was still stretched out toward
the vanished boy. Dully, he blinked at it. A
peculiar guttural noise tore out of his throat.
He peered into the gloom of the landing:
"Jared-?"
In a hushed voice, the maid with the lamp said, "For
pity's sake, sir! Leave the poor child alone!"
A last, low-pitched mutter of thunder died across the
night sky. Gilbert leaned weakly against the pillar
at the foot of the staircase. Abraham's hand
fell to his side, staining his breeches. His
shoulders slumped. He turned and came down the
stairs, one slow step at a time.
Gilbert's head snapped up, his dark eyes
venomous. But they found no venom in Abraham's as
the latter went by; only dull horror and shame-
Gilbert pivoted slowly, his malevolent stare
following his half-brother. Abraham
reached the front door. Opened it, leaving a last
bloodstain. He stumbled down the steps in the pouring
rain, lit in bluish silhouette for a heartbeat's
time. The lightning faded and he was lost from view.
Slumped in the chair beside his desk, Gilbert heard
the library doors open.
On Beacon Street, the first glow of dawn
reflected from wet cobblestones. He smelled his own
sour sweat. Glanced up to see portly Doctor
Selkirk rolling down his sleeves.
"There seems to be no injury to your wife, Mr.
Kent."
Gilbert pushed up from the desk. It was an effort
to speak calmly:
"Is she resting?"
"Quite comfortably. It wasn't an easy delivery,
but I'm happy to say it was a successful one."
Gilbert almost wept. "The baby is-?"
"Alive. Alive and nicely swaddled by two of
your household women." Selkirk, a middle-aged
man with a lined face, covered a yawn. "The child is
slightly underweight, as frequently happens in
terms which are prematurely completed. Other than
that, there are no problems. You may congratulate
yourself on having fathered a splendid
daughter."
Weak, Gilbert sank into the chair. "God, that's
good news. Thank you, doctor."
Selkirk drew on his coat. "I'll catch a
bit of sleep, then come back. Meantime, I
suggest you have that gruesome mess in the hallway
cleaned up. While it's none of my affair, I'm
curious as to who bled so badly."
Gilbert's mouth had a dry, metallic taste.
Sleepless for the entire night, he felt a hundred
years old as he answered:
"I'd prefer not to discuss it."
Selkirk shrugged. "As you wish." He turned,
ready to leave.
"Doctor-was
"Yes?"
"Did you look at the boy?"
"I did. He was talking--or, to be more precise,
raving. About someone being hurt."
"You mean bloodied?"
"He didn't use the word. That was my inference,
however."
"Did he--did he speak of his father?"
"As I indicated, speak is hardly the correct
term. Surely you heard his outcries-?"
Gilbert nodded. "I had trouble making sense out of
them. Sometimes the boy seemed to be referring to a man
who was hurt. At other times, unless I misheard,
it was a woman. He was asking one or both to get
up."
"Did he mention my wife's name?"
"No. He used the word mother once. I know his mother's
dead--did the boy ever see her injured?"
Hoarsely, Gilbert said, "Yes."
"Obviously it left him disturbed. Whatever
happened here tonight exacerbated the situation, I
suspect. I dosed the boy with an opiate
tincture. He's sleeping now. May I take the
liberty of asking the whereabouts of his father?"
"I don't know his whereabouts."
"I gather he's not in the house-was
"That's correct."
"Will he be returning?"
"Not if I have any say." Concern for Abraham
had disappeared in that moment when Abraham sent
Harriet tumbling to the bottom of the stairs.
Outside, a produce cart clattered by. The
two countrymen riding the cart were arguing about how much
to
charge for their cabbages at the day's
market. Dr. Selkirk arranged his lacy stock,
rolled his tongue inside his lower lip, then
overcame his hesitancy:
"If I may make another comment, Mr. Kent-was
Gilbert looked at him.
"It is my conclusion that the boy--Jared is his name?"
"Yes, Jared."
"While I don't know all the circumstances behind his
emotional condition, his behavior is far from normal.
I believe he needs very careful attention.
Affection. A feeling of security to overcome his
fears. A new baby in the household will be taxing
for you and your wife. It might be advisable to have his father
look after him-was "I'll see to Jared's care,
doctor." "But-was "Thank you, doctor. Good
day."
Looking baffled, Selkirk retired, closing the
library doors. Gilbert laid his arms on the
desk and rested his head for perhaps five minutes.
Then, by an act of will, he raised his head. His
eyes accidentally touched the painting of Philip
Kent.
Gilbert wished that he had as much courage and strength
as that face suggested. Last night he had discovered
a capability for blind rage and violence he
had never suspected he possessed. The
discovery-and the entire night--had been shattering.
Abraham fled; Jared terrified and drugged
to sleep; his wife delivered of the baby too soon-
He was deeply ashamed of his failure to cope with
all that had happened. Ashamed too of his role in
precipitating some of it-
A new thought popped into his mind. What would they
call the child?
He was too weary to think about it. He slumped at
the desk while the dawn brightened the ceiling and
suffused the face of his father with light.
Philip couldn't help him. He was the one who would
have to deal with all the problems sure to arise from the
tragic events that had taken place in the house.
But his confidence had been shaken. He wasn't sure
he could.
III.
On a steamy morning in the first week of August,
Gilbert Kent--more haggard of late than his
employees had ever seen him--looked up from some
copy he was editing. The story dealt with progress
in the construction of Boston's first Roman
Catholic church, due to be completed and dedicated
in September.
The reporter, Phineas Morecam, stood at the
open door.
"Yes, Mr. Morecam? Any news?"
"No, sir, it's the same as the last five days in
a row. The boys we hired spent all night combing
the docks. The whole blasted city, in fact, from
Roxbury to the North End. There's no sign of
Mr. Abraham."
"Damn!" Gilbert tossed his quill aside.
"How difficult is it to locate one man?
Especially a man clearly marked by a wound on his
left cheek?"
Morecam looked gloomy. "There are plenty of
fellows who carry scars, sir. I hear that
complaint from the boys practically every morning."
"But how many of those men will answer to the name Kent?"
"I know, sir--it should be easy. But it's not proving
so. Maybe he's not giving his proper name."
"Has anyone seen him? His friends-?"
"Not since last week. Perhaps he's left
Boston."
You said that yesterday! And the day before!"
"Because it's a possibility, sir. He could be in
some village miles from here-was
"The boys aren't doing the job. Hire men
with horses. A dozen--two dozen if you need them.
Have the men check every printer in the state! Printing's
the only trade Abraham knows, and he's got
to make a living somehow--I want him found!"
Morecam nodded unhappily, started out. Then he
turned back to ask an obligatory question:
"How is Mrs. Kent faring?"
"She's recuperating splendidly, I'm happy
to say."
"And your daughter?"
"Amanda is starting to gain weight thanks to the wet
nurse we engaged. I believe both she and her mother
have come through unscathed."
"That's wonderful. Does--does Mr.
Abraham's son know his father has vanished?"
Gilbert nodded. "His reactions are strange.
He acts neither happy nor sad. It's as if
he's locked his feelings deep inside-was
And he's not the only one comwho has done that,
Gilbert thought with a profound sense of guilt.
"Plagued odd, the whole business," Morecam
said. "I should imagine it's disappointing, too,
since you took such an interest in Mr.
Abraham's welfare. Have you had a reply from
Captain Lewis?"
"It's much too soon."
"Yes, I suppose." Morecam scratched his
chin. "Do you have any idea why Mr. Abraham
ran off?"
"None," Gilbert lied, turning away from the
reporter. Surely his face was betraying him. His
soul felt heavy as stone.
"Well, I'll see to hiring some men at once."
"Thank you, Mr. Morecam."
The reporter's footsteps faded, blending into the
thmic crumph-crumph of the presses down on the
first floor.
Gilbert stared out the grimy window, reflecting that
there was but one source of joy left in the whole world:
the tiny, gnarled and wondrously red face of the
gnome-child that would, with luck, grow into girlhood and
womanhood someday. He looked at Amanda often
when he was at home. Suckled and cooing in her
blankets, she was an astonishing creature. He
held her with extreme care whenever he picked her
up. His feelings at such times were as close as he'd
ever come to a religious experience.
He already loved the child with a devotion that managed
to scatter some of its warmth on Harriet. He was
solicitous about her comfort. Never angry
when she asked him-scathingly-about Abraham, usually
coupling her inquiry with a declaration that she hoped he
stayed away forever.
Gilbert was beginning to feel Abraham might do just
that. Dear God, how many scars were left from that one
night in July-to 
He had seen a beast let loose within himself and had still
not recovered from the experience. Very likely he never
would, completely. In a peculiar way, his own
violent outburst had drawn him closer to his
vanished half-brother. They were more alike than he
had ever suspected.
As a result, his new desire to find Abraham
had become a fixation-even though Gilbert had no
idea what he would do if his brother suddenly turned
up.
Would he welcome Abraham back to the family?
Harriet would resist-and the harm to Jared might make
such an action doubly unacceptable. Gilbert
didn't understand exactly what Jared felt about the
events of
that night--he refused to discuss them--but there was no
question the boy's mental state had been affected.
Perhaps permanently.
Why, then, did Gilbert pursue the
search for Abraham? He had admitted the answer
days ago.
Guilt.
The guilt was a constant, almost unendurable burden.
And he couldn't share it with another human being;
certainly not with his wife.
Like his own suddenly discovered capability for
violence, Gilbert's guilt added a new
perspective to his understanding of Abraham's actions
after his return to Boston. He was able to see his
half-brother's erratic behavior in a different,
more compassionate light; was able to comprehend, and not just
intellectually, how Abraham must have felt when
Elizabeth died.
Staring through the fly-specked windows at slate roofs
and church spires, Gilbert saw Abraham's
eyes as they were a moment before he rushed into the rain that
fateful evening.
Accurately or not, his memory told him
Abraham's eyes had been filled with tears.
"Find him," Gilbert murmured to the yellow haze
in the August sky. "Find him-was
IV.
But every man and boy hired by Gilbert Kent
ultimately failed in that assignment.
By late September, he reluctantly concluded
that Abraham had either left Massachusetts or--
the possibility could not be escaped--done away with
himself.
That only heightened Gilbert's sadness on the
mellow afternoon when a special messenger brought a letter
posted three weeks before, at the city by the falls of the
Ohio.
From Louisville, where he had stopped with a river
pilot, ten recruits and a Newfoundland dog
christened Scannon, Captain Meriwether Lewis
wrote to say that he and Captain William Clark
would welcome former Cornet of Dragoons
Abraham Kent into the Corps of Discovery that would
start up the Missouri River the following spring.
The letter was still in Gilbert's pocket as he walked
slowly up the incline of Beacon Street in the
late afternoon.
He had left Kent and Son early, unable
to concentrate on his work. He'd roamed streets he
couldn't remember, attempting to do the impossible--
forget.
From the Common rang the cries of a band of small
boys rolling hoops. Leaves streamed down from the
trees under whose boughs his father had strolled
while courting his first wife. The recurring cough
brought Gilbert to a halt suddenly, a lace
kerchief at his lips.
In a moment the spasm passed. He put the
kerchief away and walked on.
The light had leached from the sky, leaving little more than a
ribbon of bright amber beneath clouds lowering in the west.
Gilbert drew Captain Lewis' letter from his
coat. How pointless to carry it about, he thought.
Harriet, occupied with baby Amanda, wouldn't be
interested. A corner of the letter snapped in the autumn
breeze as he remarked mentally that Abraham had
certainly been right in one judgment:
Harriet's concern for Jared had only been
pretense; a gambit to employ against Abraham in
order to hurt him. Since Abraham's
disappearance, she had barely spoken to the boy.
Only from Gilbert did he ever hear a cordial
word.
But it was to Jared's father that Gilbert's thoughts
returned as he slowly ripped the letter into long
strips,
then tore each strip into smaller squares, finally
letting the whole catch the wind and rise upward,
blown and scattered in the fading amber
light. The figures of the boys with their hoops were
growing indistinct. Shadows covered the Common.
Objectively, with no sense of superiority, he
said to himself:
I have never been strong and never shall be. But poor
Abraham--in many ways he was weaker than I.
Well, all vessels have different flaws-as I have
discovered.
But I am the only one left to help Jared
survive.
That responsibility bore heavily on him as he
resumed his slow progress up Beacon.
How different things might have been if Abraham
hadn't caught some whore's pox. Perhaps the journey
with Captains Lewis and Clark would have restored his
faith in himself and his abilities-
Ah, but speculating on that was profitless. The chance
was gone, just as the pieces of letter were gone in the clouds
of dead leaves and debris whirled away by the
twilight wind.
A servant girl from a house near Gilbert's
went by. She carried a hamper of vegetables and a
firkin of country butter. In response to her
deferential greeting, Gilbert forced himself to touch the
rolled brim of his beaver hat. A tall,
emaciated figure in the dusk--an
eighty-year-old clerk in a boy's body,
wasn't that how Abraham had phrased it?-he
gazed toward the lamplit windows of his own elegant
home.
"I must see that Jared does not merely survive,
but grows into a sound, whole man--free of
Abraham's legacy of failure and self-hate-
He had no illusions that it would be easy. Jared
did carry the Fletcher blood. He lived in a
household dominated by a woman who deemed him
worthless, despised his very existence and seized every
opportunity to show her feelings. As to the damage
to Jared's young mind
that dreadful night, who could say whether it would
prove-as Gilbert often feared--irreparable?
Still, calmed by the beauty of the radiant light in the
western sky, he knew he would try his best. One
kind of blood--family blood; the blood of caring
and compassion commst wash out the lingering traces of other,
uglier blood that had marked the walls of the Kent
house.
Was it possible? Though he vowed to try, it didn't
seem so-
Then he thought of his father.
Gilbert stopped again, transfixed by the last golden
sunshine under the darkening clouds above the Charles
River. His eyes reflected the light like coins.
From boyhood he recalled fragments of long
conversations with Philip.
What was America if not the eternal promise of
beginning again? Philip Kent had sensed that promise
long before he first stepped on shore.
True, in his later years, he had rejected
Jefferson's visions of an expanding nation. But
to Gilbert that rejection was superficial, overridden
by a deep and abiding kinship with Philip's most
basic convictions. He and his father might differ on
geography but they'd never had any fundamental
differences about the promise of the land. They believed
passionately in the enduring hope of change,
renewal, rebirth that America's free air
made possible-
His upturned face caught the last glimmers of the
sunset. He felt a moment of almost
supernatural closeness to his father. It was as if
Philip stood near him in the shadows of evening, a
presence at the edge of his vision, a powerful force that
diminished his pain and strengthened his courage-
Unwilling to break the moment, Gilbert
remained motionless, causing whispered comments from
pedestrians hurrying by. Finally he roused himself,
shivering in
the sudden bite of the sunless wind. The aroma of wood
smoke from chimneys enticed him homeward-with a quicker
step now.
He would exchange trivial pleasantries with
Harriet at dinner; rock and coo at baby
Amanda for a few minutes afterward; and then he would speak
with Jared. He would begin the long, hazardous and
difficult job of raising Abraham Kent's son
to manhood.
On his front stoop, Gilbert Kent paused one
final time to stare into the western heavens, all clouds
of ebony. His shoulders lifted, as if in
anticipation of a struggle.
He turned and entered his house.
Book Three Voices of War
Jared
IN THE GLOOM of the vast building, the boy's
breath plumed as he pointed to the plank-covered
pits:
"Ten blocks of your best pond ice, Mr.
Dawlish. Delivered to the house by six o'clock tonight.
Six o'clock sharp. The poultry's due
to arrive from the country by half past."
He extended a handful of coins. The ice house
owner didn't take them.
"Anyone notice you two coming in here?"
The boy bristled. "Is that important? Money's
money."
"Sometimes. Kent money ain't the most popular in
Boston these days."
The slim but sturdy-looking boy stuffed the coins in
his pocket and seized the hand of the little girl beside him.
Though only eight years old, in her cape and
bonnet of purple velvet she resembled a
miniature woman-as was intended. She had her mother's
pale skin, brilliant dark eyes and hair. But
her mouth was more generous, her expression more cheerful--
never marred by the sourness the boy associated with
Uncle Gilbert's wife, the girl's mother.
"Come, Amanda," the boy said. "Someone else will
sell us ice."
Dawlish snatched the boy's forearm. "I'll
deliver the order! Just do me a favor. Leave by the
rear door."
Disgust showed on Jared Kent's rather sharp-featured
face. He slapped the coins into Dawlish's hand and
ushered Amanda toward the indicated door,
walking with long, swift strides. Like his cousin, he
was superbly and expensively dressed: nankeen
trousers; a fine linen shirt with a frothy
neckerchief; a vest cut straight across the
bottom. Jared's uncle didn't insist he wear
a striped vest, the symbol of
Democratic-Republican sympathies.
Gilbert Kent frequently appeared in such a
vest, though- scandalizing most of his Boston peers.
From beneath Jared's vest hung a fob, without which no
gentleman, whatever his age, was well dressed.
Jared lacked a watch to attach to the hidden end of the
fob, but that didn't matter--only the fob's
display counted.
He'd received the fob from his uncle the preceding
Christmas. The obverse of the medal at the bottom
of the broad green ribbon had been struck in the
pattern of the tea-bottle symbol. There was also a
Latin inscription:
Cape locum et for vestigium.
The reverse bore the words Kent and Son, and the
year. Jared liked wearing the fob as much as he hated
wearing his tight-fitting jacket with its ridiculous
short tails, a perfect duplicate of the adult
male style.
As the cousins stepped into the surprisingly warm
sunshine of a Saturday in early December,
1811, the varnish on the leather brim of Jared's
cap glittered with highlights. He pointed
suddenly:
""Ware the cat."
Amanda hiked up her skirts and hopped over the
dead animal rotting in the alley's drainage
channel.
"Jared."
"Mm?"
"Why didn't that man want papa's money?"
Head tilted back, the boy was eyeing the slope of the
roof at the rear of the ice house. Then he turned his
attention to a pile of empty crates at the end of the
building. His tawny hair, worn three inches
long in the current youthful fashion, shone in the
sun. His sky-blue eyes darted from the crates
back to the roof. Finally he answered the question:
"Because Uncle Gilbert is about the only rich man
in Boston who believes we should go to war, I
guess."
Amanda covered her mouth. "Mama would take the
birch rod to you if she heard what you just said."
"You're being silly. Tradespeople
say 'I guess" all the time."
"But it's vulgar!"
With a grin, Jared leaned down, whispered:
"Shirt."
"Oh, don't!"
"Corset!"
"You mustn't say those words aloud!"
He laughed. "Going to report me to Aunt
Harriet?"
The small, lovely girl shook her head in a
serious way:
"No, you get enough punishment on your own. I hate
it when she takes the rod to you."
"At the slightest pretext!" He started for the
crates.
"It's no wonder. You're not polite to her."
"Amanda, she despises me. I'm sorry to say
that about your mother, but it's true. Politeness has
nothing to do with the thrashings-which I'm not going to allow much
longer, I'll tell you. After all, I'm thirteen
years old."
Stunned by the declaration, Amanda stood stock still.
Jared strode straight on to the crates and climbed
on the lowest one.
"Where are you going, Jared?"
He pointed. "Up to Mr. Dawlish's roof peak.
There should be a splendid view of the harbor."
Holding her bonnet, Amanda looked upward.
"It's too steep!"
Jared shrugged. "For you. Wait there."
"No! I want to come with you."
Jared glanced both ways along the alley. He
heard a dray rumbling in the street that crossed one
end of the narrow passage behind the ice house. But he
saw no people. He crouched down on the crate,
extended his hand, smiled a dazzling smile:
"All right. Take hold."
Amanda was lithe and strong. In spite of her skirt
she climbed the swaying pile of crates with little
difficulty. Jared pulled himself up past the
gutter, flung a knee onto the roof. A moment
later he helped her up. He braced himself on the
shingles, let her crawl ahead of him toward the
peak. He saw her as a silhouette against the clear
December sky.
Up here the wind tugged and gusted. Jared's cap
blew off, skittered out of sight down in the alley.
He paid no attention, amused at Amanda's panted
complaint:
"If I dirty this cape, mama will thrash
me too. Why do you always have to do whatever comes into your
head, Jared? If you'd just stop and think first-was
"That would spoil all the fun." His smile turned
faintly bitter. "I only do what your mother
expects of me-was
"Don't be unkind again-to "
"I'm not. It's a fact."
Clinging to the shingles, she breathed hard. "But you know
what gets you into trouble. And you go right ahead! You
always have to see sights from a roof, or--or dash off
to the next corner to look at what's beyond-was
"Because-was Jared strained to keep from slipping.
"combecause I usually don't like where I am at the
moment, and I want to see where else I might go."
His eyes hardened. "I don't get caught all that
often-was
"That's because-was Looking back at him from the peak,
Amanda drew deep breaths. "comy're a boy.
It's easy for you to go wherever you please. If I
want to, I can't."
"You're on the roof, aren't you?"
"It's too high."
"No one forced you to climb up!"
"Oh yes," she countered with utter seriousness. "You
did. I want to do whatever you do, Jared.
But sometimes that's very hard for a girl."
"You'd be wiser not to be such a good friend of mine," he
said, still working his way upward by means of his knees and
his elbows.
They hung over the peak side by side, gazing at a
panorama of rooftops and, beyond, the piers of the South
End where ships bobbed at anchor. Seaward, the
harbor islands stood out with great clarity. The islands
broke a horizon that seemed incredibly distant.
The brisk wind gave Jared's cheeks a stiff,
raw feeling. Yet the cold, pure light flooding
down exhilarated him; produced a sense of
freedom that was all too often lacking in the crowded
streets below.
Amanda's assessment of him was entirely correct.
He did like to gaze on new sights--collect
them, you could say. Maybe it was because he was always
unhappy in the confinement of Uncle Gilbert's
large, comfortable, but somehow unfriendly house on
Beacon Street. Jared despised being at
home-or in school-anywhere, in fact, that he was
supposed to be. He much preferred turning
unfamiliar corners, or rattling through the ship
yards, or hunting for coins in the muck beneath the
piers.
"Oh!"
Amanda's cry of her tiny gloved hands shot out
helplessly. A gust of wind had blown the bonnet
from her head--the ties had evidently come unfastened
during her climb. He saw the bonnet sailing
into the next street.
She stretched both hands toward the vanishing hat.
"It's gone!"
"Amanda, don't let go-to "
His warning came too late. She began sliding.
In panic, he grabbed for her elbow, missed. She
slid further down the roof.
"Grab the guttering if you go over!"
Thankfully, she did. As he negotiated his way
down the shingled incline, scraping his palms and his
kneecaps, she hung from the edge of the roof. Then she
disappeared. He heard a clatter as she struck the
crates and toppled them.
By the time he slid over the gutter, dangled, then
dropped, she was picking herself up from the cobbles.
Ruefully she examined her cape. Mud and a long
rip were her rewards for joining her cousin's little
excursion.
She stamped a foot, as if that would somehow make the
damage vanish. Her dark eyes filled
with tears. Jared retrieved his sodden cap and wadded
it in his coat pocket. To conceal his gloom over the
little adventure ending badly, he scowled:
"Here, Amanda, it's only a cape. Don't
snivel so."
"Do I care a penny for the cape? I'll get the
rod and so will you!"
He pulled her against him; comforted her. She was
probably right.
Eyes on the ice house door in case Dawlish
came charging outside, he knelt. He began
to dry her tears
with his cuff. He noticed a raw place on the
back of his left hand, which he'd scraped sliding
down.
Blood oozed, bright scarlet. And the same thing
happened that always happened when he chanced to cut himself.
At the sight of blood, nausea churned his stomach
and welled in his throat. For a seemingly endless
moment, he was totally unable to move-
At last he wrenched his hand down, thrust it under his
other arm, closed his eyes and applied pressure.
Puzzled, Amanda forgot her own difficulties.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, I--I'm fine."
Slowly he withdrew his hand. Thank God the
scrape was superficial. The blood no longer
oozed. His nausea lessened.
As usual, the reaction mystified and unsettled
him. Why should the merest nick of a finger bring on that
awful turmoil in his belly? That complete
immobility?
Deep within himself, Jared had long ago answered the
questions in a way that produced a feeling of utter
hopelessness comanda secret conviction that Aunt
Harriet was right in all she thought and said about him.
He did have a quick temper; a wayward nature--and
in some manner he couldn't fully comprehend or
explain, he was being punished for it. Because he
deserved punishment-
Jared could find no other way to explain the riddle of
his uncontrollable sickness, always of short duration
but always paralyzing.
He forced himself to glance to the ice house door. It
remained closed. Evidently Mr. Dawlish had
retreated to another part of the big building and hadn't
heard them clatter off his roof. That was one bit of
luck, anyway.
"Are you sure-?" Amanda began.
"I'm perfectly all right. Let's be
off."
He closed his bigger hand firmly around hers. The
bedraggled cousins started for home, and the inevitable
reckoning with Gilbert Kent's wife.
II.
On the way, they passed a knife grinder singing a
bit of New England doggerel:
"Our ships all in motion,
"Once whitened the ocean,
"They sailed and returned comwitha cargo.
"Now doomed to decay,
"They are fallen prey
"To Jefferson, worms and embargo.
Though national and international politics held little
interest for Jared, he had a good deal of knowledge about both
subjects. His uncle discussed them often at meal
time.
Thus he knew the three-year-old song was connected
with the troubles currently besetting the United
States; troubles that seemed to weigh more and more heavily
on Gilbert Kent as one month succeeded another.
Almost alone among rich Bostonians, Uncle
Gilbert had supported the former president, Mr.
Jefferson of Virginia, just as he now supported
Jefferson's chosen heir, President
Madison. As a result, the Kent family had
lost numerous friends.
Jared didn't understand all the reasons. But he did
know that the bitter political feud between his uncle and
men of similar position in the community went back
at least to the early part of the decade; to what New
Englanders termed the foul murder of the Federalist,
Hamilton, by the Republican, Colonel
Aaron Burr. Actually,
as Jared understood it, Hamilton had not been
murdered at all. He had died in a theoretically
illegal but perfectly fair match with dueling
pistols.
Gilbert said contemptuously that because of "fossilized
adherence to Federalism," Massachusetts and its
neighboring states were becoming an alien island in the
republic. He claimed most upper-class
Bostonians were hysterics: falsely convinced that
New England was being "submerged" by a "Virginia
junto" which controlled the government.
Much of the current disagreement between Federalists and
Democratic-Republicans had to do with the French
conqueror, Bonaparte. Bostonians called him the
Antichrist. In an effort to keep America from
becoming embroiled in hostilities between the
so-called Antichrist and his traditional enemies,
the English, Jefferson had bottled up American
shipping. Imposed something called the embargo.
Dambargo was New England's name for it.
The embargo was the only one of Jefferson's
policies that Gilbert had reluctantly disavowed.
It was disastrous for New England's economy. Her
merchants could not trade with England, France or any
other foreign country. Her ships stood idle in
port, protective barrels capping their masts.
The other boys at Jared's academy jeeringly
referred to the barrels as "Mr. Madison's
teacups". Madison, then Secretary of State,
supported and implemented the president's
strategy.
Finally, the embargo was canceled-only to be replaced
by the Non-intercourse Act. The Federalists
considered it just as noxious as the embargo, since it still
prohibited trade with Britain. That it also
prohibited trade with France made no difference--
France was the enemy, the Federalists shrilled, and why
didn't America wake up to that fact?
Meantime, both Britain and France continued
to interfere with American shipping. The British were
particularly guilty. Their squadrons
blockaded the American coast. Their frigates and
ships-of-the-line stopped and boarded American
vessels at will, supposedly searching for runaway
English seamen who preferred to sail under the stars and
stripes because American naval discipline was less
cruel and capricious. The tensions at sea had
all but nullified Jefferson's attempts at
neutrality-and had produced an atmosphere in which
the word war was mentioned more and more frequently.
New England wanted no part of a war with Britain.
The rest of the country felt differently. Everywhere but
in the northeast, people had cheered the preceding May when
they heard the news of an encounter between a United
States frigate and a British corvette.
The frigate President had mistaken the
corvette Little Belt for a much larger and more infamous
vessel, Guerri Ere, which had a long history of
causing trouble for American ships in coastal
waters. When Little Belt refused to answer
President's hail or raise identifying
flags, there was a chase, then an exchange of
salvos. The engagement ended with nine dead and
twenty-three wounded aboard Little Belt.
Although the U.s. government offered to settle the
resulting claims, many people said the
President's action was completely justified,
considering that three Americans had been killed,
eighteen wounded and four alleged British deserters
seized when H.m.s. Leopard stopped and searched
America's Chesapeake in international waters in
1807. That four-year-old incident hadn't been
forgotten. The President had settled the score-and
if the British wanted more of the same, they could have it!
Were, in fact, begging for it. Despite
diplomatic attempts to get the British to cancel
their Orders in
Council-the orders authorizing seizure of seamen
on American vessels-the orders still stood.
So now, in 1811, practically all the nation
except New England felt Britain should be
called to account. Jared had heard Uncle Gilbert
say that the settlers in the states and territories
of the west were actually demanding war, to stop a rash of
new forays by the Indian tribes supposedly taking
orders from Canada.
Just a month ago, the activities of the tribes had
driven the Americans to action. The prime
troublemakers, the Shawnee Tecumseh and his brother
the Prophet, who preached a mystical doctrine of
Indian supremacy, had been fomenting a
union of all the tribes; a union whose purpose
was to halt the encroachment of white settlers. As
Tecumseh's voice gained more and more listeners around
council fires in the north as well as the south,
General William Henry Harrison took to the
field to stop him. In a stunning defeat,
Harrison's small army routed Tecumseh's
braves and razed his headquarters, the Shawnee
village on Tippecanoe Creek in the
Indiana Territory.
But Tecumseh was only at bay, not defeated. The
Indian threat could materialize again--particularly
since the British had a financial stake in
driving the Americans from the fur lands around the Great
Lakes and beyond the Mississippi.
Furs remained the west's prime commodity. The
expedition of Captains Lewis and Clark had
only heightened the fever for exploration and
exploitation of the Louisiana Purchase. Near the
slopes of a great north-south mountain chain in the far
west, Lewis and Clark said, beaver and other
fur-bearing animals teemed. Thus America was in
a race for control of the territory-
One evidence being the 1808 chartering of the American
Fur Company headed by John Jacob
Astor.
The German was already something of a national legend. Every
boy Jared's age knew his name and his story.
A butcher's son, Astor had been born in a
village called Waldorf, not far from the Rhine.
He crossed the ocean and landed in America in
1785. His wealth consisted of seven expensive
flutes which he hoped to sell at a profit.
The music business lost its appeal, however, as young
Astor became interested in the growing fur trade.
He made trading trips to the forests of upstate
New York, returning with small collections of
pelts. That was the beginning. Now he was incredibly
wealthy, controlling his fur empire and his real
estate holdings from a countinghouse in New York
City's Liberty Street.
The Waldorf Astors would undoubtedly have been
astonished to see how far their descendant had come in
his lifetime, Gilbert said--but he predicted that
Astor meant to go even further.
Long a familiar figure at the Montreal fur
market, and closely connected with Canadian
firms such as the North West Company, Astor
knew the trade intimately. Gilbert believed
Astor's formation of the American Fur
Company was a naked grab for control of the fur
business in the Louisiana lands-where the Canadians
already operated freely. Gilbert supposed that if
Astor's private ambitions were not at odds with the
expansion plans of the United States--and on the
surface they were not--Jefferson had been wise
to throw his influence behind the granting of Astor's
charter.
All in all, the reasons for a debate about war were
many and tangled. None was considered valid in
Boston, however-except in the Kent house.
Gilbert steadfastly aligned himself with the American
majority, and scoffed at those wealthy men who still
talked of the New England states, seceding in order
to form a separate country, friendly to England.
As Jared and Amanda neared the familiar streets in
the vicinity of the Common, the boy recalled the
elaborate dinner being arranged for tomorrow evening. The
servants hadn't been told the names of the guests--
nor had the cousins. The guests were supposedly
arriving by private coach from another city.
And the meal was scheduled for the unlikely hour of seven
in the evening--after dark. Normally, dining began at
two in the afternoon.
Could the mysterious preparations and the
unidentified visitors have anything to do with all the
talk of war?
On Beacon Street, Jared pushed his cousin toward
the curb suddenly. A dairyman's wagon went
rumbling by, much too fast. Speeding vehicles were
just one of the many manifestations of change about which
Jared's aunt complained.
Jared supposed he should be grateful that Uncle
Gilbert's wife tolerated him as part of her
household. But he couldn't find it within himself to feel
even a moment's gratitude. Aunt Harriet
made it obvious that she'd thoroughly disliked
Abraham Kent, who had disappeared and not been seen
again since the year of Amanda's birth, 1803.
His aunt also seemed to know a good deal about Jared's
mother. The boy had been told she was fair-haired and
blue-eyed, as he was. Her maiden name had been
Fletcher. Her roots went back to a
fiery-tempered Virginia family.
Jared had long since conditioned himself to avoid thinking
too much about the parents he'd never known, though that was
difficult. Harriet Kent constantly reminded him
of their flaws, and their unhappy ends.
Her attitude made the Beacon Street house a
hostile
place. But slowly, after much pain and inner
turmoil, he had become resigned to that, and to his
position in the house. No matter how kindly
Uncle Gilbert treated him, he was an outsider;
and an undesirable one.
Accordingly, he had come to realize that he would have to make
his way alone, always fighting back his doubts about his
ability to succeed at anything. His determination,
however, only seemed to reinforce Aunt Harriet's
feelings about him.
Whatever the source of his independent, even
rebellious, nature, one thing was certain. He
wasn't too young to indulge it--and much more completely
than he had up to the present moment. Many young men
ventured into the world at age twelve or thirteen.
It might be time he joined their number. He was
growing less and less willing to accept Aunt
Harriet's criticism and discipline. The only
reason he accepted them at all was Uncle
Gilbert.
As he walked with Amanda, he pictured his uncle
and felt a touch of sadness. Stoop-shouldered and already
turning gray, Gilbert Kent was not yet thirty
years old. A gentle, thoughtful man, he was
burdened with too many worries. Everything from
poor health and his complicated business interests
to his lonely position as an opponent of men who
should have been his friends-
Jared noticed a piece of paper blowing in the
street. The type looked familiar. He picked
up the paper and saw more evidence of his uncle's
unpopularity.
The piece had been torn from the front page of the
Boy State Republican. At the head of the
central news column Jared saw a familiar
black-ruled box surrounding four numbers set in
a heavy face, in the style of a death notice:
The number was carried on the front page of every
issue. More symbolic than accurate, it
represented the best available count of American
seamen seized by the English navy as runaways from the
King's service. The count had begun in the early
1790's, and the number had one objective--
to inflame war fervor.
In the case of the person who'd bought this copy of the
Republican, then ripped it up, it had inflamed
something else. The words Gilbert Kent Editor and
Publisher appeared in small type directly beneath
the paper's masthead. Across them, another word had
been crudely scrawled.
Turning around and seeing Jared stopped on the curb,
Amanda skipped back.
"Is that papa's paper?" she asked, brushing at the
dried mud on her cape. She craned her head
over. "Someone's scribbled on it-was
"A filthy word." He balled the paper and
pocketed it quickly. Amanda was bright; she might
understand the meaning of traitor.
"You mean a word as wicked as corset or shirt?"
She tried to smile. But it was evident that her fear
of returning home was undermining her spirits.
"Worse," Jared said. "Forget about it. We'd
better decide what we're going to tell Aunt
Harriet."
"Tell her?" The girl's eyes rounded. "You mean
a lie?"
"Who said anything about lying? We'll just doctor the
truth a bit! Now listen carefully. The alley was
a mess of mud. I slipped and fell, then you
fell trying to help me up. It's partly true, you
know. We both tumbled pretty hard. We just
won't mention that we started from Mr. Dawlish's
roof."
Amanda looked dubious. "It's still fibbing. I never
fib to papa or mama."
"Well, this is one time it's necessary! Even if we
get
away with the story, we'll probably take four or
five whacks apiece, just for dirtying our clothes."
He gnawed his lip. But there was a sly gleam in his
eyes:
"However--I won't fib unless you agree to it. So
what's it to be? A fib to help me out? Or the
truth-to get me in trouble?"
"That isn't fair! You mustn't make me take
sides!"
A cloud hid the sun, throwing Jared's face in
shadow. It was a handsome face, yet it turned ugly
in the brief darkness. Something in him took pleasure
in admitting that he did spite Harriet, and
spite her well, by playing on the bond of affection
between himself and his young cousin, whom he loved without
reservation. He did it because it was one of his few
means of striking back at his aunt; repaying her
for the hurt she inflicted-
Abruptly, shame overwhelmed him. To use Amanda
that way wasn't right, and he knew it. He
squeezed her glove:
"See here. I wouldn't make you take sides for the
world."
The cloud drifted away. So did the wrath on his
face.
"Here's what we'll do instead. When we get
home, you rush straight up to your room. Change
those clothes while I handle the explanations. I'll
insist what happened was completely my fault. I
teased you so hard, you ran away--that's how you fell.
I expect Aunt Harriet will believe it."
Amanda nodded in a grave way. "Yes, she
might."
A bit startled, he smiled. "You agree very
easily. You must think as Little of me as your mama
does."
"You know that's not so. But she--oh, I don't know
how to say it right. She wants me not to like you."
His fair brows hooked together. "Does she tell you
that straight out?"
"No, never. But she--I mustn't."
"Yes-was Jared's voice was flat. "Yes, you
must. Go on, Amanda. What does Aunt
Harriet tell you?"
"A great many bad things I know aren't true."
"That I'm disrespectful? Won't go to church?
Slide through my studies at that wretched
academy?"
"Things like that, yes."
Although he'd suspected as much, the confirmation hurt.
It took him a moment to continue:
"And what do you say in reply?"
"Mostly I listen. I--I care for you, Jared.
So I keep still and pretend I believe her." A
hint of tears showed in her eyes again. "I suppose
that's a kind of fibbing too. But I can't help it."
He touched her gently. "I never want to be the
cause of your deceiving your mother and feeling bad-was
"I don't feel bad. Well-not too much." Her
small, grave voice added years to the sound of the
simple words. "It's just that-part of me belongs to her,
Jared. Part belongs to you, and another part to papa-and
you're both ever so much nicer than--well, I mean
I try to be good with mama even when she speaks
false, wicked things against you. But she makes me
afraid. She says she won't love me if I
stand up for you. I suppose all mothers act that
way-was
He evaded the truth with a smile. "You know I can't
speak from experience." A pause. "Does she
talk to Uncle Gilbert about me?"
"All the time."
"Never when I'm present, of course."
"That's right, never."
"And-how does he take it?"
"Papa doesn't get mad very often, you know that. But
I can tell that everything mama says makes him
terribly angry because he puffs out his mouth-was She
imitated
Gilbert Kent's pursed lips. "comthe way he
does when something goes wrong at Kent's and they come
to the house to tell him."
Quietly, Jared said, "I didn't realize
I'd become such a burden to him."
"You haven't! He loves you just as I do!"
"But if Aunt Harriet's constantly carping about
me, that's one more load he must carry-was
The blue eyes chilled. How careless and oblivious
he'd been, not to sense that his aunt would actively
work against him whenever he was absent-
With a gravity that outdid his cousin's, he said:
"No, I can't have Uncle Gilbert worrying on
my account. Here's one more story--and this is the one
I'm definitely going to tell." Rapidly, he
repeated it for her:
After leaving Dawlish's ice house, he had insisted
on climbing the roof. She begged him not to, but he
went ahead. He slipped and fell to the
alley. When she tried to help, he grew
quarrelsome. Grabbed her cape, then pushed her
down-
"That's how your clothes got all dirty and torn."
"It's just as much a fib as the other two stories,
Jared."
"Yes, but it's the sort of fib your mother will believe
without question. No mights, no maybes-was
"Are you trying to make her dislike you all the more?"
"Perhaps I am. Things can't go on as they are. I'm
getting too old to stand for Aunt Harriet's
punishments without-was
He stopped.
"Without what?"
"Without doing something about them."
"What can you do?"
He was silent a moment. Then, impulsively, he
said,
"Take myself away from her. Out of Boston-for good."
"Oh, no, Jared!" She clutched his arm. "I'd
be so unhappy without you--you're the only true friend
I have."
"But it's time I made my own way."
The thought had already solidified into a conviction. His
mind raced at the new possibilities.
Perhaps he could apprentice himself to a craftsman in
another city. He'd need Uncle Gilbert's
permission, though-
A sudden insight told him how to speed the arrival
of that permission. Amanda seemed to sense what he was
thinking:
"You're being so foolish! You want to take all the
blame. You want to-to "
He patted her cheek affectionately.
"For eight years old, you're not only a beautiful
child but a damned smart one."
"There you go cursing again-to "
"I'm sorry. Come along."
"Jared, you'll make me miserable if you go away-was
"And I'll stay miserable if I don't. If you
really care for me, you'll let me do what I must."
Her dark hair shining as brightly as her silent
tears, she hung her head and held his hand as they
walked on toward the entrance to the Kent house.
IV.
The cousins were hardly given a moment's notice by the
servants scurrying through the downstairs, arranging
furniture, dusting, polishing--preparing for the
Sunday evening guests. Disappointingly, there was no
sign of Harriet.
Jared and Amanda went up to the third floor, to their
respective rooms. Jared's had once belonged
to his
father. It was small-and made even smaller by his
passion for collecting. Over the years he'd turned
the room into a miniature museum and library; a
junk shop, Harriet preferred to say.
Stacks of glass-fronted cases displayed all
sorts of natural specimens: fossils,
feathers, butterflies on pins, dried leaves and
pressed plants. Tottering piles of books
rose halfway to the ceiling, a huge and varied
assortment. There were gazetteers and atlases of the
country and the world--once, on a map of Ohio, he
had marked a heavy charcoal cross on the
approximate spot where his mother had met her death,
then gazed at it for a quarter of an hour, and finally
wept.
He had accumulated works of fiction and collections
of essays too, including the very first volume ever
published by his grandfather, Thomas Paine's
American Crisis papers. On the top of one
stack was 1809's international literary sensation,
Diedrich Knickerbocker's History of New
York. The pseudonymous author of the
tongue-in-cheek narrative of the early days of
New Amsterdam was a New Yorker himself, a
Mr. Washington Irving. After hearing of Mr.
Irving's manuscript, Gilbert had taken his
private coach non-stop to Irving's home in an
attempt to secure American rights to the work.
To his annoyance, he had been outbid by another
publisher.
But Kent's had scored a march the following year,
successfully negotiating a contract to print an
American edition of a rousing adventure tale,
Scottish Chiefs, written by a woman named
Porter. The book had done extremely well,
salving Gilbert's disappointment at failing to land
Washington Irving as a house author. Scottish
Chiefs lay open on the bed; Jared was reading it for the
third time.
He kindled a fire in the grate. As he finished,
he heard Amanda's step in the hall. He peeked
out to see
her going down the back stairs, probably to the
jakes at the rear of the second floor. She had
already changed clothes.
He flung off his muddied coat, warmed his hands at
the flames, re-examining his conviction that he
must leave the house, and soon. He found no flaws
in the idea comexcept one.
Where would he go?
Unbidden, thoughts of his father came, stirring a deep
anguish. He knew so very little about Abraham
Kent: that he'd served in the army under Mad
Anthony Wayne; that he'd spent a few years in
Ohio as a farmer; that he'd brought his son back
to Boston after marauding Indians killed his wife.
Gilbert hinted that a quarrel with Philip Kent
had driven Abraham out of the household the first
time-and that a second quarrel with Gilbert himself had
been responsible for Abraham's abrupt
departure in 1803.
Jared's uncle refused to be explicit about
details, but Harriet's invective made up for
that. The boy's mental portrait of his father showed him
a man who had been a failure. His image of his
strong-willed mother was similar. Harriet made it
clear she saw no hope for their son--and events
often seemed to confirm that to Jared. More often than not,
his impulsiveness landed him in trouble. The little
adventure on Dawlish's roof, for instance; Amanda
could have been seriously hurt-
Perhaps he was destined to fail at everything he
tried comand to be carried to that failure by his own
temperament. The queer sickness he suffered at the
sight of blood came to mind again. If there wasn't
something wrong with him, why was he cursed with such an
affliction? Absorbed in the melancholy thoughts he
was
somehow unable to banish, he started at the sound of a
voice.
"I was informed you had returned, Jared."
He turned. His aunt stood in the doorway, the
birch rod in one hand.
"Good evening, Aunt Harriet," he said
politely. "I didn't hear you come in."
"The door was not quite closed."
She proceeded to close it. His heart leaped when she
spied his mud-fouled coat lying in a corner. He
was let down when the coat failed to keep her
attention:
"You ordered the ice?"
Jared studied his aunt a moment. In a way, she was
a beauty. Stunningly dark-haired, dark-eyed. But
her face lacked the wholesomeness and good humor of
Amanda's, On occasion it was a pinched, mean
face-and this was one of the occasions:
"I asked you a question. Did you order the
ice?"
"Ten blocks, Aunt Harriet. I did
exactly as you instructed."
"How unusual."
He glanced pointedly at the stained coat.
"While you were gone," she said, "Mr. Tewkes paid
a call."
He almost crowed with a perverse delight. From a
totally unexpected quarter, here was an issue that
would serve as well or better than the roof-climbing
incident. Silas Tewkes kept a young man's
academy in the North End. There, for a handsome fee
from every pupil, the fussy old fellow taught
Latin, sums and bits of natural science,
history, philosophy and theology. Only the
sons of wealthy citizens were welcome as pupils
at the private school.
"Mr. Tewkes!" Jared repeated, rubbing his hands
together in front of the fire. "That's a surprise."
"Don't act so cool and innocent! It's not a
surprise at all--you surely know the reason."
"I suspect it."
"Well, it's going to earn you the rod."
Vastly pleased, Jared said nothing.
"Jared, it will be less difficult if you
admit-was
"That I didn't appear for classes Tuesday or
Wednesday? Of course I admit it. There was still a
little ice on the Charles. I went fishing. Tewkes
is a dull old fart."
He was delighted at Aunt Harriet's
horrified gasp.
"You have a filthy mouth, Jared."
"I beg your forgiveness."
"Don't mock me!"
"Aunt Harriet, I'm sorry if I--if-was
He could hardly keep from chortling.
"You dare to laugh! Silas Tewkes is a
respected citizen and teacher! You've tried him
sorely-when you've bothered to attend classes. And
you've been absent repeatedly during the past several
weeks, I discovered. He is thinking of dismissing you
from the academy."
With a grand shrug, Jared said, "That's a bluff.
Tewkes huffs and puffs, but he'll teach me till
I'm a hundred if Uncle Gilbert keeps
paying."
Harriet Kent tapped the rod against her skirt.
"I have yet to report the visit to my husband-was
Smiling to soften his answer, he said, "I
wouldn't do it. Uncle Gilbert seems in quite a
state over these unknown visitors coming tomorrow. Who are
they, by the way?"
"That is none of your concern. I find your defiant
attitude intolerable--though not unfamiliar. You're
just like your parents."
Here was an old, familiar weapon of attack; one
that angered him as no other did:
"With all due respect, Aunt Harriet--
don't bring them into this."
"You won't dictate to me what I will or will not
discuss!"
"In this one area, yes, I will. For years I've
listened to your slurs-was
"I only tell the truth!" she burst out. "Your
father was a weak man. Unwilling to accept the standards
of respectable behavior. That destroyed him, you
know."
Jared's eyes burned. "The damned-was
"Stop that foul-mouthed talk!"
"combarbarous west everyone prattles about so glowingly
comt destroyed him. Life out there is too hard for
some people-was
Harriet's cheeks were mottled. She controlled her
anger, but with difficulty; shook her head:
"It was his weakness. His weakness made him prey to your
mother's foolish, rebellious-was
Jared took a step forward:
"Don't say any more."
"He took up a life in the west because she demanded
it. They did it against all the advices of your
grandfather, and she died as a result. Your father paid with
his sanity and probably his life too. The night
he left this house, he was insanely drunk.
Bestial. And you've inherited the worst of both-was
Jared snatched at the rod in Harriet Kent's
hand. Quickly, she retreated toward the marble
fireplace. The color deepened in her cheeks.
A tremor in her neck gave him a clue to the
enjoyment she derived from baiting him.
For a moment they faced one another, eyes locked.
All at once Harriet seemed to realize how
tall Jared had grown; almost as tall as she was.
Showing him the birch rod, she trembled:
"Stand aside. We'll discuss your parents another
time-was
"We will not discuss them any other time, ever."
Harriet's mouth curled. "What a fine, proper
boy we've raised! What a decent,
respectful-was
A furious wave: "Don't use that flummery on
me!"
"Flummery, is it-?"
"I never once begged for your not-so-kind attention!"
Scathing: "My! You've a masterful command of the
language-was
"I haven't skipped all my classes with that
pompous bootlicker."
"but your expensive education seems to have generated no
humility. Just the opposite. It's given you the
desire-and the means-to flout your filthy temper and
your arrogant views! I have no doubt-was
"Oh, be quiet, woman!"
"I have no doubt you'll ruin yourself the way your father
did."
His fists clenched at his sides:
"I'd rather be ruined, as you call it, than continue
to live under the same roof with a mean-spirited bitch like you.
Tell your husband that, why don't you?"
Harriet Kent whipped up the rod, intending
to strike Jared's cheek. He caught her arm with one
hand, seized the rod with the other.
Stepping back, he broke the rod over his knee and
threw the halves onto the flames.
Ashen, Harriet whispered, "You're
exactly like him! A monster-was
Jared stepped forward again, so close to her that he
was overpowered by the citrus scent she wore. He
fought to keep his hands at his sides:
"If you speak one more word about him-was
Harriet dodged toward the door:
"We're finished with words, Master Jared. I'll
see you get your wish. I'll have you out of this house!"
Jared Adam Kent beamed:
"That would suit me admirably. Admirably!"
The door crashed shut.
He stared at it, the smile and the cocky feeling
draining away all at once. He had widened the
gulf, exactly as he'd planned. But it was less
satisfying than he'd expected. Having given
cruelty for cruelty, he felt unclean.
Sinking down on the bed, he held his head with both
hands. The break had come sooner than he might have
wished. But he'd been unable to control himself during the
argument. That was disturbing-
Again the secret doubts swept over him. He
wondered bitterly whether Harriet could be right. Was
he taking the same kind of rash step his father had, at
his mother's insistence? He'd heard it said that their
confidence in their ability to survive in the
west had been ill-founded. The results were death for
Jared's mother--guilt and ruin for Abraham Kent-
Would he fail the same way? The fear of it grew
consuming all at once-
And a distorted memory of his sickness when he stared
at his own scraped hand seemed to turn the fear to a
certainty.
Head starting to throb, he realized it was a little late
for second thoughts about his decision. Fear or not,
he'd have to face the consequences of the stormy scene just
concluded. He must begin to think--and immediately--of a
place to go. He had to be ready when Aunt
Harriet spoke to Uncle Gilbert, and Uncle
Gilbert spoke to him.
He needed a destination--a means of escape--
something!
The muddy coat forgotten, he leaned on the mantel
and stared into the flames.
No answer came.
A Mackerel by Moonlight
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Jared delayed his
arrival at breakfast as long as possible.
Normally, the first meal of the Sabbath would have been
served early, to permit the family to attend church.
This particular Sunday it was re-scheduled
for the regular weekday hour--ten o'clock. Church was
forgotten.
Jared felt intense relief as he entered the dining
room. Uncle Gilbert was in his customary
place, but Aunt Harriet was absent. He heard
her out in the kitchen, shrilly warning the servants not
to damage the Spode as they washed it.
So the best porcelain was to be set, eh? It was one
more indication of the importance of the evening dinner party.
Uncle Gilbert sat at the head of the table, wearing
a threadbare dressing gown and slippers. Harriet
often complained about Gilbert's casual morning
attire. Once Jared had heard his uncle reply
that if a dressing gown and slippers were suitable for
President Jefferson to wear while answering
knocks at the door of the executive residence in
Washington, he could dress the same way in his
home with no loss of status. Harriet Kent used
the word status often, with complete seriousness. When
Gilbert used it, he did so jokingly.
"Good morning, Jared."
"Morning, sir."
"Sleep soundly?"
"Fine, thank you."
Gilbert's breakfast, hardly touched, was
his customary slice of salt fish, piece of
cornbread and glass of whiskey and water. At one
side of the plate lay two piles of
manuscript. The dark-haired, ascetic-looking
owner of Kent and Son resumed reading. When he
finished the page, he picked up his fork, absently
ate a small bite of fish, glanced again over the
top of his spectacles at his nephew, seated now.
But he said nothing.
Gilbert looked almost as uncomfortable as Jared
felt. His uncle took longer than usual
arranging his fork, knife and spoons on his plate,
the signal that he'd concluded his meal. He wiped his
mouth and his hands on the hem of the tablecloth; utensils
had made napkins unnecessary.
He coughed. Reached out; tugged the bell pull.
Finally, fixing Jared with dark eyes made large
by his spectacles, he brought up the subject the
boy was dreading:
"You and I must have a conversation."
Jared wanted to be polite, but not overly
defensive:
"I'm sorry I lost my temper with Aunt
Harriet yesterday. She said unkind things about my
father and mother."
Gilbert frowned. "She also said you were ready
to strike her--which cannot under any circumstances be
allowed or forgiven."
"Actually it was the other way around. She was going
to strike me."
Expressionless, Gilbert digested that. Then:
"You've absented yourself from the academy twice this
week, I hear."
"Aunt Harriet keeps you well informed, I
hear."
Gilbert sighed, refusing to be baited by the bitter
echo of his own words.
"She does. But even without that, your unhappiness
lately has been quite evident. We must do something
about it. Having said all I'm going to on the incident
yesterday--specifically, that I won't tolerate a
repetition--I'm prepared to sit down with you and
discuss what's best for your future. I suggest we
talk as soon as possible. This evening--after our
guests depart."
"To be glad to, sir."
Jared could never stay angry at his uncle longer
than a second or two. Gilbert's nature was
essentially kind.
Not that he lacked strength of will. Jared
knew he had that, in plenty. A weak man couldn't
run a firm as large as Kent and Son
successfully.
Yet Gilbert seldom raised his voice.
Quiet reasonableness and a firm tone lent him just as
much authority as bullying. Or more. Most people
respected Gilbert's strength, no matter how they
felt about his politics. And Jared knew better
than to take Gilbert's mild warning about quarreling
lightly.
In an effort to lighten the mood, he said, "May
I ask who you're entertaining tonight, sir? From all the
secrecy, I've wondered if it's someone who
shouldn't be seen here." He forced a smile. "Mad
old King George? Priny?"
"The king and his dissolute son the prince-regent would
be publicly welcomed in Boston," Gilbert
said, returning the smile. "But they'd hardly call
on us. I'm afraid I'm pledged not to reveal the
names of our guests until they've left the city.
You and Amanda will be served dinner upstairs, by the
way."
Jared wanted to question his uncle further, but a serving
girl entered, bringing his breakfast. It was the same as
Gilbert's except for the beverage. Since
his twelfth birthday, he'd been permitted beer in
the morning instead of cider.
Gilbert returned to his reading while Jared
picked at his food. A few moments later,
Harriet came in from the kitchen, carrying a highly
polished spittoon.
After a caustic glance at Jared, she paced around the
table, searching for a place to put the gleaming brass
pot.
"Really, Gilbert, you're occupying this room much
too long," she said. "The girls need to begin
preparing the table."
Gilbert sighed, removed his spectacles.
"I'll take my manuscript to the library."
He started to consolidate the two piles of paper.
"Why a respectable house must provide a place
for men to spit their filthy tobacco is beyond me,"
Harriet complained, finally putting the spittoon beside
the wall near the head of the table.
"There are spittoons all over Washington, my
dear," Gilbert said. "The fad is spreading to some
of the best homes in Boston."
"Not to ours, I trust! I never fancied I'd be
forced to entertain one of those barbarous Kentuckians-was
Jared's hand went rigid, the fork halfway
to his mouth. Hurriedly, he swallowed the bite,
pretending not to see Gilbert frown slightly, and
purse his lips. His glance at his wife, mild
enough, still carried unmistakable warning.
Annoyed by the silent reproof, Harriet flounced
out.
Jared's mind was afire with curiosity. A
Kentuckian coming to dinner? Who could it possibly
be? He determined to find out.
All at once his eye darted to a corner of the dining
room. There right in front of him was the way to learn
the identity of his uncle's guests-
"Finish quickly, Jared," Gilbert said as he
left. "The day is going to be difficult enough, so
try not to supply extra inducements for your aunt
to fly into a temper."
He didn't act angry, merely resigned.
Jared listened to
the slow shuffle of his uncle's slippers as he
proceeded to the library.
Gilbert did, however, shut the doors with a bang.
II.
Gilbert Kent had always been a devoted student
of the thinking and the habits of the former president, Mr.
Jefferson. At considerable cost, he had
copied one of the mechanical innovations the
Virginian had installed at Monticello: a
dumbwaiter.
Via a platform controlled by pulleys, the
dumbwaiter lifted food from one floor to another.
Carpenters had ripped out part of a dining room wall
to install the shaft, which connected the downstairs with
Gilbert's bedroom directly above. Jared had
realized that, by means of the shaft, he might be able
to hear the dinner conversation. He was so excited at the
prospect, he quite forgot to be nervous about the coming
discussion of his future.
Around three o'clock, he found an opportunity
to slip into the dining room unobserved. In the kitchen,
Aunt Harriet was yelling at the servants again.
The roasting capons hadn't been properly stored in
the ice delivered by Mr. Dawlish. One bird had
spoiled-and she was going to take the cost out of the
guilty party's wages!
Jared barely heard, busy unfastening the brass
latch on the door of the dumbwaiter. He only
opened the door a couple of inches. To open it more would
invite discovery. He prayed no one would shut the
door accidentally.
One of the servants in the kitchen commented that a
Kentuckian would probably think a gamy capon
very flavorful. Other servants laughed-which only
made Harriet Kent launch into another tirade.
With a smile on his face, Jared stole out of the
room.
"Jared, what are you-?"
Angrily, he jerked his head around and put a finger
to his lips.
Robed for bed, Amanda stood in the doorway. She
blinked in dismay when Jared scowled. He sat on a
chair pulled up to the opening of the dumbwaiter in
Gilbert's bedroom. The room was plain, its
furnishings wholly masculine. For as long as Jared
could remember, Gilbert and his wife had occupied
separate quarters.
"You scared me half to death," Jared whispered.
"Why did you open that door?"
"Because it was closed."
"Don't you suppose doors are shut for a
reason?"
"But papa's downstairs, Jared. He never
closes this door unless he's in here by himself, read-was
"Keep your voice down! Leave or come in, as you
please. But whichever it is, do it quietly!
They've served the fruit and wine. Aunt
Harriet will be leaving in a minute, so the gentlemen
can talk."
The little girl darted a glance into the gloomy second
floor hall. Then, curiosity mastering
apprehension, she shut the door.
She padded across the carpet, her shadow long and
distorted. Jared had turned down the single lamp
always lit in the room after nightfall. Gilbert
usually retired early, to work on copy for the
newspaper or read one of the countless manuscripts
submitted to the book department. With the bell pull
at the side of his narrow bed, he summoned tea and
cakes during the evening. The dumbwaiter brought them
up-the same shaft that now carried hollow-sounding
male voices to Jared's ears.
"Sit down. Here." He pointed to the floor near
his knee. Amanda still looked a bit fearful. But she
folded
her legs beneath her, leaning her head against Jared's
leg, her dark eyes large. She smelled
pleasantly of soap.
"It's terrible to spy on grownups-was she began.
"You spy with your eyes, you ninny."
"Then what's the word for doing it with your ears?"
"Eavesdrop. Do be silent!"
"But who is down there? I saw Mr. Rothman's
carriage drive up-was
"Yes, he came in the front way. The other two
guests arrived in a coach that pulled into the alley.
They used the rear entrance. At last I understand
why," he added, with the smugness of one privy to a
secret. "If your papa's guests showed their
faces in Boston, they'd be mobbed--or worse."
"You still haven't said who-was
"Politicians! All the way from Washington. Very
important men--hush! I hear Aunt Harriet
leaving."
From below, a muddle of voices, one female,
indicated the formal part of dinner was finished. Jared
bent his head near the open door of the shaft, heard
another door close distantly.
Glassware clinked--more wine being poured. Someone
offered a compliment about the excellent capon. A
loud spitting sound was followed by a pling as the jet
hit the spittoon. Gradually, Jared began
to sort out the voices.
He recognized Royal Rothman's easily.
The middle-aged Jewish banker was a frequent
guest at the Kent table, because he was involved with
Jared's uncle in business ventures. His
bank provided money whenever Kent's needed
to float a loan.
The voice of the spitter was rich and deep. His accent
was definitely not that of the northeast.
The third guest spoke English with a foreign accent.
"comindeed generous of you to arrange this meeting, Mr.
Kent," boomed the Kentucky tobacco-chewer. "The
secretary and I felt the long journey and the
inconvenience of traveling incognito were justified
if we could sample the sentiment of New England
firsthand."
"I'm flattered you chose to do it at my table,
Mr. Speaker," Gilbert said.
"Mister who?" Amanda breathed.
"That's not his name, it's his title. Mr. Clay of
Kentucky is a new member of the Congress. One
of the Republicans called war hawks. He was just
elected Speaker of the House. I don't know
anyone in Boston who doesn't hate him."
A moment later, the cousins heard the voice of
Royal Rothman. Despite surface
politeness, his hostility was evident:
"Shall we Address the issue, gentlemen? Mr.
Kent and I wish to know whether there will be a war--which I
would personally consider a national disaster.
Mr. Kent must speak for himself-was
"In due course," Gilbert murmured.
Rothman went on, "You gentlemen in turn want
to know New England's position. I trust I made
that clear during dinner. And I believe I
express the attitude of the entire business
community."
"I'd be careful there," Gilbert said.
"Sometimes, Gilbert, I have the impression you
actually favor a war. God pity you if you're that
misguided! Your pardon, gentlemen. But I
believe in being frank."
The heavily accented voice drifted up the shaft:
"Your candor is appreciated, Mr. Rothman.
However, the Speaker and I are seeking somewhat more
specific information."
Jared bent, lips to Amanda's ear:
"That man's name is Gallatin. He's in charge
of the government treasury. Money. He's
foreign-born. French, Swiss, something like that-was
"If we are forced into a second war for
independence-was Henry Clay began.
"May we dispense with slogans, Mr. Clay?"
Rothman asked curtly. "The issue is neither
independence nor the one expressed in that
other overworked phrase, free trade and sailors'
rights. We know perfectly well what the main
issue is. You and your associates--Mr.
Caloun and Mr. Cheves and Mr. Gindy and all
the rest--you want Upper Canada, don't you?"
"That is the desire in the west, yes, sir,"
Clay returned, a chill in his voice. "It's a
matter of-was
"Avarice," Rothman cut in. "Your constituents
are greedy for the land. For the furs-was
"We are not acting out of greed, sir! We are
acting on one of mankind's oldest principles--
self-preservation! The lives of thousands of
citizens of this country are being threatened. The
British are inflaming the tribes of the entire
Ohio valley!"
"The British foreign minister has repeatedly
denied that charge."
"And I say Castiereagh's a damned liar,
sir," Clay shot back, punctuating the retort
with another loud spit
The man did have a marvelous, resonant voice,
Jared thought. He was a trial lawyer and, according
to popular gossip, he'd trained himself as an
orator by reading heavily, then going alone
to a cornfield in his native Kentucky and speaking
aloud for hours, discoursing on what he'd read.
Most Bostonians wished he had never left that
cornfield.
Secretary of the Treasury Gallatin spoke more
moderately:
"We also have evidence that the Hudson's Bay
Company is pledged to a plan to monopolize the
fur trade- and is arming the savages with fusees
to that end. You know how the British have coddled and
encouraged that devil Tecumseh and his fanatical
brother-was
"All of which," Gilbert said, "Castlereagh has
denied."
Furious, Clay burst out, "If you gentlemen
refuse to be reasonable about a clear threat to-was
"We will be reasonable if you will be truthful,"
Rothman said.
"Sir, are you calling me a liar?"
"I am saying every argument you put forward is
spurious. Taken together, they resemble a rotten
mackerel in the moonlight. It shines beautifully
from afar. Up close, it stinks."
Clay snapped, was "So brilliant, yet so
corrupt-" Those were Congressman
Randolph's exact words, I believe."
"I didn't claim the simile was original,"
Rothman said.
"But your choice of a source is regrettable.
You're quoting an effeminate fool!"
"John Randolph of Roanoke is-was
"Half a man! Can you take seriously anything said
by a scarecrow whose proudest claim is his descent from
Pocahontas? Who struts into Congress wearing
silver spurs, armed with a riding whip, and trailed
by a damned slavering hound? Why, Randolph can't
give a speech without stopping every ten minutes while
the door keeper brings him a tumbler of malt
liquor! Even that doesn't make his voice
manly. He squeaks and squeals like a goddamned
eunuch!"
Gilbert said, "Nevertheless, Mr. Speaker, John
Randolph of Roanoke argues his positions in a
compelling way."
"Not to Kentuckians he doesn't!"
"Ah, but you must grant he has a wit,"
Gallatin chuckled. "Adore him or despise
him, you must admit that. I relish the time he was
accused of lacking virility, and told his opponent,
"Sir-you pride yourself upon an
animal faculty, in respect to which the Negro is
your equal and the jackass infinitely your
superior." his
No one but Gallatin laughed. "I doubt if any
black man would find that witty," Gilbert said.
Gallatin harumphed.
Rothman said, "We've strayed from the point. It's
public knowledge that your faction wants Upper Canada,
Mr. Clay, so we'll save time and eliminate
distasteful acrimony-was
"It's you who were acrimonious, sir, not I! You
brought up the mackerel by moonlight-and as much as
called me a liar."
"Will you accept my apology so we can proceed?"
Clay grumbled something inaudible. "Proceed from the
assumption that war is inevitable," Gallatin
suggested.
"Let's hope to heaven it's not!" Rothman cried.
"American liberty is again threatened on the land and
on the sea," Clay declared. "There's just one way
to teach Johnny Bull a lesson. At the point
of a gun! From the mouth of a cannon!"
Once again Gilbert spoke, quietly but with
authority. "Since you raise the subject of
guns, Mr. Speaker, perhaps some simple
mathematics are in order. My newspaper keeps
track of the state of the army. We have, I believe,
not quite twelve thousand men in uniform--most of those
green recruits. Moreover, the forces are
widely scattered. A few at
Michilimackinac, a few at Fort Dearborn out
on the Illinois prairie-was
"The navy is in somewhat better shape,"
Gallatin said.
"You're joking," Rothman said. "Six frigates
and scores of those worthless Jeffersonian
gunboats--the whirligigs of the sage of
Monticello? That's nothing compared to six hundred
British men-of-war, more than one hundred of which are
ships of the line."
Clay objected: "But Britain still has her hands
full on the continent."
"And that is where our attention should be focused. On the
true enemy. Bonaparte!"
"I must raise another hard question," Gilbert said.
"I don't mean to be rude. But have you gentlemen in
Washington ever considered the danger to this country if
Britain suddenly finds herself in a position to free
large masses of men and great numbers of ships now
committed to the struggle with Napoleon? We
stand every chance of being crushed."
Clay quickly overcame the argument:
"War will be declared before that ever happens, Mr. Kent.
We'll overwhelm the British, not vice versa."
"So you intend to have your way regardless of any
consequences?" Rothman demanded.
There was a strained pause. Jared leaned his head against
the wall, his blue eyes large, his expression awed
at the thought of men discussing the fate of millions of
human beings over wine and the pling of tobacco hitting
a spittoon.
"Answer me, please, Mr. Clay."
"We will press ahead," Clay said.
"To disaster!" Rothman predicted.
"Gentlemen, please," Gallatin put in.
"Once more we have drifted from the question Henry and I
came here to discuss. It is no longer a matter of
whether a war will be fought, but how it will be fought-was
"Why are you so set on this hasty, reckless
course?" Rothman roared, pounding the table.
"Britain has already shown some small sign of
yielding eventually. Rescinding her Orders in
Council. Stopping the impressment-was
"Don't forget Castlereagh is shrewd and
slippery," Gallatin said. "He may be
playing for time."
"I don't think so," Gilbert said. "At least not
according to what I hear from sources I trust.
Visitors who've just returned from England.
Aboard ships lucky enough not to be chased, stopped or
fired upon, I might add!"
"Now you sound like a hawk," Rothman complained.
"I'm only stating facts, Royal. But like you,
I believe we can bring the British ministries
around. Convince them to change their policies. If
we have time."
"We don't," Rothman replied. "And it makes
no difference to Mr. Clay anyway. The west is
hungry for land--nothing but land. Last year Jemmy
Madison grabbed the West Floridas-was
"Annexed," Clay corrected.
"comand at the moment he's eyeing the East
Floridas. You know who to blame, Gilbert. Your
blasted Monticello squire started the fever.
Now it's epidemic!"
Gilbert had no immediate answer. Gallatin said:
"Since New England is so important--indeed,
we might say paramount--in commerce and finance, I
must ask the position of gentlemen such as yourself, Mr.
Rothman, in the event hostilities do
break out."
"Are you asking about loans to the government, Mr.
Secretary? War loans?"
"I am."
"You'll not get a dollar from Rothman's. I
venture every other banking house in New England will
say the same thing."
"And you gentlemen will have a difficult time funding a
war without New England money." Gilbert said.
"We will make do," Clay said in a flinty way.
"We've obtained the answer we came for-was
Sounding dispirited, Gallatin said, "Indeed we have."
"I warned you what it would be, Mr. Secretary."
Clay spat again.
Now that the hard truth had been brought into the open,
Rothman attempted to soften it a little:
"I'm sorry, gentlemen. New England simply
can't
afford a war. We depend on overseas trade for
marketing our goods. Jefferson nearly destroyed us
with his embargo, and a war would bring complete ruin."
"That's sheer imagination-was Clay began.
"That is our position," Rothman countered, cold
again.
"Thank God, it's not the position of the
rest of the country. We will make do."
"You can't dismiss New England quite so quickly,"
Rothman warned.
"Why not, sir? Isn't she ready to set herself up
as an independent nation?"
"Not as yet, sir. But if you and your cohorts
persist-was
"I believe we have exhausted this subject, sir."
"No, we have not!" Rothman shouted. "I fought for
these states in the Revolution, but I am not going
to see your damned, unwashed mobocracy plunge
them into a second, useless war with a people who should be our
closest friends!"
"Is that patriotism speaking, sir? Or the
balance sheet?"
"You damned poltroon-to "
"Royal, you forget yourself!" Gilbert exclaimed.
"To the contrary! New England is the bedrock of this
nation-was
"No longer!" Clay thundered. "You are living in the
past, sir! The west is the rising star!"
And may it sink to hell, Jared thought, the memory of
his father breaking his concentration.
Downstairs, voices rose in a confusion of
accusations and epithets until Gilbert
cried, "Gentlemen, this is my house, not a
tavern! Please act accordingly!"
That elicited another round of half-hearted
apologies, and a degree of calm. The subject
of war was dropped, in favor of perfunctory
conversation about business in general, and Gilbert's
newspaper in particular. Avoiding
the question of whether the Bay State Republican would
support a war, he tried to interest his visitors
in some of the innovations he had in mind.
He spoke of his plan to launch a penny paper,
undercutting the prevailing six-cent price in order
to capture a larger share of the increasingly literate
population.
He speculated about the possibility of employing
boys to sell papers on the street in an
organized way, not haphazardly, and of sending the
same boys door to door to boost circulation even
further.
When the troubles at sea cleared up, he said, he
wanted to purchase a dispatch boat to sail out and
meet incoming ships, so he could get the latest
European news into print ahead of his competition.
By the time he started to discuss the possibility of
modern invention being harnessed to improve
printing equipment-"The prospect of a steam-powered
press is staggering, gentlemen, and not at all out of the
question." comhis guests were murmuring that they must leave.
Chairs scraped. The goodbyes were stiffly polite.
Jared closed the door of the dumbwaiter and caught his
cousin's hand, hurrying her out of the room.
"They kept talking about war," Amanda said when they
reached the stairs. "Do they mean men fighting other
men?"
"Yes, that's what they mean."
"Will you have to fight?"
Startled, he realized her question raised an entirely
new issue; injected a completely new factor
into the uncertain future.
"I don't know whether I'd have to. But I might
want to," he answered.
At the back of the house, a coach clattered away.
In the lower hallway, Royal Rothman was having
a final word with his host. Jared heard the banker
growl something about the rotten mackerel stinking worse
than ever-
He patted Amanda's rump and started her up to bed:
"Tuck yourself in and put out your lamp-was
"Won't you come do it for me?"
"No."
"Please-?"
His face oddly drawn, he shook his head.
IV.
You do have a passion for satisfying your
curiosity-regardless of the possible consequences."
He drank, not realizing that his nephew took the
remark as an accusation. An unconscious one,
perhaps; but an accusation all the same.
"You must forget everything you heard, Jared. Mr.
Rothman particularly would be badly compromised if
it were known he'd even been in the same room with
Henry Clay."
"I'll say nothing." And I must tell Amanda not
to, either.
"The gentlemen are staying the night in Roxbury,"
Gilbert went on. "Under false names, of course.
They'll start back to the capital tomorrow-was He sank
into a chair and peered at the rum in his goblet. "I'm
glad they came. I have a better perspective,
meeting one of the leading war hawks in person. I
believe war will come. And while Clay's motives
are far from spotless, I believe it should."
"You do? You didn't make that clear during the
conversation."
"Royal was already upset. I saw no
reason to add to his unhappiness. I'll tell him
my feelings in due course. He suspects them
already-was
Another long swallow of rum. "I don't favor
war for the reasons Mr. Clay does. Royal was
correct-the
hawk faction can only screech "Canada!
Canada!" It's their obsession. Impressment's
a side issue--while to me it's the central
issue. The same sort of issue which drove your
grandfather to join all the others who refused to have their
liberties abridged forty years ago-was
The eyes of both were drawn to the portrait of
Philip. After a moment, Gilbert set his drink
aside.
"But we have a different issue to discuss."
Tense, Jared murmured, "Yes, sir."
"I know you're not happy in this house. There's no
need to dwell on why-was
"I must get away, Uncle Gilbert. I've
no patience with school any more-was
"Oh, I think you've already had quite enough to carry you through
life. The trouble is, I don't know what you do
want. Where you hope to go, in the broadest sense of
those words. Is it an apprenticeship
you're after? I can offer you that at Kent and Son."
"But I'd have to stay on here, and I feel I
shouldn't." Jared leaned forward. "Please understand-it
has nothing to do with you."
"I understand." Gilbert covered his mouth briefly,
coughed.
"I'll be less of a burden if I'm gone."
"You're no burden, Jared."
"That's kind of you to say, but I know otherwise."
"I've never particularly pressed you about joining the
firm-was
"I appreciate that."
"From the time you were very small, I somehow felt commerce
wouldn't interest you. I think you've inherited more than
a touch of your mother's restlessness."
Jared tried to smile. "That Virginia blood you
talk about?"
"This country is being created out of such restlessness.
Created, expanded--it's not a bad thing."
"I've no desire to go into the west the way my father
did," Jared said, his voice harder. "It's a
brutal place. It killed him."
"Well--in part."
Gilbert didn't amplify the remark. He
looked at his nephew with disarming friendliness.
"I know it would be wrong to urge you to stay and work at
the firm. You can't abide your aunt--no, don't
say anything. Don't pretend. That's a truth
neither of us should hide from--though it's not necessary to delve
into the reasons. As you well know, Harriet
doesn't harbor warm feelings for you either.
Regrettably, there's blame on both sides."
Jared nodded slowly. "I--I just want out."
"I'm willing--if we can find something suitable for you
to do. You look surprised."
"I didn't think you'd agree to my going." "I
want to spare you and your aunt further quarrels you
both might regret for the rest of your lives. I've
let my temper carry me away a few times in the
past--the night your father left, for one--and I've
cursed myself ever since."
"You've hinted about that quarrel, but never described
it. Was it-?"
"Bitter," Gilbert interrupted. "Bitter,
hateful, viol--oh, but that's the past." He faced
away. "It's enough to say that, ever since, my conscience
has driven me to launch a search for your father at
least once a year. Never with any success,
alas."
He paused. "I'm wondering, though-was The
library lamps put pinpricks of light into his
dark pupils.
"comsuddenly I'm wondering whether the answer to your
dilemma might not be a leaf from your father's book."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"I think I've mentioned that your father went through a
period of conflict with his father and mine-was He gestured
to the portrait. "As a temporary solution, your
father chose the military service."
Jared turned cold at the implications of that. His
negative reaction didn't come from cowardice as much
as from his basic doubt about his own ability to survive
in inherently difficult circumstances. But he
kept silent, letting Gilbert continue:
"I wouldn't want to see you in the army. As you
overheard, it's hardly worthy of the name. Its
highest commanders are dodderers, incompetents or
both. But the navy, now-that's another matter. Though
small, the navy's acquitted itself splendidly
over the past ten years. From all I've heard, the
officers by and large are first-rate-a match for any
British captain afloat. And the half dozen
frigates under sail must constantly replenish their
crews as enlistments run out-"
"How old do you have to be to join?"
"For powder monkeys or cabin duty, they take
boys from eight on up. You might have a chance at
something better. A midshipman's appointment. I
could perhaps direct a letter to the Secretary of the Navy
--yes," Gilbert said with growing animation, "navy
duty could be the answer. It would certainly suit the
family tradition I've tried to keep alive."
"What tradition, sir?"
Gilbert didn't give a direct answer to the
question. He walked to the portrait of Philip;
gazed at it a moment, then said quietly:
"It's a pity you never knew him, Jared. A
remarkable man. I loved him without reservation. When
I was growing up, I was sickly--a disappointment
to him, I'm sure. Yet he was unfailingly kind.
The older I grew, the more I came to respect his
convictions. I don't mean his conservative
politics--most men become more conservative
as they reach middle age. I'm talking about something
deeper and much more fundamental. He used to say this
country gave him hope when he had none. It gave
him love when he had none--gave it twice over.
Your grandmother Anne, and my mother. He said he always
felt it was his duty to repay those debts-was
Jared looked at the strong face on the
canvas. "I remember your telling me how brave
he was."
"Brave in the most meaningful way. I'm sure he
felt fear just as all normal men do-but in spite of
that, he chose to fight for liberty when it would have been
easier and more comfortable to remain a Tory. Beyond that,
he pulled himself up in the world from nothing, and built a
business. To make money, to be sure-but also because he
believed the printing trade is of inestimable benefit
to mankind. "Take a stand and make a mark." That
was the sum of his life and his belief. He said those
words to me shortly before he died. I've never
forgotten them. I hope you won't either. That's why
I had them inscribed on the fob I gave you last
Christmas. In the navy, I think you could find the
kind of fresh horizons you always seem to be
hunting. Yet at the same time, you'd be giving as
well as taking. Just as your grandfather did. Just as I
try to do in my limited way. That's what I mean
when I speak of carrying on the tradition he
established."
In the ensuing silence, both gazed at the painting again.
Then Gilbert became brisk; businesslike:
"Unless you say otherwise, tomorrow I'll draft a
letter to Washington. I'll make inquiries
as to the whereabouts of our frigates. And, if possible,
learn whether one might be berthing in Boston soon."
Despite his earlier apprehension, Jared found himself
warming to Gilbert's suggestion. Perhaps it was
exactly what he needed: to test himself in hard
circumstances. Perhaps that way, he could prove
Harriet wrong-
Yet fear remained. What if he did say yes
--only to fail?
He wouldn't! He swore that silently; fervently.
The idea of naval service wasn't all that
ominous if he stopped to think about it. There were
aspects that excited him. Small as it was, the
navy had a certain dash. He vividly recalled
the previous April when the city's own frigate,
Constitution, Captain Hull commanding, had put in
briefly to fill out her crew roster. The town had
taken on a festive air-and rocked with laughter at
the story of a green farm boy who had apparently
swallowed too much of the recruiting officer's rum.
The country boy signed on believing he was to be the
captain's gardener.
When he sobered up and demanded his rake and hoe, a
light touch of the cat convinced him to accept the tools
of a carpenter's mate instead.
Boston had an ambivalent attitude about
Constitution. She would sail against the British if
war came- and Bostonians detested that idea.
Yet the locally built warship remained a source
of intense civic pride.
Alas, there seemed little chance of serving aboard the
city's own vessel. In August, Constitution had
cleared the Virginia Capes, bound for the dangerous
waters along the French coast. She was carrying the
new minister to France, Mr. Barlow, and his
family. The Republican had run an item about
it.
But as Gilbert said, the Boston ship was only one
of six frigates now in service. Perhaps Jared could
find a place on another. The thought of it--of laying
Aunt Harriet's convictions to rest--put a glow
in his eyes-
Abruptly, the glow faded. Gilbert noticed:
"What's wrong?"
"Do you really think they'd take me? I have no
experience with ships."
"Nor do half their recruits. You'll learn, and
quickly.
The life's hard. But most American captains
aren't the martinets their British cousins
are-and there are fewer cruel and unreasonable
punishments for breaches of discipline. There is a
real reason why English seamen desert and wind up
on our ships, you see."
He scrutinized his nephew.
"Of course, in any service, one's expected
to obey orders. As I've said before, you're much like
your mother in some respects-was
"Aunt Harriet keeps reminding me of that."
Gilbert frowned, then shrugged off the retort. "The
fact must be faced, Jared. It would be folly
to consider the navy if you feel you couldn't do what's
expected of you. Without resentment."
More moderately, Jared said, "I can follow
orders, uncle." He hoped it was the truth.
Gilbert's expression softened. "I'm heartened
to hear you say it. Perhaps life in this house hasn't
been a fair test of that."
All at once Jared felt as if fetters had
dropped from him. He recalled all the times he'd
lounged along the Boston piers, watching the tall
ships running in through the island channels, homeward
bound from faraway ports. He'd never imagined that
sort of life for himself. He was astonished at his
oversight.
With enthusiasm, He declared, "I think the whole
idea's wonderful. Please write the letter tomor
--did I say something wrong? You're smiling."
"For no sensible reason. You said nothing wrong."
Absently, Gilbert passed a pale hand across his
brow. He walked to one of the windows overlooking the
Common.
Jared sensed an abrupt and extreme tension in his
uncle. Gilbert's slow pivot from the window
suggested physical labor. His eyes were sad;
remote--as if he'd
looked outside and gazed on something other than the
Sunday evening darkness.
The boy waited, his hair glinting bright as metal in
the radiance of the library lamps. He actually saw
his uncle's eyes return from whatever private
vision had bemused him--return and focus on
Jared's face-and still with that sad air:
"I repeat, I had no reason to smile. I was
struck by a thought, that's all. How everything changes
and nothing changes. Some-was
His voice grew firmer as he composed himself.
"comsome years ago, in this same library, I offered
to write another letter for another-was
He hesitated. Jared contained his
surprise at the glitter of tears Gilbert quickly
dashed away with the back of one slim hand.
"comanother man, in the misguided hope I could
redirect his life. I'll tell you the whole
story one day. But not this evening. The--the dinner was quite
tiring."
Jared accepted the falsehood in silence. Somehow
he knew it was the recollection, not the argument about
war, that had unsettled his uncle.
Gilbert went to his nephew. Put an arm around
him:
"I trust I'll be more successful with the second
attempt than I was with the first."
He removed his hand, averted his head.
"Now-was
Again the broken voice.
"It's best we retire, I think."
The moment Amanda heard the news at the dinner table,
she wept-and refused to stop when Harriet ordered
it. Harriet marched the little girl from the room and
whipped her long and hard.
Yet Jared soon noticed that once he and his
uncle announced their joint intention, Harriet
treated him with unexpected cordiality. She was
attentive, cheerful and permitted him
to take as many holidays from the academy as he
pleased.
He knew why. She was delighted at the idea of
getting him out of the house.
Ordinarily, he might have hated her all the more. But
he didn't because he was intoxicated by the winds of
freedom he was scenting all at once. Strong,
clean winds that blew frustration and unhappiness out of
his life at last.
As the year 1812 opened, the inflammatory talk
from Washington grew hotter still. Except in New
England, the country seemed to be in a ferment of
anticipation-
"Canada! Canada!"
"Free trade and sailors' rights.
"SHOW THE DAMN BRITISH ONCE AND FOR
ALL.
Jared fully appreciated that in a war, men died.
Yet he was young enough to accept the possibility without
worrying too much about it. In return, he would
escape from Beacon Street. He was getting the
better end of the bargain, he felt.
If he stayed under Harriet Kent's thumb much
longer, his spirit would wither and perish alt-
Or erupt in some terrible act of rage and
rebellion that could mar his life forever, as Gilbert
said. By going to sea, he might escape all that. And
answer some fundamental questions about himself.
Buoyed by a new sense of confidence, he found his
fear lessening.
War was like that rotting mackerel in the moonlight, he
decided. So long as you stood far enough away to miss
the stench, it gleamed with considerable attraction.
CHAPTER III
The Frigate
IT WAS MID-MAY before Gilbert received a
reply to his letter to Secretary of the Navy Paul
Hamilton. The secretary apologized for his
delay in answering, but as Mr. Kent could well
appreciate, pressing matters occupied the
department. Gilbert and Jared both understood the
nature of the pressing matters.
Regrettably, Hamilton said, no appointments
for midshipmen were available at the moment. Should Mr.
Kent's nephew still wish to serve, he would have to do so
as a ship's boy, receiving six dollars per month for
an enlistment of one year. Mr. Kent would also understand
that Mr. Hamilton could provide no information
concerning the whereabouts of the larger United States
vessels, but with luck, one of the frigates
might soon put in at Boston or another New
England port, and Mr. Kent's nephew could then
apply.
Jared was disappointed. But the setback didn't
change his plans.
On the eighteenth of June, President
Madison declared war.
II.
Boston's bells tolled in mourning. New
England's Federalist press raged. The declaration
had only been approved in the Senate by six
votes!
Pastors took to their pulpits to decry the step.
Toasts
at conservative dinner tables condemned The existing
war--this child of prostitution-may no American
acknowledge it as legitimate!
Although the American army had to depend on the
militia for immediate manpower, Governor Strong of
Massachusetts, as well as the governors of
Rhode Island and Connecticut, refused to permit
their militias to operate outside their respective
states-or obey any order of the federal government.
New England's fury mounted when packets slipped
past the British vessels cruising off the
coast and delivered news that seemed to confirm the
declaration as a tragic mistake. On the
twenty-third of June, Lord Castlereagh had
suspended the Orders in Council--those hated
edicts responsible for the harassment of American
ships.
The news arrived too late. The army, such as it
was, would soon be launching an attack on Upper
Canada from its headquarters at Detroit. The
commander was to be General William Hull, an
outdated relic whose Revolutionary service hardly
equipped him for modern frontier warfare. Few
seemed worried. Hadn't Jefferson himself written
that conquest of Canada was "just a matter of marching?"
In July, Bostonians could sneer at
Jefferson's confidence with justification. The key
United States garrison on Michilimackinac
Island, gateway to the western fur country,
surrendered to an enemy force.
But worse was in store.
Rumors spread that the Shawnee Tecumseh would
definitely align his braves with General Isaac
Brock. The Federalists shook their heads.
Brock had twice the wits and ten times the courage
of that old fool Hull.
A pattern of hideous blundering began to emerge. The
British on the frontier had of course received word
of the declaration by special couriers. But while
Hull
was plodding northward through Ohio to Detroit, some
dunderhead in Washington chose to send him the same
news by ordinary mail. The British commanders knew
war was definite eight days before Hull did. Thus
they seized an American ship on Lake Erie and
captured an unexpected prize--secret orders
for the American general.
When Gilbert learned the whole unbelievable
story, he penned the Republican's first
editorial in favor of the war. He demanded the firing
of the incompetents in Washington who had informed
Hull too late, and insisted on replacement of the
general with a younger, more competent man. But he also
voiced support for President Madison's
decision, and the action of Congress.
The night the editorial was published, a dozen
hooligans appeared on Beacon Street and
hurled rocks at windows in the Kent house.
Three were broken before Gilbert dashed outside, his
father's Kentucky rifle loaded and ready to fire.
He had taught himself how to use the rifle
several weeks earlier, anticipating just this sort of
nocturnal visit.
The hooligans screamed obscene insults and lobbed
a few more rocks. Gilbert raised the rifle.
Instantly, the small mob disappeared in the darkness.
An hour later, still white from the incident and suffering
sharp pains in his chest, Gilbert was rushed up to bed.
Against the advice of Doctor Selkirk, he was
up and working twenty-four hours later.
III.
On the twenty-sixth of July, sails appeared in
the President Roads below Boston harbor. The
sails belonged to the city's own frigate,
Constitution.
She anchored and poured her tars into the streets soon
after. They spread a story of an incredible feat of
seamanship. Jared heard the particulars on the afternoon
of the twenty-seventh, when he went to the recruiting
office newly opened in a rooming house operated
by a Mrs. Broadhurst in Fore Street.
He ran most of the way. Constitution hadn't filled
out her crew roster before clearing Annapolis in
early August.
IV.
A plank table had been set up in the first
floor parlor of the rooming house. After a few
preliminaries, the officer behind the table asked:
"You're familiar with the ship for which we're
recruiting, I take it?"
"I am."
"I mean to say, our recent exploits?"
"The town's talking of nothing else--though to be
honest, nobody seems quite clear on all the
details."
"I don't doubt there's considerable exaggeration in the
retelling," the young officer commented. "Hardly necessary.
The truth's remarkable enough." He helped himself to a
drink from a jug of rum.
The young man was one of Constitution's lieutenants,
slender and tanned. Jared reckoned him to be twenty
or twenty-one. And almost too handsome. His dark
hair pinned up in a queue looked as glossy as
a woman's. His brown eyes had a languid
quality--maybe from rum. He had profferred the
jug the moment Jared walked into the airless, musty
parlor, but Jared had declined. Now he almost wished
he hadn't. Somehow the officer made him
self-conscious.
The young man put the jug down, his tongue creeping
slowly along his pink upper lip. His
eyes ranged over Jared's face. The boy grew
even more uncomfortable; tried to distract the
lieutenant.
"And for how long were you actually chased-?"
"Three days," the young man answered in a
slightly, slurred voice. "Three days and two
nights. Almost sixty-seven hours." He didn't
sound like a southerner, but neither did he speak with a
New England accent. Jared decided he must be from
one of the middle states.
"And you realize"--the officer punctuated the remark
with a pointing finger--"not a man or boy aboard
caught a wink of sleep during that entire time. You
are not volunteering for a life of leisure."
"I understand that."
"Good--excellent."
The young man rose, strolled to the front window, his
black pumps clicking on the scarred floor.
Jared fidgeted. The room was depressing, its
appointments old and shabby, in sharp contrast to the
lieutenant's elegant white stockings and
breeches and blue tailcoat. His huge
half-moon hat lay on the table near a litter of
forms. He gazed out the window a moment, then let the
curtain fall.
"If you're prepared to work hard, you'll enjoy the
privilege of serving under a damned fine sailor-was
"Captain Hull."
"Quite right. He's a fighter-but no fool. We
came on the enemy three days out of Chesapeake
Bay. Five of His Britannic Majesty's
best-was
"I heard it was six."
"Exaggeration again. Five were sufficient to give
Hull pause, I assure you. There were four men
o' war and Guerri@ere, the frigate that's caused
so much trouble recently." The lieutenant gestured
in a languorous way. "Hull knew we stood
no chance against those odds. Besides, the enemy had a
slight breeze and we had none. But the captain
vowed we wouldn't be captured." The Lieutenant
smiled. "Not quite the same attitude as you
find in the army. There, it seems, they surrender the
moment the enemy farts."
Jared shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He
supposed this praise of the navy was intended to generate
eagerness in new recruits, but in his case it
wasn't necessary:
"I had no desire to join the army. My father was a
soldier, but-was
"Was he!" the lieutenant broke in. "So was
mine. Where did he serve?"
"In Ohio-when it was still the Northwest. He fought
with Wayne at Fallen Timbers-was
"Remarkable! My father was there as well. Got himself
killed, the poor wretch. Perhaps the two knew each
other. Is your father still living?"
It was easier to simply say no than to give a
complicated explanation about Abraham Kent's
disappearance.
"Well," said the lieutenant, moving closer
to Jared and squeezing his shoulder, "we have something in
common, don't we?"
The dark, languid eyes held the boy's. Jared
felt acutely uncomfortable; said quickly:
"How exactly did you escape the five ships?"
For a moment the lieutenant acted annoyed. But he
released Jared's shoulder.
"First we put men in rowboats, to tow us ahead.
We gained a little headway, but not enough. And as soon
as their wind died, the damn Britishers used the
same trick. So next morning, we began kedging.
Do you know what that is, my boy?"
"I don't," Jared replied, growing irritated
himself. To be called a boy by an officer
barely out of his teens was demeaning.
Besides that, the lieutenant's half-lidded eyes had
a disturbing way of focusing on odd places.
Jared's mouth; his hands; and once, he was sure, his
groin-
"You'll discover what it means if we sign you
on," the lieutenant told him. "To kedge, a
special anchor's fastened to the longest, stoutest
hawser you can put together, using all the cordage
aboard. Ours stretched half a mile-was
"I did hear someone talking about a long line,"
Jared nodded, anxious to conclude the business and get
away. But the lieutenant was in no such hurry.
Jared took it as another bad sign.
"The hawser's rowed ahead of the ship, don't you
see, and dropped with the kedge anchor. Then the ship's
pulled forward by men picking up the hawser and walking
aft. That helped us move along in pretty fair
fashion. Whenever one of the enemy got a little too
close, Captain Hull ordered shots from four of
our long twenty-fours. To set them up in the stern,
we cut away--am I boring you?"
Jared's head jerked up at the abrupt change in
tone. He had clearly angered the lieutenant-
Well, what of it? He was ready to walk
out. He disliked the atmosphere in the dark, stifling
room; and he disliked the officer even more-
Abruptly, he remembered his larger objective.
He had no desire to fail at this early stage.
So he held his temper and forced himself to shake his
head:
"It's a fascinating story."
"I should hope you'd find it so," the lieutenant
sniffed. "We want our recruits to be
enthusiastic--satisfied comin every way." Again there was
a faintly lewd undertone to the words. Or perhaps
Jared's nervousness was making him imagine it-
"As I was saying, we cut away the taffrail
to make room for two guns, and two more "were poked
right out through the windows of the great cabin--Hull's,
cabin."
"And you did get away at last-was Jared said,
hoping to hasten the end of the interview.
"By using every trick. To lighten us up, the captain
dumped most of our drinking water. Ten tons,
almost, He sent the topmen aloft to wet the sails.
A wet sail holds more air than a dry one--
another bit of information for you to store away in that
handsome head."
Feeling feverish and desperate for a breath
of outside air, Jared pressed his palms against his
legs and struggled to feign interest. The lieutenant
uttered a low chuckle. Was his pretense so
obvious? Jared wondered.
"On the second night, we ran into a squall.
Hull shortened sail just as we bore into the storm.
He knows the Atlantic weather back and forth, you
see. He predicted the squall would be a small
one-was
I must get out of here! Jared thought wildly. Then,
in his imagination, he saw Harriet Kent.
How smug she'd look if he came home with
excuses instead of an enlistment agreement. Though
he was writhing inwardly, he stood his ground.
The lieutenant seemed to be enjoying his discomfort.
Prolonging it-for sport. The young man tilted the
rum jug again. Fastidiously dabbed his lips with a
kerchief taken from his sleeve. Only then did he
continue:
"The British, on the other hand, obviously feared
a real blow. They hauled down everything. Shortly
we lost sight of them--the squall hid us. Hull
got busy and cracked on canvas. Sure enough,
we were out of the squall soon, picked up a nice
wind and showed "em our heels. It was a
hell of an effort, but every man did his part, without
sleep and without complaint. And not twenty days ago,
many of them were as green, as-was A pause.
"cominexperienced as you." Another silence. "My
boy, I'm disappointed."
"Why?"
"I expected you to be more impressed."
"But I am! I wouldn't have come here otherwise-was
"You can bet the Britishers were impressed. I'm
sure
there was plenty of cursing on their part that night--
especially aboard Guerri@ere. Her captain,
Dacres, is an old friend of Hull's, you know.
They met in England some years ago, and they've a
standing bet. If they ever engage, the loser presents
the winner with a first-quality hat-was
Jared tensed. The officer was walking toward him again.
He almost cringed from the touch of the supple hand on his
shoulder:
"I've only told you all this in order
to demonstrate the sort of effort that's expected from
young fellows who sail with Captain Hull." The
fingers constricted slightly. "Maximum effort and
obedience. Absolute obedience to every command--every wish of
your officers. But you and I will have no problem
there, will we? We've already discovered we have things in
common-was
Unwilling to suffer the fondling any longer, Jared
jerked away. The lieutenant's dark eyes
widened.
"Well. I see you have a ready temper." The
smile was gone. "You'll have to curb that, else it'll
be curbed for you."
Just a simple nod of assent required immense
effort on Jared's part. A muscle in his jaw
quivered. His eagerness to join Constitution's crew
had all but disappeared. He wondered whether the young
officer was the sort of warped person he'd heard about
but never met--one of those who disliked the opposite
sex and preferred their own-
Even speculating about that, he couldn't walk out.
He couldn't quite bring himself to throw away his first real
chance to discover whether he was capable of surviving comand
succeeding-in a difficult situation. So he endured
the officer's pointed stare, and reminded himself that it was
hardly fair to judge a company of more than four
hundred sailors and marines by the actions of one.
The lieutenant resumed his seat, picked up a
form.
Jared's conclusions about the officer were
abruptly shaken when a door opened down the dim
hall leading back from the parlor. He saw a
fleshy young woman pulling up one shoulder of a bed
gown to cover a heavy, red-nippled breast.
The young woman swayed. Drunk, was she-his
Livid, the lieutenant jumped up. He stalked
two steps down the hall.
"I remind you, Mrs. Broadhurst, we rented
these rooms for official business. Kindly keep
yourself out of sight."
The blowzy young woman ran a palm down her thigh.
"But you said-was
"Presently," the officer whispered. Some unspoken
communication seemed to leap between the two. With an
undertone of savage force, he repeated the word:
"Presently."
The young woman kept rubbing her thigh. The
lieutenant took one more step in her direction.
She blinked, turned and lurched out of sight. The
door closed.
The officer returned to the parlor. He smiled as
if to dismiss the incident. But his eyes were humorless:
"You'll forget what you've just seen. As a personal
favor to one of the officers with whom you'll be serving,
Mr.-?"
Jared fought a shiver of fear. "Kent."
Relaxed again, the officer strolled back to the table.
"Ah, that's right. You did mention your name at the start
of our chat. I thought it had a certain familiarity.
You did say your father fought at Fallen
Timbers-?"
"Yes."
"An officer?"
"A cornet in the dragoons."
"I don't recall the name in the letters my mother's
kept almost twenty years. Still, there's something
famil-was
He snapped his fingers. "Are you perchance related
to a Mr. Gilbert Kent of Boston?"
"He and my father are half-brothers."
"Then Gilbert Kent's your uncle."
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"Do you know him, sir! You must begin to get accustomed
to showing your officers the required respect, Kent."
Jared kept silent, but the muscle in his jaw
quivered again.
"I know your uncle by reputation only. Although the
citizens of this city crowded the docks to applaud
our escape, their enthusiasm doesn't extend to their
purses. Colonel Binney, the local
naval agent, has exhausted his current allotment
of government funds. No bank will grant him a
loan. So Captain Hull's been reduced
to begging donations in order to replenish our stores--
principally our water. I was told that a Mr.
Gray and a Mr. Kent jointly volunteered the
sum of seventeen thousand dollars to furnish what we
must have before we can weigh anchor."
"I hadn't heard that," Jared said, truthfully. The
officer's eyes nickered. "S@ur."
The lieutenant seemed more hostile now, very likely
because he sensed how Jared felt about him:
"Don't expect your uncle's generosity to earn you
any special favors. Only your
responsiveness to the desires of your officers will do
that."
Though severe, the young man still managed to invest the
words with a faintly lascivious quality. Having
seen the woman, Jared was totally confused. What
sort of person was this lieutenant?
The lieutenant set about completing the required
forms. Presently he handed them across the table.
"Read, then sign your name or make your mark.
"I can sign, sir. I've had schooling."
The lieutenant drifted to the window again,
lifted the curtain, stared into the August glare.
"Yes, I should have guessed that from your rather quick tongue.
Aboard ship, however, we're more interested in the
strength of your body."
Jared's hand jumped. He barely managed to write
his name in a legible way.
The officer took the papers, signed one copy. The
street door opened. A man stumbled to the parlor
entrance, his voice gruff:
"This the recruitin" place? Can't see a damn
thing-was
The smell of gin was overpowering. But the lieutenant
instantly exuded good humor:
"Come right in, sir. Your eyes will adjust in a
moment -"
He handed Jared his copy of the enlistment agreement,
then leaped forward as the ragged man swayed. Only the
lieutenant's hands kept the drunk from pitching on
his face.
The officer maintained a fa@cade of friendliness as he
helped the man to a chair, repeating an earlier
speech to Jared almost word for word:
"You've come to investigate service under Captain
Hull?"
"Mebbe."
"Well, you'll be joining a proud ship, sir."
"Just one "at pays money an" hands grog around
regular is all I give a shit about." The
drunk belched, nearly toppling from the chair. The
lieutenant cleared his throat behind one hand:
"Understandable, perfectly understandable. I'm sure
you've heard of our escape from Guerri@ere and four
other British vessels, though. We were chased
three days. Three days and two nights-was
Jared folded the agreement, tucked it in his
breeches, started for the parlor door. The
lieutenant called after him:
"Report to the end of Long Wharf at dawn tomorrow.
A longboat will be waiting to take new recruits
out to the ship."
"I'll be there, sir," Jared said, not looking
back.
The hot, humid air of the street engulfed him.
He sat down on the stoop, tugged the agreement out
of his pocket and studied it without really seeing it.
He had just signed away one whole year of his
life. It was what he'd wanted when he walked
into the recruiting office, but now he wondered whether
he'd done the right thing.
The whole city--excluding the influential
antiwar faction, of course-was hailing Isaac
Hull as a hero; a master of naval tactics.
Jared reminded himself that he was fortunate to be going
to sea with a captain of Hull's caliber.
Yet serving with Hull also meant serving with that odd
lieutenant-
He realized he didn't know the man's name. He
looked at the signature at the bottom of the
agreement.
Hamilton Stovall, 6th X., U.s.s.
Constitution.
He made up his mind to avoid Lieutenant
Hamilton Stovall insofar as that would be possible
within the confines of a two-hundred-and-four-foot
frigate.
By his own choice, Jared went to Long Wharf alone
the next morning. He put everything at Beacon
Street, from his Uncle Gilbert's prideful good
wishes to his cousin Amanda's sobs, out of mind as
he walked jauntily along, a small canvas
bag dangling from one hand.
The bag contained a few personal articles,
including
his fob and a surprise gift from the family: a
sharply honed knife of Spanish steel in
a leather sheath. Gilbert meant for him to use the
knife to scrape away the young man's beard that had
started sprouting recently.
Sunrise etched a thin line of light along the
horizon. Gulls wheeled overhead, occasionally
swooping to snatch a tiny fish from the water. The air
smelled salty and clean.
Eagerly, Jared searched for the officer supposedly
waiting at the end of the pier, saw him.
It wasn't Stovall, thank heaven.
Out in the harbor, Boston's frigate bobbed
gently, her tall masts catching the first scarlet out
of the east. The breeze raised whitecaps around her
hull. Jared could glimpse figures scurrying on
the main deck.
His spirits lifted even more. That sleek, beautiful
vessel with her intricately carved figurehead--a
truculent Hercules--was his new home.
Having been raised in Boston, he had an
advantage over country boys. He knew something
about ships and their nomenclature. No one would have
to tell him which mast was the mizzen, explain the system
of watches and bells or point out starboard and
larboard. With acquaintances from Mr. Tewkes'
academy, he'd sailed the harbor in
small pleasure boats, sometimes in heavy weather.
He was confident he'd have no trouble with seasickness.
Another recruit had already arrived at the end of the
pier. The drunk Jared had encountered yesterday.
As he approached the officer, he watched the poor
fool from the recruiting office nearly fall off the
pier ladder. He made sure his salute was smart,
his name crisply spoken and his feet sure as he
descended to the longboat heaving up and down in the
chop. Within ten minutes, seven other recruits
arrived. The longboat put out into the harbor.
Stovall all but forgotten, Jared gazed at the almost
magical sight of the dawn-reddened masts growing
taller and taller as the boat approached the
frigate. Twenty-four hours later, reality had
replaced magic.
VI.
Constitution carried a complement of thirty boys.
They were outfitted in summer uniforms exactly like
those worn by the older seamen: white canvas slops,
cut wide through the legs to afford freedom of
movement; wide-collared white blouses with flowing
black scarves; round, flat-crowned black hats
gleaming with varnish.
Most of the boys were younger than Jared. He
was at first appalled, then amused, at the quantity
and range of their profanity. To listen to a
weather-browned ten-year-old cheerfully boast that he
was already man enough to shove the ramrod into a whore's
muff was startling, to say the least.
The boys were a rowdy, quarrelsome lot. They
slept, as did the ordinary and able seamen, in
canvas hammocks on the stifling berth deck.
Hung up each evening from iron eyes in the beams
of the gun deck above, the hammocks had to be taken
down again in the morning and stored in special net
racks along the ship's rails.
On his first night in the six-by three-foot
hammock, Jared was cramped and uncomfortable.
Barely able to breathe in the heat. The other boys
kept him awake with chatter about their sexual
conquests-an area of experience still foreign to him. They
also exchanged opinions about the officers. Captain
Hull and First Lieutenant Charles Morris were
well liked. The rest were held in varying degrees
of contempt; Sixth Lieutenant Stovall was
mentioned as a "mean, duty sod."
Some of the boys discussed duels of honor in which
they'd taken part. Jared could hardly believe it, but
apparently these near-infants occasionally
settled disputes
with pistols or swords. He got the impression the
officers never interfered.
The routine of the frigate in port was less demanding
than it would be at sea, he was told. But it was
hectic enough. Four hundred and sixty-eight
human beings jammed virtually every square inch of
deck and gangway space. There was constant shoving and
jostling and cursing as men and boys went about their
duties.
In a day, Jared learned the ship's geography, from
the magazine and shot locker in the depths of the
orlop, up through the berth, gun and spar decks. He
was assigned to the officer's wardroom, aft on the
berth deck. His responsibilities included
mopping the floor, maintaining the lamps, polishing the
table and benches. When the officers ate, he ran
food from the galley, forward on the gun deck.
He was fortunate to find a likeable companion
assigned to the same job--a runtish, homely, but
strongly muscled boy of twelve, Oliver
Prouty. The boy came from Charleston, in the
Carolinas.
On Jared's third night aboard, Prouty fought
another boy barehanded for the right to hang his
hammock next to Jared's. The southern boy's
opponent, taller and older by a year, nevertheless
succumbed quickly to Prouty's combination of punches,
butts, kicks, gouges and bites.
The two fought by lantern-light on the berth deck.
Just when Prouty was getting the best of it, two of his
opponent's friends started to intervene. One raised a
foot to stamp Prouty's spine while the other
grabbed his hair. Jared snatched out the knife whose
sheath he kept illegally tucked into his slops at
his left hip.
He showed the knife and said, "Let them finish it
alone."
The two boys fell back, eyeing the Spanish
steel in Jared's hand.
Oliver Prouty finished demolishing his opponent's
nose. He wiped his bloody hands on the other
boy's blouse, then cheerfully helped his victim
up:
"There, now. We change places, agreed?"
The other boy limped away, snot and blood
dripping from his nose as he nodded weary assent.
Prouty slung his hammock in place just before eight
clangs of the ship's bell signaled the end of the
night watch and the beginning of the mid-watch.
"You've come aboard with one thing in your favor,
Kent," Prouty said, putting his foot on a gun
carriage and hauling himself up into the hammock.
"What's that, Oliver?"
"Being as tall as you are, nobody much wants
to fight you. Still-was with a lewd grin, he stretched out,
hands laced under his head "--one chap I know has
eyes for you in a different way."
Jared climbed into his own canvas bed. Down the
row, a boy shouted, "Douse the fucking lamp!" It
was doused. In a moment, Jared and Prouty heard the
soft groans of a boy beginning to masturbate.
"Give "er a thrust fer me, Davey," someone
called. There was laughter.
Jared understood Prouty's last remark well enough.
He'd been very conscious of eyes watching him with more
than usual interest in the wardroom.
"You mean Stovall, I imagine."
"Aye, Mr. Handsome Stovall. He fancies
himself a prize beauty, the shit."
"He's the one who signed me up."
"Lucky he didn't fling you down and try to bugger
you. 'Course, on shore, he was probably
sober-was
"Not quite. He was helping himself to the rum he
was supposed to be serving to recruits."
"Well, beware of him if he's into the grog heavy.
That's when he gets the urge. Thank the Lord I
got an ugly phiz or I 'spose he'd be after
me. You met Rudy-
fourth down the line? Stovall got him to his cabin
the night after we outran the five Britishers.
Damn near raped the life out of Rudy, he
did."
Aghast, Jared asked, "You mean you have to go along with
something like that?"
"What's the choice? Accuse Stovall, and he'll
up and call you a liar. Cap'n Hull has
to take the word of another officer over ours. And then
Stovall can make it miserable for you afterward."
"Doesn't the captain know Stovall's-tastes?"
"Think he does. But he just can't do anything unless
an officer really steps out of line-in front of
witnesses."
"He'd better not lay a damn hand on me,"
Jared said.
"Pray he doesn't. It's either give in or
suffer a lot worse for refusing."
VII.
The evening of August first, Jared was on
duty in the wardroom when Captain Isaac Hull
said:
"Gentlemen, I've decided. We're going
to sail."
Four of the five officers seated with him at the table
expressed surprise. One voiced approval--the
first lieutenant, Morris. Stovall raised a
limp hand, a visual question mark:
"But we've yet to receive orders from Washington,
sir."
"Damned if I want to receive 'em,
Lieutenant," Hull replied. He was a short,
pot-bellied man of thirty-eight, with ruddy
cheeks. A bachelor, his genial, almost carefree
manner belied his experience and toughness. Jared already
knew a good deal about him:
Hull had been a sailor since age fourteen,
having run away from home in Derby,
Connecticut. His naval career was interrupted for a
period of two years, during which he read law. He
claimed he gave it up because he
was a poor writer. Everyone else said it was really
because he loved the sea.
He had trained on Constitution, as fourth
lieutenant under Talbot, a famous
privateersman of the Revolution, He'd been
to High Barbary, where Treble's squadron had
twisted the tails of the arrogant deys and bashaws
of the North African coast. And he'd achieved his
captaincy through talent and hard work, not connections.
Mathematics were required for command of a bridge, so
Hull had learned what he needed to know by diligent
private study. He could be friendly with individual
British captains, but he made no secret of his
hatred of their country. His enmity dated from the time of
his father's mistreatment on a prison ship anchored
in New York harbor during the War for
Independence.
Hull pressed the tips of his stubby fingers together,
leaned forward to answer Stovall's objection:
"The navy department knows where I am, though I'd
prefer not to hear from 'em. I wouldn't want to be
handed anything smaller than this frigate. The way
they're shuffling commands these days, it could happen. The
longer we stay in port, gentlemen, the greater the
danger you'll be deprived of my company-was
Muted laughter. Hull's eyes grew sober:
"comandthe greater the danger we'll be blockaded by the
English."
First Lieutenant Morris said, "I'm
anxious to start hunting those bastards on Spartan and
Guerri@ere." The two notorious ships had been
ranging the coast and, almost daily, fishing boats
slipped back to Boston with word that one or the other
had seized and burned yet another American
vessel.
Captain Hull broke a biscuit, munched
half. "You forget one of those bastards is a friend of
mine, Mr. Morris."
"Jimmy Dacres?"
"Yes."
Morris
He owes me a hat and I mean to collect."
"All the more reason to weigh anchor!" grinned.
"I agree. We're provisioned--we leave tomorrow."
Sixth Lieutenant Stovall was quick to change
tack:
"I think the whole crew will be pleased. Certainly
I am."
Hull said nothing, peering at his biscuit.
Stovall motioned Jared forward, indicated his cup which
Jared had earlier filled with tea. Four of the others
were drinking their daily ration of rum. But Jared had
already heard Stovall profess-for Hull's
benefit- that spirits dulled a man's mind.
Hull hadn't seemed impressed. Jared thought the
captain recognized Stovall for what he was--a
bootlicker.
As Jared poured, Stovall contrived to brush his
shoulder against the boy's hip. Without thinking, Jared
jerked back. Tea jetted from the spout, staining
Stovall's impeccably white breeches.
He leaped up, hand raised. "You clumsy
whoreson-to "
"I'm sorry, sir," Jared blurted-only because
form required it.
Hull shot out a pudgy hand, seized Stovall's
arm:
"If you please, Mr. Stovall. It was an
accident."
Seething, Stovall sank down again.
Hull said to Jared, "What's your name, lad?"
"Jared Kent, Captain."
"Signed on here in Boston?"
"That's right, sir."
"We have a benefactor named Kent-was Hull
mused.
Jared saw no point in modesty; especially not with
Stovall glaring at him.
"My uncle, sir."
"Is that right! Well, we'd be thirsty as the devil
without him-and stuck in this blasted harbor. His
generosity was deeply appreciated."
Hull scratched at one rosy cheek. "Your
uncle's quite a wealthy man, I understand.
Publishes books?"
"And a newspaper."
"Peculiar to find such a man--a Bostonian, that
is to say--supporting what some call the west's
war."
"My uncle believes it's Boston's war too,
sir." Conscious of Stovall watching him, he went
on, "New England ships can't sail out in peace
until the British stop trying to control the oceans.
But that doesn't seem to occur to most New
Englanders. My uncle says that's trash."
Hull nodded. "Your uncle is perceptive.
I'm delighted to have you aboard. I hope we can show
you some lively action-and His Majesty's ensign being
hauled down."
"I hope so too, Captain."
Still avoiding Stovall's stare, Jared cleared
plates and utensils and left the wardroom. In the
galley, he told Oliver Prouty what had
happened.
"Oh my Lord, Jared," the homely boy sighed.
"You messed up his uniform?"
"Not intentionally."
"He'll have your back under the cat for certain. I
told you there's nothing Handsome Stovall fancies more
than his fine appearance."
"Ollie, I have a strange feeling about him. A
feeling he's not quite right in the head."
Prouty nodded. "There are plenty of odd stories
afloat. That he's a bastard-I mean a real one.
That he's rich as hell, and loves to gamble for high
stakes. I even heard he got in his cups once
and said everyone would be astonished if they knew who his
father and mother were."
"Famous people?"
"Don't think he meant that. His father was a soldier
out west if I recollect-was
"Yes, Stovall told me that at the recruiting
office."
"His mother had another name--Free something, guess
he meant to suggest they were relations."
"Cousins?"
"Closer."
"That's not allowed."
"Christ on the mount! I know that!"
Jared grinned. "You know a lot for someone so young."
"'Round the Charleston docks you don't miss much
when you're on your own. I had nobody to raise me
but a grandma-half blind and no teeth, poor old
woman. I went to sea when I was nine. It was either
that or starve-was
For a moment the twelve-year-old looked more like a
gnome ten times that age.
"If even half the tales about Stovall are
true, it's no wonder he's crazy," he added.
"He'll settle up with you, don't think he
won't."
A memory of Stovall's eyes flickered in
Jared's mind. His hand stole unconsciously to the
concealed knife.
"I'll be on my guard."
VIII.
On August 2, 1812, Constitution raised
sail and put Boston behind the fierce eagle that
spread carved golden wings across her stern.
As Jared had anticipated, seasickness didn't
trouble him. He experienced an hour of mild
nausea when the frigate first reached open water, but
after that, he felt perfectly fit. He quickly
developed the sea legs necessary to maintaining
balance on the crowded, constantly tilting decks.
Almost every man aboard was eager to come in contact with the
enemy. Constitution was still the target of disdainful
remarks from British captains-and from the
admiralty in London. War or no, that kind of
talk got around among the seagoing fraternity.
The frigate was a joke on more than one count.
Badly designed, His Majesty's naval
architects sniffed. Far too much white pine,
especially in her fished masts. And live oak for
hull timber? Who ever heard of that?
Jared thrilled to the first morning on the open sea.
He marveled at the agility of the topmen who
scrambled aloft to work the yards, only their dexterous
hands and feet separating them from a fall to death in the
water. They cracked out the flax canvas with
astonishing speed; and there was a lot of it--forty-two
thousand square feet.
As the great sails were set, the frigate seemed
to leap ahead,-boiling up a snow-colored wake
astern, splitting the cobalt summer sea at her
bow. Hercules glowered at the horizon, the painted
symbol of her readiness to do battle.
Once the coast vanished, the training of the crew--
especially the several dozen recruits
ultimately rounded up in Boston--began in
earnest.
Gun drills perfected the teamwork required to open
the ports, run out the cannon, load, fire and
reload in minimum time.
Though rated as a forty-four, Constitution actually
carried much heavier armament: thirty
twenty-four-pound long guns, for accurate distance
firing; twenty-four thirty-two-pound carronades,
of shorter range but capable of throwing a much heavier
load of metal. One long eighteen-pounder brought the
total to fifty-five guns.
The enemy Hull hoped to find was Guerri@ere.
Her name meant "female warrior," and she was rated
at thirty-eight. What interested the American
sailors more was a recent report that she was only
shipping sixteen carronades, reducing her
close-range firepower.
Such comparisons were dismissed by the British.
Their traditional skill and daring would always carry the
day. They considered the American navy
insignificant, and American captains
upstarts-except on land, where friendships such as
Hull's and Dacres" were both common and
completely permissible.
All in all, the officers and men of Constitution had
good reason to yearn for an encounter with Guerri@ere
or a ship of similar rate.
The frigate stood eastward for two days, raising
no enemy sail. Hull changed course, bearing
northwest toward the Bay of Fundy. On the tenth,
Constitution intercepted a lightly armed British
brig outward bound from Newfoundland to Halifax. A
second brig was overtaken and captured the following
day. Both vessels were burned, and their crews set
adrift in longboats. The brigs were of too little
value to be sailed back to American waters
by prize crews.
A few more equally minor encounters put Captain
Hull in a bad temper, and finally caused him
to set a course for the Bermudas, where he hoped
to find bigger prey.
On the eighteenth, off Cape Race,
Newfoundland, Constitution overhauled a good-sized
brig. She proved to be Decatur, a
fourteen-gun American privateer. When her
captain came aboard, he said he had assumed
Hull's ship to be an enemy frigate. As was
customary, Constitution had showed no colors until
the other vessel was identified.
The American captain told Hull he had
eluded a real British frigate only the day
before. Within an hour, the news spread through the ship.
Oliver Prouty repeated it to Jared:
"The captain thinks he's on to Jimmy Dacres.
Decatur outran a frigate slower than we are.
A big one, too--it must be Guerri@ere!"
Excitement gripped the ship all through the night.
Next day, at three bells into the afternoon watch,
Constitution was plowing through a heavy sea. Men aloft
searched for signs of a sail-
But Jared, below, had forgotten all about the pursuit.
He had just been dispatched from the galley, carrying a
lunch of salt beef, suet, biscuits and hot
black coffee.
The lunch was for Sixth Lieutenant Stovall, who
had stood the watch till dawn, and was now
indisposed in his cabin.
The Deuif's Companion
JARED'S HAND TURNED sweaty as he knocked.
He glanced along the dim starboard gangway.
Overhead, he heard men moving. But the gangway was
empty and still; the officers' sector of the berth deck
totally deserted.
The sea boomed against the hull. He started
to knock again; hesitated. Perhaps Lieutenant
Stovall had fallen asleep. Perhaps he wouldn't have
to face-
"Come in."
Jared stood unmoving, his left hand white on the
handle of the wicker basket. The second time, the
voice was less languid:
"I said come in."
Reluctantly, he did.
It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the feeble
light of Stovall's single lantern. Tobacco
smoke coiled slowly in the tiny cabin, fanned
to motion by the opening and closing of the door. Through the
haze Jared saw the young lieutenant lounging in his
bunk, his throat stock undone, a long-stemmed
pipe clenched between his perfect teeth. He didn't
look a bit ill.
Stovall set aside the wooden lap desk on which
he'd been playing some form of patience with an
oversized deck of hand-colored cards: crimson
diamonds, purplish-red hearts, blue spades,
green clubs. As he swung his legs out of the
bunk, two of the court cards slipped to the floor.
He leaned down gracefully; picked up the cards.
One was a heart king with the face of
President Washington, the other a queen in the form
of a classical goddess. He replaced the cards
in the deck.
With a straight face, he said, "I trust you won't
put me on report, having discovered me with this-was
He waggled the deck. "New England divines
call it the devil's picture book, don't they?
Alas, I'm more comfortable as a companion of devils
than of divines."
Jared kept his head down, knowing he was being mocked.
He set the basket on the small bolted-down
table.
"There is your meal, Lieutenant Stovall."
"Thank you, Mr. Kent. I wasn't up to the
wardroom. Caught a touch of grippe in the damp
night air, I think."
Jared took a step backward.
"Will that be all-was
"Not quite."
Stovall's manner was cordial enough. But his dark
eyes had a bright, cold gleam. Walking slowly
toward the boy, he talked with his pipe clenched in his
teeth:
"I had no idea you would be on duty, Mr.
Kent-was
Jared believed that was probably a lie, but said
nothing.
"I thought they might send the lunch with that coarse
Prouty fellow. However, since you're here--
improperly dressed, I might add-was
Before the boy could stop him, the lieutenant tucked the
bottom of Jared's blouse into his slops. For a
moment he felt warm fingers probing past the waist of
his pants-
Stovall withdrew his hand, sat in the chair beside the
table, examined his pipe. It had gone out. He
knocked dottle into his palm, carelessly discarded
it on the floor.
"comsince you are here, I say, we should perhaps discuss
your clumsiness in the wardroom. Tea, as you
know, leaves an abominable stain. You quite ruined my
best breeches."
The dark eyes slid to Jared again. The boy felt a
strangling tightness in his throat; a sense of being
utterly cut off from the world. He spoke with
difficulty:
"As the captain said, it was an accident-was
Stovall sat up straight. "An accident,
sir."
Jared's cheeks reddened. His hands shook a
little. But he gave Stovall what he wanted:
"An accident--sir."
Stovall licked his lips, his eyes moving again.
To Jared's throat; his arms; his chest.
"I am prepared to be forgiving-was
"Captain Hull seemed to think the matter
settled. Sir."
"What Captain Hull thinks and what I think are
not the same thing. You will sit down, Mr. Kent-was
Stovall vacated the chair.
"--while we consider whether reparations are in order,
and if so, what kind."
"Begging the lieutenant's pardon, the steward and the
cook instructed me to come straight back to the
galley after-"
"I take orders neither from the steward, who is a
syphilitic sot, nor the cook, whose swill would
win this war instantly if it were served to the enemy three
days in a row. That a human being should be expected
to eat suet--Christ! What barbarity!"
Then he smiled. "You will sit down."
Jared slipped into the chair. Stovall strolled to the
door, leaned against it, his handsome face a pale
oval in the smoky gloom. The single hooded
lantern swayed gently from one of the beams
supporting the gun deck. Jared knew with a dismal
certainty that it wasn't going to be easy to get through
that door again.
Hamilton Stovall returned to the bunk. He
picked up
his cards, began to shuffle them as he perched on the
bunk's edge.
"You don't seem to be adjusting to naval discipline
too well, Mr.--turn and look at me,
please!"
Jared swung his legs from one side of the chair to the
other.
"Every time you're given an order, I notice a
certain--shall we say--hostility? Perhaps you don't
even realize you're reacting that way. But as I
advised you once before, you won't do well in the
service until you curb your rebellious
temperament. Of course-was A slow, limp
gesture.
"comin other, more informal circumstances, your lively
nature might have a certain charm."
Stovall's hands, somehow seeming quite independent of the
rest of him, resumed the shuffling of the deck, pulling
cards from the center and bringing them to the front. The
rustling sound began to torture Jared's
nerves.
He worked up the courage to speak again: "May I
ask the lieutenant the purpose of this-?" "Damn
your impertinence! I told you the purpose. We are
discussing the damage done to my breeches. You will
sit there and listen until I dismiss you!"
The cards moved again, whispering in counterpoint to the
crash of the sea against Constitution's hull.
Abruptly, Stovall smiled:
"I want us to settle our difference amicably.
You already know I consider us to be kindred spirits. Like
you, I am not all that fond of the fuss and protocol
of the navy. I accepted a commission out of
necessity, frankly. A suitable position in my
family's iron finery in Baltimore won't be
available until my grandfather passes, bless his
soul."
There wasn't a shred of feeling in the last remark.
Jared knew Stovall was toying with him. Short of
outright insubordination, he didn't know how to put an
end to it.
"I don't intend to get myself killed in this war, I
promise you that. I believe I mentioned that my father
died in the army almost twenty years ago-of
carelessness, I presume. That's the only
reason a clever man comes to harm in a war. I am
not careless. On the other hand, navy life can
broaden a young man's perspectives on the world.
It can be salutary in developing-oh, how shall I
say it? Manly traits-?"
The soft rippling of the cards stopped. Stovall
tossed the deck down, stood and rummaged beneath the
bunk bolster. With his back turned, he said:
"Mr. Kent, have you ever had a woman?" Jared's
spine crawled. He couldn't answer. Stovall
swung around, a metallic object gleaming on a
chain in his right hand.
"Damme, you're a rude lout!" he exclaimed
softly. "You will answer any and all questions put to you
by officers of this ship!"
He took two long strides forward, planting his
boots wide apart. Jared's mouth turned dry at
the sight of the bulge beneath Stovall's tight
trousers.
"I repeat--have you ever had a woman?" "n-no,
sir, I haven't." "Don't you think about it? Many
young men your age are fathers."
"I think about it, yes-was "Do you think it would be
pleasant?" "I-I imagine so."
"Louder, Mr. Kent. You're whispering."
"I said-I imagine so."
Stovall flicked a catch on the oval locket.
One side fell away to reveal the most astonishing
miniature Jared
had ever seen: a reclining nude; a voluptuous
woman. Her fingers hid only part of the dark
triangle between her legs.
"Lovely creature, isn't she? Her name is
Mrs. Free-mantle."
He leaned down toward the seated boy, his breath
ripe with the smell of the tobacco he'd been smoking.
"Does the sight of a naked woman excite you,
Mr. Kent? Make you imagine those pleasures and
sensations you've never experienced before?"
Jared jerked his head up, so that he didn't have to stare
at that obscene picture cupped in Stovall's
hand. He said in a hoarse voice:
"Not really, sir."
Stovall's right brow hooked up. "Indeed? Why
not?"
"I expect it would be better to--to wait for the real
thing."
"You're a clever one," Stovall chuckled.
"Practical, too, since we've no women on
board." He snapped the locket shut,
tucked it into the pocket of his breeches. "Still, Lord
Cock can be a most impatient master. Surely
at night, you sometimes feel his yearnings. His
strainings-was
Stovall's hand dropped toward Jared's knee;
touched it lightly.
"Surely you understand there are ways in which discreet
gentlemen-pledged as friends-can relieve-was
"Take your hand away."
"What's this? You giving orders to me?" The fingers
caressed his leg.
"I'm just telling you-take your hand away, or-was
Jared swallowed.
"Or what, Mr. Kent?"
"Or I'll kill you."
Stovall's eyes widened. Jared braced for a blow
of the lieutenant's fist. Instead, the young man
guffawed:
"Kill me, will you? How, in heaven's name?"
"With--with my fists or any way I can," Jared
said, having decided at the last second not to reveal
his one small advantage.
Stovall let go of his leg, slapped him on the
shoulder. Jared wrenched away.
"By God, Mr. Kent, those blue eyes
tell the truth. You've spirit. Style!
Imagine!-telling an officer you're going to kill
him. That's incredible brass! But I admire it-was
He picked up the cards from the bunk.
"comI admire it because it's so atypical. The deeds
--the lives of most men are so pathetically small and
ordinary. Scruples hamper them-scruples being
another name for fear. I never permit myself to be cowed
that way. When I gamble, it's for thousands, not
pennies. I don't shrink from the pleasures
cowardly little men call vices--I seek them out!"
He gestured flamboyantly with the oversized cards.
Jared's earlier suspicion had become a
conviction. Although the lieutenant might put on a
respectable face for his superiors, he was
dangerously deranged. The boy pressed his palms
against his knees to keep the lieutenant from seeing how
badly he was shaking.
"That's why I do admire that chap Bonaparte,"
Stovall went on. "Everyone else damns him, but
I appreciate the scope of his ambition. His
willingness to abandon himself utterly to a grand vision.
For the same reason, I rather admire our highly
moral captain, surprising as that may sound. His
escape from those five Britishers was
magnificent! No mundane fellow could have
accomplished it-or would have tried. We gambled
everything--risked everything for a single puff of wind, a
quarter mile of distance-we staked our lives and
damn near broke our backs, but we won-to "
Abruptly, Stovall drew a deep breath and
riffled
through the deck. Jared watched with mingled fascination and
horror as he plucked out a blue-tinted spade--
a knave represented by a scowling Indian chief with
upraised tomahawk. Stovall twirled the card
back and forth between thumb and index finger:
"I'm telling you all this, dear boy, to show you that we
are much alike-was
Flick, the knave's face was hidden.
"We should be, we will be intimate friends--commencing
now."
Flick, the savage popped back into sight.
"I have a certain desire that you can satisfy, and it
will be to your advantage to do so. As the special friend
of an officer aboard this ship, you would be able to obtain
certain favors. Preferred duties. Further,
anyone who affronts you would have to deal with me. Do you
understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes, but-I won't have any of it."
"I'm afraid you've no choice." Stovall
released the knave. It fluttered to his feet.
"You are expected to obey orders."
He took hold of Jared's shoulder again. "Come,
now. No more sparring. Pull off your trousers and
climb into that bunk."
Jared shot from the chair, throwing Stovall off
balance. He jerked his right knee up, striking the
bulge at Stovall's crotch.
The lieutenant staggered backwards; let out an
almost feminine scream.
"You filthy little bastard! I'll have fifty laid
on you with the cat!"
"You know twelve's the limit, you damned-was
"Oh yes? You'll take a hundred!"
Jared backed swiftly around the table, spun and ran
to the door.
"Come here!"
In the distance, Jared heard another man yelling.
On the gun deck above, feet thudded suddenly.
He had the door halfway open when Stovall's
fist struck the back of his head.
His forehead slammed into the edge of the door. He
gasped as Stovall pushed him aside, booted the
door shut, whirled him around by the
shoulders-then backhanded him across the face three
times.
Strong as he was, Jared couldn't match the
lieutenant's height and weight. He tried the
tactic of a knee to the midsection a second time.
Stovall jerked backwards at the waist, avoiding
the knee. His fist pounded Jared's temple. The
boy staggered, fell.
Stovall kicked Jared's belly, doubling him in
pain. Then Stovall crouched, hands reaching for his
throat. The clamor of voices grew louder
overhead. Constitution's gangways echoed with a
hammer of running feet.
Jared's arms were crossed over his aching belly.
Stovall seized his neck. Jared slid the fingers of
his right hand beneath his left forearm and down to his waist.
He tugged the Spanish knife from its sheath, jerked
it into the light where Stovall could see it shine.
The lieutenant dropped his hands to his sides,
macabre amusement twisting his mouth:
"Damme, the pup has teeth!"
Jared's right hand trembled. It took will to steady it.
He held the knife between himself and Stovall. In a
moment, staring at the steel glitter, the lieutenant
ceased smiling.
Jared twisted the point of the knife in a small
circle. He was too frightened to speak, but Stovall
understood quite well. He rose slowly, retreated a
step; another-
"You touch me again and I'll cut your face," Jared
whispered. "Whatever else happens, I'll cut
your face to pieces."
Stovall turned pale, began to curse;
monotonous,
obscene oaths that gave Jared an odd sort of
hope, struck a vulnerable spot--Stovall's
vanity.
Jared dragged himself to his knees, then stood, back
against the outer wall of the cabin. He had perhaps three
feet to travel to the closed door. He moved his
right foot, eyes never leaving the lieutenant. At
any moment he expected another attack.
He dragged his left foot after his right, inching down the
wall. The beam lantern swayed, flinging
Stovall's shadow back and forth. The lieutenant's
cheeks glistened with sweat.
Another step to the right. One more and he'd break for it-
Stovall's body tensed slightly, telling Jared
the attack was coming. He raised his right hand higher,
at the same time elevating the point of the
knife. The blade's angle was about forty-five
degrees.
Stovall's eyes flicked to the steel. He
recognized the risk. One misstep, or a fall,
and Jared could impale his face-
Rage overcame reason. Stovalll whipped up his
right fist. Too late, Jared saw the strategy:
knock down the hanging lantern; force him
to maneuver in darkness. He whirled toward the cabin
door.
Stovall's smash was stopped in midair as someone
knocked.
"Lieutenant Stovall? Captain requests all
officers to the wheel at once. We've sighted-was
Jared jerked the door open and bowled past the goggling
master's mate.
As if demons were after him, he plunged forward to the
ladderway amidships, sheathing the knife as he ran.
He streaked up to the gun deck and burst into the light
"What happened in his cabin?" stitutiors rail.
He'd never felt anything so welcome as
salt water showering him while he scuttled up the
steps to the fo'c'sle.
The Atlantic showed whitecaps with deep troughs
between. Towering white clouds hid the sun,
yet some of its light leaked through, putting a glare
on the slopes of the swelling waves. Everywhere, men
were shouting; running; going hand over hand up the
ratlines.
Still blinking, Jared stumbled ahead through the press of
seamen and marines. A glance over his shoulder revealed
Captain Hull near the wheel. Some of the men on
deck looked half dressed, but Hull's uniform
was, as usual, impeccable: black silk stock;
straight-cut jacket; tight white breeches over
his bulging paunch.
The captain paced back and forth, fiddling with his fob.
Finally he demanded the glass from the sailing master.
One long look, and he began shouting orders.
Jared hurried around the foremast. He had trouble with his
footing on the spray-slicked deck. He stumbled
into a topman hurrying to the shrouds. Took a cuff
on the cheek from the angry seaman, and almost fell.
The man rushed on. Jared searched for someone he
knew; spied Oliver Prouty and a half dozen
other boys just beyond a group of marines with rifles.
Gathered between the fo'c'sle carronades, men and
boys were watching a sail that jutted above the
horizon off the larboard rail.
Once more Jared risked a look back;
saw Sixth Lieutenant Stovall, now in full
uniform, climb up from below.
Stovall spotted Jared. His expression made it
plain the boy would be punished. Jared guessed the
lieutenant would charge him with a long list of
infractions, so he could be given the maximum
penalty for each.
As if to confirm it, Stovall touched fingertips to the
forward edge of his braided half-moon hat, a
mock
salute. Then he pivoted and walked smartly
toward Captain Hull, the center of a growing crowd
of excited men aft of the mizzen.
II.
Still limp from what had happened in Stovall's
cabin, Jared joined the other boys. Oliver
Prouty elbowed a place for him, then leaned out over
the rail. He pointed at the scrap of sail:
"Caught sight of her at two sharp. I've already
laid six bets that she's a Britisher."
The ship hidden below the horizon appeared to be bearing
east-southeast. If that were true, her course would
take her across Constitution's bow. Jared stared at the
sail in a vacant way.
The Charleston boy noticed; brushed
windblown hair out of his eyes; took hold of his
friend's arm:
"You're white. What the hell's wrong?"
"I-was Jared wiped his mouth. "I had to pay a
visit to Stovall's quarters."
Oliver Prouty blinked, searched the aft part of the
spar deck. "I see him near the wheel."
"Looks mad as the devil, too," one of the other
boys said.
The sea blinded Jared with its glare as he swung
around. Positioned between the sailing master and First
Lieutenant Morris, Stovall was attempting
to get Hull's attention. Jared knew what the
Sixth Lieutenant wanted to say.
Hull wasn't interested. Eyes shielded with one
hand, he watched the setting of canvas in preparation
for pursuit of the other vessel. There were scores of
men aloft. But all the masthead flags had been
hauled down.
Once more Stovall spoke to Hull. The
captain's
dumpling face reddened. He said something sharp to the
lieutenant. Jared thought he could make out two
words:
Not now.
Stovall withdrew, scarlet. Oliver Prouty bent
his head close:
"What happened in his cabin?"
"What do you think?"
"You mean he-?"
"He tried."
"And you hollered?"
"Worse than that. I had my knife out, ready
to cut him up."
"Jesus! You're in for it."
Jared nodded. "At this point, I'd probably be
better off jumping in the ocean. He'll have the cat
on my back as soon as he can."
"Well," Prouty said, "that ship's bought you a little
time. Hull won't put his mind to anything else
until we've learned whether she's friend or foe.
If they beat to quarters-was
"When they beat to quarters," said another boy. "From
the size of that sail, she's got to be a big ship-
and you've already wagered she's British."
Prouty nodded. "So little Isaac will fight. Look
at him! He's so excited, he can't stand still!"
Prouty's expression grew sly. "Suppose we
do engage. You can always hope some metal from the
enemy's cannon puts Lieutenant
Handsome out of commission. Or that something happens
to him-was
Jared looked at his friend, comprehension slow in coming.
Prouty's eyes were unblinkingly cruel.
"I never thought of that. Lieutenant Stovall could be
one of those killed, couldn't he?"
"With things confused--cannon going off--marines
sniping from the tops--any man can be snapped his
fingers. "That quick."
Slowly, Jared moved his gaze to another of the young,
tanned faces around him,
Then to a second.
A third.
A fourth-
What he saw in those faces was chilling. He
recognized an unspoken promise. The boys would
protect him with their silence.
He ran a hand over his forehead. That Hamilton
Stovall was both unbalanced and vengeful, he
didn't doubt for a moment. And it would be so easy.
During gun drills, he'd seen how much smoke just
a few of the cannon produced. Imagine the smoke
from an entire broadside; clouds of it, to make
faces indistinct; conceal one quick stroke of the
Spanish knife-
God, he was tempted.
Prouty sensed his hesitancy:
"If you don't do something, I can tell you what'll
happen. Stovall will have you punished so hard, you'll
be lucky not to be crippled for life. Even if you
take the cat and pull through, you'll be looking over
your shoulder the rest of the voyage, wondering when he's
going to come at you-was
Prouty's hand closed on Jared's forearm.
"Do it, Jared. Do it."
Jared started to say yes. An image of his uncle
flashed into his mind. His shoulders slumped.
"I can't, Ollie. I want to, but I can't."
Scowling, Prouty studied his crestfallen friend. After
a moment, he gave a resigned shrug:
"All right. It's your skin. You know you're being a
fool."
"I know. I'll just have to take my chances."
Waves thundered against Constitution's hull. All
sails set, she bore off on a course
to intercept the stranger. As Jared watched the
horizon, he could almost feel Hamilton
Stovall's eyes on his back.
"Her Sides are Made of Iron
BY HALF-PAST three, no doubt
remained. The sails of the ship Constitution was chasing
identified her as a member of the frigate class.
By four, her hull was in sight. Jared could make out
small figures scurrying on her deck. From the
wheel, word was passed that the captain had definitely
identified the stranger as Guerri@ere.
The American frigate drew closer, running in
front of the stiff northwest breeze. Her bow
rose and plunged in the heavy swells. The deck
tilted at increasingly extreme angles.
About half past four, Hull ordered tampions
removed from the muzzles of all cannon.
At a quarter of five, he began rattling a
stream of orders. The topgallants, staysails
and the flying jib were hauled in, the topsails reefed
a second time, the royal yards sent down and the
courses sent up. A final order started the
drummers beating to quarters. All over the spar
deck, men and boys joined in three Loud cheers.
Everyone scrambled to battle stations. Jared kicked
off his shoes just as the others did; bare skin held a
bloody deck more firmly than leather. He
stripped off his shirt; lint festering in a wound could
bring on gangrene comand amputation. As he took his
position on the fo'c'sle, he almost forgot
about the ominous presence of Lieutenant Hamilton
Stovall, aft.
About half the boys were assigned to running back
and forth between the orlop and the upper decks, bringing shot
and leather buckets of powder to the guns. Jared,
Prouty and three other boys formed a chain on the
fo'c'sle to pass the powder and shot to the forward gun
crews.
Constitution plowed ahead under shortened sail.
Top-men came scrambling down as the last of the
drumrolls died away under the steady crash of the
waves. The gunners were busy checking the breeching
ropes of the fo'c'sle carronades. The ropes,
secured to the rail timbers through eyebolts,
prevented the cannon from recoiling too far.
Working next to Jared, Oliver Prouty seemed in
high spirits:
"Just heard they're double-shotting the twenty-fours
down on the gun deck. Round and grape'll
bloody the rucking British quick enough!"
Jared shivered. He had never seen grapeshot used.
But he'd heard about the effects of the small iron
balls wrapped in canvas around a wooden dowel,
then secured to a wood disc that slid into the
cannon's muzzle; the whole split and
flew apart when fired, filling the air with murderous
fragments of metal.
Guerri@ere showed every intention of fighting. She'd
already backed her main topsail, and was no longer
making headway. Captain Hull bounced up and
down on the balls of his feet, alternately
observing the enemy through his glass and snapping orders.
Constitution bore down on the other ship, approaching
with her bowsprit pointed at Guerri@ere's
starboard bow. Jared heard one of the fo'c'sle
gunners complain that Hull was playing a dangerous
game. From her current position, the American would
only be able to fire a couple of the twenty-fours
mounted in the bow. Guerriere, on the other hand, would be
able to rake with a full starboard broadside.
The clang of the ship's bell told Jared it was
five o'clock. A moment later, men began to point and
curse. A familiar and despised scarlet ensign
was being run up each of Guerriere's three masts.
Slow matches wrapped around iron linstocks
curled acrid smoke into the air beside each gun.
Jared judged the frigates to be less than two
miles apart. The Britisher was rolling violently
in the white-capped swells.
All around him, he smelled sweat. Saw
hands raised to rub watering eyes. Marines in
groups of seven--one to fire, six others to reload
the rifles for the marksman comwere climbing quietly
to the fighting tops.
Amidships, Lieutenant Morris called out,
"Shall we give her a shot to catch her attention,
sir?"
Hull's voice carried all the way forward:
"Mr. Morris, I will tell you when and where
to fire. Stand ready-and see not a single shot is
thrown away."
The frigates drew closer together.
Closer-
Jared saw a single puff of smoke erupt from
Guerri @ere. A second later, he heard the
slam Of the explosion.
Almost at once, the enemy's entire starboard side
poured out smoke and thunder. Men aboard Constitution
jerked their heads up--the Britisher's shot would hit
high if it hit at all.
Not a single round found a target. The accuracy of the
guns depended on the precise moment of firing,
Jared knew. Someone aboard the enemy had
miscalculated--given the order to fire just as the
starboard side rose on the up-swell of a
wave.
He whirled around, saw and heard the British
cannon balls raise huge, noisy geysers of
water--every round having traveled all the way over
Constitution's masts.
Guerri@ere immediately began to wear around to bring
her larboard batteries to bear. Hull shouted so
everyone on deck could hear:
"Men, do your duty now! Your officers can't command you
every minute. You must each do everything in your power for your
country-to "
Then he called for flags.
Wild cheering broke out as the three jacks
traveled up their lines to snap in the wind at the
three mastheads. On the mizzen, a huge
seventeen-star ensign unfurled. New eighteen-star
flags, recognizing the addition of Louisiana to the
union in April, had yet to be supplied to the
navy.
On Hull's next command, the forward gun crews
swung into action. Smoldering linstocks dipped. The
bow chasers boomed. But the shots dropped into the sea
well short of the enemy.
Jared was fascinated by the agility of the gunners. When
fired, the twenty-fours recoiled like
juggernauts, their carriages slamming backwards from
the open ports and jerking the breeching ropes so taut
Jared fancied he could hear the thick nes whine. The
moment the recoil spent itself, a member of the gun
crew shoved the rammer into the muzzle. Once all
sparks were swabbed out, reloading could safely begin.
Because Constitution's first shots had missed, the bow
chaser crews grumbled about their error as they worked.
They'd mistimed their fire by a second or so, and
profanely swore it wouldn't happen again.
Guerri@ere had come about. Her larboard batteries
began to spout smoke and orange fire. Some shot
plopped into the water midway between the two vessels.
But a few rounds struck quite close to the American,
raining water on Jared and the men nearby. Jared heard
a peculiar thudding amidships, pivoted to see a
gunner leaning over the high rail, pointing down at
the hull.
"That one hit us! But the ball bounced right off."
Grinning, he whirled back to the disbelievers in his
crew:
"I swear to God it bounced, lads. With that live
oak, it's like her sides are made of iron!"
For almost an hour, the battle continued without much
result. Guerri@ere kept wearing in
order to rake with her starboard guns, then with those on
the opposite side. But Hull was quick to respond,
tacking and half-tacking so that most of the salvos
fell short, or hit the sea where Constitution had
been only moments before. Occasionally Hull ordered
one or two shots. But no more.
As the inconclusive chase wore on, Jared grew
increasingly nervous. So did the men at the
fo'c'sle guns. They were openly impatient with
Hull's tactics. Constitution was making slow
headway, using the interval between the enemy's
broadsides to bore in closer and closer. But the
captain still refused to commit the frigate's full
firepower.
The light was beginning to fade from the towering clouds.
Getting on toward twilight, Jared thought. Perhaps
there'd be no decisive end to the engagement-
A strange quiet descended. Guerriere's guns
were silent. She seemed to be standing completely still.
Hull called for the main topgallants to be set.
As men clambered aloft, he bawled another order:
"Sailing master-lay her alongside!"
Jared's throat tightened. At last, Hull was
taking the offensive. In moments, he felt the
frigate surge forward comon a course that
would carry her directly past the enemy's larboard
side-and larboard cannon.
Bells clanged six o'clock. Steadily, Constitution
drew up nearer the stern of Guerri@ere.
Evidently some of the American fire had done
damage; Jared saw hands aloft at the enemy's
mizzen, furiously re-rigging lines.
Out across Constitution's starboard rail, he watched
the frigate come abreast of Guerri@ere. Perhaps the
distance of a pistol shot separated the vessels. He
could pick out the braid-decorated uniform of the lean
captain, Dacres, on the enemy's quarterdeck.
Guerriere's larboard cannon began firing, stern
batteries first. The sea echoed with the rolling thunder;
fiery bursts at the muzzles brightened the darkening
day.
Geysers shot skyward between the ships. The
American's hull thumped several times as more enemy
shot caromed off. Then a round struck amidships and
penetrated with a tremendous crashing of timbers. Men
screamed in pain.
Shot ripped several of Constitution's sails.
Hull sent more men up to repair the damage.
Impatience edged the voice of Lieutenant
Morris:
"Sir, we have men badly hit on the gun deck.
When can we fire?"
"Not yet, not yet!" Hull shouted back,
clambering up on an arms chest in order to see the
enemy more easily.
The fo'c'sle gun crews tried to encourage one
another during the enforced inaction:
"They got blind men firing them guns. Can't hit a
thing."
"Must be "cos they got no sights on their
pieces the way we do."
"I seen three more rounds bounce off our sides, just
as pretty as you please-was
Slowly, inexorably, Constitution drew abreast
of the British frigate, whose gun and spar deck
cannon continued to boom intermittently. Overhead,
the frigate's canvas whined and cracked in the wind.
Gunners standing to the right of their pieces blew on the
smoldering lengths of cord to raise sparks, then
lowered their hands as close to the priming pans as they
dared. Jared stood motionless not far from one of the
carronades, the powder and shot relay having
suspended activity because of the lack of American
fire.
One of the carronade gunners gave his
quoin a kick, making sure the elevating wedge was
firmly in place. On Guerri@ere, Jared now
saw faces clearly; he could even judge the
relative ages of the men. My God, how close
the frigates were running! Why didn't Hull-his
"On the next one, sir?" Morris shouted.
"On the next one!" Hull replied, still balanced
atop the arms chest, watching the slow rise of the rail
in relation to the enemy's hull.
Suddenly he flung up his arms:
"Now, sir-pour in the comwhole broadside!"
Jared had never heard such noise. The deck shook
beneath his feet as the forward gun deck batteries
fired, then the midships batteries. The
carronades on the fo'c'sle roared, and recoiled,
billowing smoke from the depths of scorching-hot
barrels. Starting at the bow, Constitution threw
everything on her starboard side.
Almost immediately, jubilant shouts rang from the tops.
The marines aloft were the first to see the damage
double-shotting had done to Guerriere's masts and
rigging. Jared saw it for himself when some of the thick
smoke cleared.
He saw another kind of damage, too. Aboard
the enemy, men writhed on the deck and
tumbled out of the rigging. A new sound blended with the last
of the American cannon fire--cries of agony from
the wounded and dying aboard Guerri@ere.
Bouncing up and down on comthe arms chest, Captain
Hull yelled even louder:
"By heaven, that ship is ours!"
The captain seemed oblivious to the fact that, in his
excitement, he had split his trousers from crotch
to knee.
Men laughed. But not for long. In less than a
minute, Constitution's batteries reloaded and
fired a second broadside.
Hurriedly passing shot and powder buckets again,
Jared coughed and gritted his teeth against the acutely
painful roar of the fo'c'sle pieces. The
carronades recoiled wildly on their wheeled
carriages, checked only by the humming ropes. His
world shrank to a small piece of deck,
smoke-choked, filled with deafening crashes, lit
by bursts of orange that glared, then quickly dimmed.
In the hellish light, Oliver Prouty's dirty,
grinning face resembled some imp's.
Through rifts in the smoke, Jared saw men fallen
on the deck. He saw blood, and felt the old,
puzzling nausea begin to build in his
belly. He fought it, but it grew stronger moment
by moment, almost paralyzing him. His only relief
came from avoiding a direct look at the wounded.
For the next fifteen minutes, Constitution ran
alongside Guerri@ere, suffering few hits from the
enemy guns but doing devastating damage with her own.
II.
Shortly after six, Constitution's broadsides
broke Guerriere's mizzen several feet above the
deck. The Americans cheered as the huge mast
began to topple, cordage and all.
Jared watched screaming men plummet from the yards and
rigging. Some fell in the sea. Others landed on the
deck, the luckier ones dead or unconscious, the
rest broken and twitching.
Near the wheel, Captain Hull continued to bob up
and down, his linen underdrawers showing through the
tear in his trousers. As Guerri@eres mast crashed
across her rail, Hull waved a fist:
"Huzzah, boys! We've made a brig of her!
Next time we'll make her a sloop!"
III.
The British gunners still seemed unable to inflict
much damage on Constitution, but the American fire
was highly effective. As he passed shot
and powder forward, the procedure almost automatic
by now, Jared tried to figure out why.
When the smoke blew away enough to permit it, he
studied Guerri@ere's, badly ripped hull,
noting the exact moment at which her cannons went
off. At last he saw the difference:
She tended to fire as she rolled upward on cresting
waves. Hence the principal damage she did
occurred aloft. Constitution's gunners, on the other
hand, usually fired on the down-roll, taking their
toll on the enemy's deck, and hulling her in the
bargain.
A few more men aboard the American frigate had
been wounded. Jared still avoided looking at them; the
nausea, barely manageable, was with him every moment.
Except for the humiliating sickness-and a growing ache
in his arms and shoulders-he did his job as if he'd
been at it for years. The first few broadsides had
terrified him. Now he hardly glanced up as the
batteries roared.
Constitution changed course again. She swept across
Guerriere's bow, then put her helm hard
to larboard. Orders were barked-stand by for another
broadside!
The frigate began to veer back before the
wind. Her larboard gun crews readied their slow
matches. Oliver
Prouty swiped his face with his wrist, peering gray
billows around the tops:
"We got some of our braces shot away. She's
not falling off fast enough-was
The significance-of that escaped Jared until a
few moments later, when he heard alarmed cries
aft. He whirled, squinted through the smoke-and saw
a sight that froze him:
Like the prow of a phantom ship materializing,
Gueriere's jib boom and bowsprit appeared in the
smoke.
Prouty yelled, "She's going to hit us-to "
The enemy's bowsprit thrust against the American's
larboard stern quarter with a prolonged grinding noise.
The impact splintered the taffrail and crushed the
stern longboat.
Almost instantly, the British frigate dropped
into Constitution's wake--or tried. A man
pointed:
"She's fouled on the mizzen rigging!"
A moment later, sheets of fire seemed to leap from
Constitution's fighting tops. The marines aloft
raked the enemy's deck with their rifles.
Tangled, the two ships bobbed on the swells, their
rails not six feet apart. A voice screamed from
the fore-top:
"They're preparing to board!"
Someone near Constitution's wheel--Jared couldn't
see who--took quick action:
"Boarders away!"
"Come on, Jared!" Prouty exclaimed, pulling his
friend aft.
They scrambled along the gangway amidships, men
running behind and ahead of them; all except the few
hands responsible for the sails had left their stations and
headed for the cutlass racks.
The rifle fire from the tops thickened the smoke
even
more. Above the din, Jared heard men still Guerri@ere
as the marines hit their targets.
But the enemy, too, had sharpshooters aloft. A
man just in front of Jared took a ball in the
shoulder and pitched against the rail. Jared made the
mistake of glancing at him. Blood stained the
man's blouse; big, bright patches of blood-
"Keep moving or you'll be trampled!" Prouty
screamed behind him, shoving. Jared dashed on.
They seized cutlasses from their assigned
racks. A few yards aft near the larboard
rail, Lieutenant Morris doubled over
suddenly, gut-shot by a ball from a British
pistol half a dozen feet away. A
lieutenant of marines clambered up on
Guerri@ere's fouled bowsprit, searching the blowing
smoke for his commanding officer:
"Captain Hull? Shall we boar-?"
A ball hit his forehead, drove him to the deck.
Jared swallowed the bile in his mouth, closed his
fingers tight around the cutlass hilt. At the
enemy's rail, he could see the British sailors
milling. One side or the other would seize the
advantage at any moment, and cross the bowsprit
-
He watched Captain Hull bend over the fallen
Morris. The first lieutenant grimaced, took
Hull's hand, struggled to his feet. The front of
Morris" coat was a red ruin. Bone-pale, he
pressed his hands against his wound. Slimy red coils
showed between his fingers-
Jared gagged. Morris' stomach had been torn
open. Yet he was up and moving, literally holding his
own entrails.
Hull spun away, sword drawn, as
if he intended to lead the boarders personally.
Morris reached for the captain's shoulder with one gory
hand. Hull whirled, in a fury until he saw
who had taken hold of him.
Morris ripped one epaulette from Hull's
uniform, then the other.
"Now-was he gasped. "Now you won't make such a
prize target-was
Hull understood, clapped a hand on his
lieutenant's arm. Both men disappeared as heavy
clouds of smoke rolled across the stern.
The din of rifle and pistol fire had become
continuous. Jared and Prouty pushed and shoved, but a
crowd of men, uncertain as to their orders, prevented
forward movement. Jared's left foot slipped.
He didn't dare look down. The deck was slick
with blood. Men lay everywhere, wounded or dead-
Jared's ears began to ring. All the blood started
him trembling violently.
Prouty pushed him:
"What the hell's the matter with you? Go to the left!
Around the wheel! These simpletons may want to stand
here, but I want to get aboard Guerri@ere!"
Jared swayed; let Prouty circle away from him,
past the wheel on the starboard side. The
crowd was beginning to break up, move toward the stern.
Jared stumbled after his friend-and came to a halt again a
few steps aft of the wheel.
A dead seaman lay at his feet, blouse pierced
by three balls. Jared was so mesmerized by the sight
of the man's bloodied torso, he completely forgot
his own danger- until another British ball
chewed the deck a yard to the right.
Flying splinters stung his cheeks and throat,
jolting him back to reality. The tumult of confused
voices and small arms fire-suddenly blending with
another long, crunching noise-made his head throb.
Aboard Guerri@ere, the wails and groans of the
wounded were unbelievably loud; a chorus of
condemned men howling in hell. Jared's eyes stung;
the smoke Was thick again. He could hardly see
anyone.
To larboard, the smoke parted slightly. Jared
lurched
in that direction, saw another sailor spin around and
fall. The grinding noise grew louder--the sound of the
two frigates tearing apart, driven off from each
other by the heavy waves.
Rigging broke. Wood snapped. Jared stumbled
into lines tumbling from overhead.
Guerri@ere separated just as the Americans were
massing at her bowsprit, finally organized
to board.
Watching from a good twenty feet away, Jared spied
Oliver Prouty at the fringe of the boarding party. The
Charleston boy was scowling and flourishing his
cutlass. He dropped to his knees with a stunned
look as a chance shot from one of Guerriere's two
remaining tops blew away the back of his head.
"Ollie!" Jared screamed, slipping and sliding
aft and to larboard at the same time. In a second,
more smoke hid the boarders.
A hand from the smoke caught his arm.
"Let go, goddamn you-was
The yell died in his throat. Standing beside one of the aft
guns, Sixth Lieutenant Stovall glared at
him. In his other hand Stovall held a navy
pistol.
Writhing, Jared tried to free himself from the
lieutenant's grip. He saw the round, black
eye of the barrel pointed at his forehead. And behind it,
Stovall's crazed smile:
"Everyone will think it was a British ball, won't
they, Mr. Kent?"
He shoved Jared backwards, away from the
rail.
"Won't they?"
Jared swung his cutlass as Stovall cocked the
pistol. The lieutenant dodged the downward sweep
of the blade. It struck something that vibrated. Jared
heard the creak of carriage wheels-
Its right breeching rope severed by Jared's cut, the
cannon by which Stovall had been standing swung away
from the rail. The left breeching rope snapped; the
cannon was loose-
Stovall saw it coming, rolling slowly as the left
side of the frigate lifted. Stovall released
Jared's arm. Both leaped back-but not before Jared
swung his cutlass a second time.
The tip barely nicked Stovall's jaw. Then the
runaway cannon rumbled between them, the wheels
narrowly missing Jared's bare feet.
Stovall slapped a hand against his nicked chin as the
deck tilted even more sharply. He stumbled
to starboard, lost his footing, dropped his pistol,
flailed wildly with both hands, seeking something
to check his fall.
His hands closed on the muzzle of the cannon. He
screamed.
A foul odor mingled with the reek of powder.
The rest happened incredibly fast.
Already on his knees, Stovall pitched forward. As
his hands slipped off the metal, the right side of his
face slammed against the breech below the firing pan.
His second, piercing shriek testified to the searing
heat. The cannon slid out from under him and rolled on
to come to a jolting stop against the far rail.
In the smoke, men were still swarming aft on both
sides of Jared. Several had leaped clear of the
runaway cannon, but not a one paid any attention
to the fallen lieutenant midway between the two
rails; he was just another floundering casualty.
Screaming again, Stovall writhed on his back, both
hands clutching his right cheek. All at once a stain
spread at his crotch.
He fainted. His hands fell to his sides. Jared
saw reddened facial tissue. The odor of burned
flesh was overpowering -
Guerri@eres batteries roared. Constitution
shivered as
round shot burst the rear wall of Captain
Hull's great cabin. In a moment, flames
licked upward over the stern. A fire crew
assembled, disappeared in the gray billows-
The two frigates had separated
completely. Jared snatched up Stovall's
pistol, discharged it at the barely visible bow of the
other ship. As far as he could see, he hit nothing.
No wonder. His hand was trembling.
In despair, he threw the pistol away. He
turned toward the bow, walking as best he could on the
treacherous deck. I should go back, he thought. Go
back and make certain Stovall's dead.
He couldn't. He was too weak from the shock of what
had just happened. Too overcome with sickness from the
sight of bleeding men. He let the cutlass drop
from his other hand. He fell against the rail as the
opposite side of the ship rose. He seized the
rail, thrust his head over, violently sick.
When he raised his head, he saw Guerri@ere
astern- and blinked in disbelief. Not one of her three
masts remained.
Her deck was a litter of broken wood, ripped
sail, tangled cordage. On the quarterdeck,
her captain was being supported by two of his officers.
Even at this distance, Jared clearly saw the large,
dark stain on the back of the captain's uniform.
"She's done, by heaven!"
Hearing Hull shout somewhere in the smoke, men all
over the ship began to cheer. But not Jared.
He remembered Stovall. And Oliver Prouty-
Ollie was dead. Dead. How could that be?
Tears came to his eyes.
They were gone a few moments later when he stumbled
back to the spot where Stovall had fallen.
The ship's sixth lieutenant was nowhere to be seen.
In the lowering light, the two frigates -continued
to roll in the heavy sea, guns silent. Constitution
was damaged but Guerri@ere was totally out of action.
As the smoke gradually cleared, a tatter of white
became visible on the enemy quarterdeck.
An officer strode to Isaac Hull's side. The
little captain was grimy now. During the engagement his
other trouser leg had split.
The officer called Hull's attention to the wigwagging
white square. "I believe she's asking quarter,
captain."
"Well she might. There's not a stick left standing
for showing a flag--white or any other kind. What
the devil is that man waving, Lieutenant Read?"
"As nearly as I can make out, sir, a
tablecloth."
Isaac Hull's face looked as merry as Jared
had ever seen it:
"Take a boat. Find out whether she has
actually struck."
"I'm sure she has, sir. But I'll go at
once-was
Hull caught him as he left. "Read-was
"Sir?"
"See to Jimmy Dacres. I watched him take
a ball in the back when she fouled us."
The captain was no longer smiling.
Shortly after seven o'clock, a returning boat brought
Guerriere's captain alongside. Hull himself
went to the ladder as men assisted Dacres up to the
victor's deck.
Near the top of the ladder, Dacres paled
visibly; Jared saw it from his place at the rail.
He was crowded among men and boys eager for the sight
of a British
captain surrendering to one of the Americans his
admiralty scorned. But all Jared could think of was
Stovall; and the way he'd botched his one chance to put
an end to the threat Stovall represented-
Captain Hull put on his half-moon hat,
stepped to the head of the ladder:
"Dacres, give me your hand. I know you're
hurt."
James Dacres replied with an oath.
Hull backed away, waiting until the wounded
skipper negotiated the rail.
Dacres approached Hull with an unsteady step.
Blood stained his coat front and back. He
looked ready to faint. Yet he managed to give his
opponent a salute:
"My compliments, Captain Hull." He groped
downward, grudging admiration and bitterness mingling in
his voice: "You've earned my sword-was
Suddenly Dacres' head jerked up. Hull had
stayed the hand struggling to unfasten the blade:
"No, Jimmy. I won't take a sword from one
who knows how to use it so well. I will, however,
trouble you for your hat."
Dacres almost smiled. But the cries of anguish still
drifting across the chop from the foundering Guerri@ere
prevented that. Dacres took off his half-moon
hat, handed it to Hull. The American captain
slipped the hat beneath one arm.
"Come to my cabin, Jimmy. I'm told they've
put out the fire. We'll get our surgeon to dig
out that ball you took."
"Not until my wounded are looked after."
"Of course, I'll see they're brought aboard at
once." He took Dacres' elbow.
"Isaac, let me ask you a question. What have you got
for men in the tops?"
"My marines? Only a parcel of green
bushwackers."
"Backwoodsmen?"
"According to your admirals."
Dacres caught the irony, shook his head. "You
outsailed me. You outgunned me. Why the hell you
weren't hulled as I was-was
"Live oak," Hull interrupted. "Your
architects hold it in contempt, remember?"
Dacres flushed. "Be that as it may, one battle
isn't the
end."
As Hull led him to a ladderway, the British
captain suddenly glanced back at his ship:
"You can't put a prize crew aboard her, can you,
Isaac?"
"I doubt it. She's too badly riddled."
Hull pointed. "With the sea so heavy, she's shipping
water through her gun ports. I'll have to blow her up
tomorrow."
Captain Dacres looked as grieved as if he'd
lost a relative, Jared thought.
"One favor, then."
"It's yours."
"In my cabin there's a Bible. Given me years
ago by my mother. I've carried it ever since I first
went to sea."
"I'll see it's recovered and restored to you,"
Hull said, handing Dacres into the care of two seamen
who helped him down the ladder.
Before Hull followed, he moved briefly among the
men standing nearest to him. He shook a hand here,
murmured a word of praise there. He never reached
Jared. A shout summoned him to the surgeon's
quarters, where Lieutenant Morris was being
attended. Hull waddled to the ladderway and vanished,
torn pants first, stained coat sans epaulettes
next, round face last of all.
God, Jared admired the man's skill and
courage. As innocent-looking as a rustic, Hull
had been masterful during the engagement. If there were a
few more captains like him, the outlook for America
might not be as gloomy as many of her citizens
believed-
By this time, Jared had regained a measure of calm.
He started asking questions, and discovered Sixth
Lieutenant Stovall had been taken to the
surgery. The news reinforced his sense of
having failed at the critical moment, and kept him
from sharing the festive mood that accompanied the
process of cleaning up the frigate. He didn't
drink the extra ration of grog ordered for all hands.
And he slept poorly.
No one hung up a hammock in the place
Ollie Prouty had occupied only twenty-four
hours ago.
VI.
On August thirtieth, Constitution dropped
anchor a mile and a half southeast of the Boston
light.
A few hours later, she moved to Nantasket
Roads. She sent a boat ashore with news of her
stunning success comandwitha request that facilities be
readied for the prisoners and wounded from Guerri@ere,
whose ruined hull had been torched and sunk at sea.
The party returning from shore brought a curious
report. Despite New England's hatred of the
war, most of the city had paradoxically gone wild with
joy at word of the victory.
Constitution's triumph offset discouraging news from
the west: in mid-August, General William
Hull had surrendered Detroit to General
Isaac Brock without firing so much as one
shot. The officer in charge of the landing party said people were
already clamoring for General Hull's
court-martial. Captain Hull made no mention
of the fact that the general was his uncle. Jared had
to learn it from a seaman.
In the ten days since the engagement, everyone had
taken to calling the frigate by a new nickname-Old
Ironsides. A new pride had kept the crew
working cheerfully at their duties. The atmosphere
had somewhat
restored Jared's spirits, too. He slowly forgot the
grim sea burial of the dead from both sides--
fourteen Americans and seventy-nine British.
He took added encouragement from what he learned from
boys who worked for the surgeon's mates. Yes,
Lieutenant Stovall was alive. But the pain of his
injury kept him unconscious most of the time. He
had suffered severe facial burns in an
accidental fall against a hot cannon.
"You have anything to do with that?" asked one of the boys with
whom Jared talked. "Would I tell you if I
did?"
The boy studied Jared with foxy eyes. "Not if you
was smart."
"What's to become of Stovall, Harry?"
"He'll be transferred to a hospital in
Boston, then sent home when he's well enough."
Jared relaxed a little. That ended the immediate threat. He
assumed Stovall would still be recuperating when
Constitution's crew went ashore for the huge civic
welcome being planned.
Jared intended to be part of that welcome--though in
truth, he was less than satisfied with his performance
during the battle.
Yes, he'd stood in the thick of the fighting and
carried out his duties well enough. But he'd failed
miserably when confronted with the opportunity-at the
time, the necessity-to get rid of Stovall. Blind
chance had done it for him; he could take no comfort.
And the troubling sickness had recurred. At the
critical moment with Stovall, it had undone him.
That seemed an ominous sign.
So on balance, he was disappointed. Rather than
resolving basic questions, the events of the past days
merely continued and even sharpened them--and brought back
the feeling that he might never escape the
bent for failure that seemed to be his inheritance
from his mother and father. The gloomy feelings persisted all
through the flurry of preparations for going ashore.
He was on deck when Constitution warped
into Long Wharf and began unloading prisoners and
wounded. The fresh air improved his spirits a little.
If there had been no fundamental alteration in his
doubts about himself, at least he could be proud of
outward changes that had accelerated during the past
month. He stood more erect now, shoulders back,
blue eyes shining in the sun. If he was not yet
physically a man, he felt as if he were comeven
though his fourteenth birthday wouldn't come until
October.
While the wounded were carried off, he and the other boys
told each other how bold they'd been in combat.
They bragged of the feminine conquests they planned
to make in the city. Jared's boasts were even emptier
than those of his shipmates. And all at once, he
was silenced by the sight of Stovall being carried down
the gangplank on a litter.
A bandage swathed most of the lieutenant's skull
and the right side of his face. Jared swallowed. Even
lying helpless, the young officer had the power to stir
terror-
He told himself his fear was foolish. He'd repaid
the lieutenant in kind, and they were even and quits.
He'd probably never see Stovall again--he should
focus on that, not on his failure to take
the officer's life.
The last of the prisoners filed off. Crowds began
to stream up Long Wharf to welcome the sailors.
Soon the entire dock was jammed with people.
Jared set off among them with his chin up and his eyes a
bit harder, a bit colder than they'd been on that
morning he first boarded his ship-
A hundred years ago, it seemed. Could it really
be only a month-his
In that time he had done and seen much. But dizzying
It was the way of the world these days, Uncle Gilbert
said. Finally, in the noisy throng on Long Wharf,
he allowed himself a touch of pride. Perhaps some things
hadn't changed. But others had. The boy was dead.
Long live the man.
Heritage
JARED STRUGGLED UP Long Wharf against the
human tide rolling toward the Constitution. Because he
wore a uniform--newly laundered slops, blouse
and scarf, varnished black hat--he was
automatically a candidate for congratulations,
boisterous back slaps, squeezes, pokes,
pinches and pats. In the face of such enthusiasm, the
going became difficult. He curled his left arm
around the small canvas bag containing
souvenirs for the family, lowered his head and kept
shoving his way to the head of the pier.
People around Constitution's gangplank rushed aboard.
Some of the women ran to the sailors still on the ship and
grasped them in ardent embraces. Hanging onto his
hat and looking back, Jared wondered enviously
whether he could find some attractive young woman
to favor him with a kiss. Or something more.
As if the wish had conjured bad luck, he found
himself approaching a woman, but hardly a desirable
one. He was out of the heaviest press now, and had
room to maneuver. He sidestepped to avoid a
direct confrontation. The woman's dress and cap
were filfhy. Most of her teeth were gone, even though
she didn't appear to be thirty. A whore, he was
certain. The woman changed course to intercept him:
"Here's one of the lads from the frigate!"
Her remark was directed to a short, wide-shouldered
man lurching along behind her. Jared paid no attention
to the fellow; he was too busy avoiding the whore's
outstretched hands.
Rum fumes barely masked the stench of the woman's
body. But she wasn't so drunk that she couldn't
move quickly. Darting in front of Jared, she
seized his shoulders and gave him a wet
kiss on the cheek.
Jared tolerated it, but with difficulty. The
woman's incredibly dirty fingers and rouged,
pox-pitted face turned his stomach. The woman's
companion laughed-a wheezy, consumptive sound-and
tapped her shoulder. His voice was slurred by drink:
"Back off, Nell. The lad's not old enough to buy
what you're selling."
"Oh, he looks plenty old enough to me." The whore
simpered, showing her discolored gums. "Want to come
up the street a ways? I'll pleasure you for
half the usual price. It's a special rate
for any of the brave lads from Boston's frigate-was
"Let go of me, please," Jared said, concerned that the
encounter might turn ugly. The whore reached for his
groin. Her man restrained her:
"Nell, he said no. Leave him be."
"Thank you, sir, I'm obliged," Jared said
while the whore grumbled.
For the first time he got a clear look at her
companion; the woman's pimp, obviously. He was
about forty; stocky, with untrimmed hair, whiskers and
beard shot through with gray. He smelled even worse
than the whore.
Because of the man's position and the angle of the
sunlight, only the right side of the man's face was
visible beneath his hat brim. But that was quite enough to make
Jared queasy. The man's skin was covered with seeping
sores. His right eye had gone milky with blindness--
altogether, a ghastly specimen. But not unusual around the
docks.
muzzy grin. Extended hand.
"Privilege to meet any of the lads who-was
Abruptly, the pimp stopped. Withdrew his scabby
hand. He stared at the boy in an intense way,
saying nothing.
The whore was anxious to rush on and find another
customer. The pimp lingered.
"Boy-?"
Jared would have left instantly but he didn't want
to provoke the drunken man. He held a hand over
his brow to cut the sun's glare. Even so, he still
couldn't see much of the man's face.
"Yes?" Jared said.
"Would you tell me your name?"
"Why?"
"Because you resemble someone--I mean to say--someone I
once-was
"It's Prouty, Oliver Prouty," Jared said.
It was the first name that popped into his head.
"Oh." The pimp nodded slowly. "Mistake,
then-was
"Yes, sir. Good day."
Shivering, Jared turned and left.
The pimp tugged off his hat and fanned himself, staring
after the tawny-haired boy. The pox sores
glistened in the sunlight. The disease-blinded right eye
shone like a white marble.
"He lied to me-was the pimp murmured, sounding more
sorrowful than angry.
The whore rushed back to him. "For Christ's sake,
let's get to the ship!"
"But the boy didn't give me his right name."
"What difference does that make?"
Collecting himself, the pimp brushed a hand against his
watering left eye. "None," he said softly.
"None."
He put his stained hat on his head. The shadow of the
brim blotted his face again, hiding the badly healed
ridge of scar tissue on his left cheek.
He pulled' a bottle from his coat pocket,
swigged and followed the whore down Long Wharf.
II.
Jared had hoped Uncle Gilbert and Amanda might
bring a carriage to meet him. When he
searched the street at the head of the pier and failed
to find them, he was disappointed.
He could understand Aunt Harriet not coming; she wouldn't
care whether he was alive or not. But Uncle
Gilbert wasn't that way. Jared told himself his
uncle must not have known the exact time of Constitution's
docking.
He knew the excuse wasn't valid--especially
for a newspaperman. But he needed some kind of balm
for his let-down feeling. His step was much less
jaunty as he set off along a narrow street.
He'd gone no more than a few blocks when a
voice challenged him:
"Hello. Are you off the Boston ship?"
Jumping across the refuse channel to the dark
doorway, Jared peered at the person who had
spoken; a girl, lounging in the shadows with her
forearms crossed over small breasts barely concealed
by a thin blouse.
Unlike the whore on the wharf, this one was
reasonably attractive. Brown-haired, with a
clear complexion and clean skin.
And she had most of her teeth.
"Yes, I am," he told her. "I'm headed for
my home."
Wondering if this might be a deadfall, he glanced
along the mean, littered street. No one else was
in sight. Half a block away, a tavern showed
closed shutters, as if his
the patrons had all departed. To welcome the
frigate, perhaps-his
He felt reassured when the young woman smiled at
him:
"Are you in a terrible rush? I could make you happy
to be on land again."
Lazily, she dropped her arms and let him see
her breasts covered by the thin blouse. The dark
circles of her nipples showed clearly.
Temptation set off peculiar sensations within Jared.
Excitement and shame mingled as he felt the
unconscious response of his body to the girl's.
"I have no money," he said truthfully. "We've
yet to be paid."
"Surely there's something in that little bag to take a
girl's fancy."
"Nothing of value. Two bracelets of tarred
cordage, plus a four-inch splinter from our ship's
mast."
"Would you show me one of the rope bracelets?"
She said it so gently, he couldn't
refuse. He opened the canvas bag.
The brown-haired girl turned the crude
bracelet in her fingers, then smiled again.
"If you swear this comes from the Boston frigate, it
would be acceptable payment. I mean, today's a
special day, isn't it? Everything about it should be
special. For you. For me too."
He eyed the souvenir he'd tied and tarred himself.
If he gave one away, there would only be one
left-and that one must go to Amanda. Much as he
despised Aunt Harriet, to neglect her would
only provoke trouble.
Nervously, Jared hooked a finger in the collar of his
blouse. He was perspiring. Partly from excitement,
partly out of fear.
Why couldn't he present the souvenirs privately?
Aunt Harriet didn't need to know she'd been
shorted-
"All right," he said in an unsteady voice.
"The bracelet's mine?"
"Aye."
She seemed genuinely pleased, and bent to kiss his
cheek lightly as he passed from the blue shadow of the
street to the deeper shadow and mystery of the shabby
ground-floor room.
III.
When he emerged an hour later, a greater mystery
had been solved--pleasantly if a little clumsily
this first time.
The young whore had never even told him her name,
leading him straight to her narrow bed and helping him
undress. The moment she drew off his underclothes,
he confronted her with an enormous erection-and a
deep red face. But she laughed with delight,
wriggling free of her own garments.
She lay back, one hand closing gently until he
tingled with a tension altogether foreign to him before.
"Come, lie down with me," she said. "You'll find it
nice, I think."
As he slipped down beside her, she pressed his
erection against her tuft and left it straining there,
stroking his cheeks with her palms, then opening her
lips against his. Her tongue caressed the inside of
his mouth, arousing him all the more.
Her breasts touched his chest. He started breathing
heavily. He'd watched dogs coupling in the street
a few times, but he'd never imagined a similar
act between humans could produce such marvelous
sensations-
Kissing, fondling, she guided him between her
thighs, then began to slide up and down beneath him. He
clasped his arms under her back, awkward in his
movements until he found the proper angle.
Soon she was breathing as loudly as he. She began
to moan against his throat-
The explosion of his loins was matched by her own
violent wrenchings; up and down; side to side. After
that came a delicious lassitude. They lay
close together, he feeling sad, somehow. He put his
lips against her warm ear and whispered that he loved her
very much. She laughed again, touching his nose and saying
she loved him too.
Leaving her, he whistled as he walked. The odd
sadness had passed.
Perhaps he'd experienced it because he knew their
lovemaking was an exchange of pleasure for a
price, nothing more. Yet the act seemed far too
beautiful and moving to be of such fleeting
significance. For a moment he wished he could see the
girl again. He wished their declarations of love had
been real ones, not lies born in the heat of the
moment-
What foolishness!
Even so, her face lingered in his thoughts. He
suspected it always would.
He whistled louder. Why feel bad? Hadn't he
learned one of the things a man must know?
At an intersection, he paused and looked back.
The brown-haired girl was waving goodbye from her
doorway. The little bracelet of tarred cordage
jiggled on her wrist.
He waved in return, then hurried on.
IV.
At Beacon Street, Amanda came to answer the
door. When she saw Jared, she squealed with
delight.
He dropped the canvas bag, caught her around the
waist and whirled her above the stoop, nearly causing
the driver of a dray to run his team onto the
sidewalk.
Amanda was as pert and lovely as ever. He hugged her
fiercely. The touch of her soft skin against his cheek
made him feel he was truly home.
"Dear Jared!" she gasped when he released her.
"How fine you look in that uniform!"
"Not fine enough for anyone to come greet me at the pier.
Other families were there. But not mine. That demands
an explanation, by God!"
"Oo, do all sailors swear that way?"
"I know a hundred other words--all
worse!" he teased, making a terrible face.
Amanda covered her mouth and giggled.
Jared feigned anger:
"See here!-I meant what I said. Why didn't
anyone meet me? I might have had an arm blown
off--even been killed! Didn't anyone care?"
"Of course we care, Jared. But we already knew you
were all right."
That caught him short: "You did?"
"Papa sent one of his reporters to the pier when some
sailors from your boat-was
"Ship."
"What's the difference?"
"You're too little to understand."
"I am not, I am not!"
"Amanda!" he said sternly. "Go on!"
She huffed, then said, "Well-these men came to town
a day or two ago-was
"The first shore party."
"comand papa's reporter gave one of them money for a
list of the dead and wounded." She pronounced the last
word to rhyme with "sounded."
"The word is "wounded."
"I don't think it's the same word I saw in the
paper."
"Yes it is." He spelled it.
She looked dismayed. "Mercy, it is the same
word."
"Wounded," he repeated. "As in moon, loon--
you're not quite as grown up as you think, Miss
Amanda!"
Perfectly serious, she asked, "Will I ever be?"
"I doubt it."
He said it too dourly. She started to weep.
"Amanda, for God's--for heaven's sake, stop that!
I was only teasing!"
She bawled all the louder.
"Oh, God," Jared groaned. They were attracting
stares from pedestrians. He grabbed her arms.
"Amanda, you're grown up. You're very grown up.
There!-I said it. Now stop. You seem to forget
I'm the one who's supposed to be upset!"
Instantly, the tears vanished. "I was trying ever so
hard to make you forget that."
"By crying? Typical woman's trick!" He
pinched her chin with gentle affection. "Well, it
worked. Let's go inside."
As he caught his cousin's hand, she said:
"Papa even made the reporter bring the list here,
Jared. He's been in bed for the last four
days."
"In bed?" Frowning, Jared closed the front
door. Harriet Kent's voice drifted from the
back of the house; she was hectoring one of the
servants. "He's ill?"
"From too much work, the doctor says."
She led Jared into the front sitting room.
Outside, he hadn't noticed the boards nailed
across two of the windows.
"We've had visitors," Amanda told him.
"Twice! The last time, they broke the glass with
stones. I was so scared-to "
"Why were the windows broken? Because of Uncle
Gilbert's position on the war?"
"I think so. Papa's hired watchmen at the
printing house-was
She glanced toward the hall, where footsteps
rapped. "Amanda, were you the one squealing and shrieking
outside-?"
Her back to the hall, Amanda stiffened at the sound of
Harriet's voice. Jared did too. Amanda's
small fingers knotted in her skirt.
Dressed in mauve and looking paler than usual,
Harriet Kent darted a hand to her bosom.
"Jared!"
"Good morning, Aunt Harriet." "We had no
idea when to expect you-was He set his canvas bag
on a highly polished table. Harriet didn't
allow her best furniture to be used so casually--
the exact reason he deposited the bag where he
did.
Her eyes flicked to the table. Her lips
compressed. That delighted him. On the surface,
however, he was polite:
"It all depends on when the pilot comes aboard
to steer us in. He came aboard first thing this morning.
Where's Uncle Gilbert?" "At the printing
house." "But Amanda said he's ill-was
"When did that ever stop him from doing exactly as he
wished?"
Jared indicated the boarded windows. "You've had
unexpected callers."
Harriet sank into a chair. "Every time Gilbert
writes one of his editorials, he's pilloried in
the opposition press, abused on the street-or
we're visited by vandals. The strain is getting
to be more than I can bear."
Jared concealed his disgust. "Evidently the strain's
been worse on Uncle Gilbert."
"It's his fault, not mine, if he
chooses to endanger his
health by working long hours for an unpopular cause!"
Jared was aghast at her lack of feeling for her
husband. He was angry, too. Not only because of the
way she spoke of Gilbert; but also because she
didn't even trouble to ask one question about how he'd
gotten along on the frigate.
Instead, she stood up, marched straight to the polished
table, removed his canvas bag and set it on the
floor.
"Your uncle and I have parted company on political
matters, Jared. I now attend Federal Street
Church, where I find Mr. Channing's sermons more
to my taste."
"I see."
Jared knew of the church, naturally. Its pastor, the
Reverend William Ellery Channing, was
Boston's most popular preacher. He'd taken a
pacifist stand on the war. Jared wasn't surprised
that Harriet Kent would show her vindictiveness
by refusing to attend the Kent family's church, and
by displaying herself publicly, alone, in a place of
worship whose pastor was more attuned to the thinking of those
whose admiration she coveted. Christ, he didn't
know how Gilbert stood the woman!
In a few moments, the joy of homecoming was wholly
gone; destroyed by the sight of those ugly planks
hammered over the empty window frames, and
by Harriet's hauteur.
His black mood drove him to pick up the canvas
bag:
"Here, Amanda, I brought you something."
"What is it, what?" she exclaimed, dancing up
and down.
"A bracelet of rope from Constitution." He
slipped it easily onto her small wrist. "I
made it myself."
He swung around.
"I'm sorry I have nothing for you, Aunt
Harriet."
Her eyes showed her hostility. "I wouldn't
expect it of you, Jared. You are your mother's child, not
mine."
She whirled, her skirts belling, and vanished into the
hall.
Scarlet-cheeked, Jared kicked the canvas bag.
Amanda hugged him again and thanked him for the present,
oblivious to the hatred that had crackled between the boy
and the woman only a moment earlier.
The skies grayed in the early afternoon. A
chilly rain began to fall, hinting of autumn.
Gilbert returned a few minutes after six, to be
greeted by a complaint from Harriet: some of the kitchen
help were unhappy about preparing and serving large
meals in the evening. In most other wealthy homes,
by nightfall the kitchens were quiet, the day's work
largely done. Why couldn't Gilbert try to change
his habits? Learn to dine in the early afternoon, as
respectable people did-his
Gilbert was wan; thinner than a month ago. But
Jared's presence put him in high spirits. He
refused to let Harriet's harangue bother him:
"My dear, you and the servants will wait in vain for that
kind of change in me. We are Kents first and
foremost. Respectability, if any, is
incidental."
Harriet wasn't amused. "So I've discovered."
"Jared, come along to the table! I want to hear all
about Hull's victory-was
Gilbert wrapped his arm around his nephew's
shoulder, walking him past Harriet's vindictive
eyes. "By God, I've never seen the old town in
such an uproar. Do you know they're going to give you a
parade down State Street? And a dinner at
Faneuil Hall?"
"Not me, surely," Jared laughed.
"You're part of the crew, aren't you?"
"When is the dinner?"
"September fifth. In the evening," Gilbert
added, for Harriet's benefit. "Even Royal's
planning to attend, much as he loathes the war. The
curious dualism of
Boston continues! Bursts of patriotic fervor
on one hand--widespread refusal to help the
government on the other-was
Gilbert coughed as he slipped into his chair at the
head of the dining room table. Amanda took her place
opposite Jared, elbows on the tablecloth. That
earned her a smack on the wrist from her mother. Jared
wondered whether Harriet's choice of wrists was
accidental. She slapped the one on which Amanda
wore the bracelet.
Harriet sat down at her end of the table. Her
husband virtually ignored her:
"Before you begin, Jared, what news do you want
to hear?"
"About the war? I only know General Hull
surrendered Fort Detroit-was
"Without shooting at the enemy once! Something much
worse happened about the same time--the
middle of August--but the reports took weeks
to reach the eastern seaboard. Immediately the fort at
Michilimackiac fell, Hull ordered Fort
Dearborn evacuated--that's at the foot of the lake
in the Illinois country. Sixty-six men, women
and children dutifully obeyed Hull's stupid order,
and left the fort. They were promptly massacred
by Indians lying in wait."
Jared shook his head. "That's horrible. I
suppose the Indians were equipped by the British?"
"Undoubtedly. If it weren't for Constitution's
splendid performance, morale in the country would be
nonexistent."
"Did you know Captain Hull's going on leave?"
"I did not."
"His brother died suddenly."
"Will Hull resume command when he returns?"
"No, Constitution's going to put to sea before that. I
don't know this for certain, but I heard Hull's
already
been reassigned to the Boston Navy Yard, and
Captain Bainbridge will command our ship."
"I want to hear about the fight!" Amanda said.
Harriet leaned forward. "Such an interest on the part
of a young girl is not suitable or-was
"Oh for God's sake, Harriet!" Gilbert
said. "We all want to hear Jared describe the
battle." "You needn't include me," his wife
retorted. "You'll forgive me if I retire.
I'm not feeling well."
Lips pursed, Gilbert stared after her as she left
the room. They listened to her rush upstairs. Amanda
seemed relieved that her mother was gone. She fairly
bounced on her chair:
"The battle, Jared-to "
"Wait, dear," Gilbert said. "I want to ask
one question." He looked at Jared. "Are you planning
to sail out with Bainbridge?"
"Certainly, sir. My enlistment runs for a year."
"Then you and I must have a chat after dinner."
It was said lightly enough. But from the forthrightness of
Gilbert's eyes--their dark color heightened by the
unhealthy hue of his skin--Jared knew something
serious was afoot.
Amanda responded to the exchange by pouting:
"And I'm to be sent to my room, I suppose?"
Gilbert pondered. "Not necessarily. I
believe it might be well if you joined us," He
showed more animation as the maid brought in their plates.
"Now, Jared--every detail. From the moment you
first sighted the enemy."
Jared obliged his uncle, omitting only his trouble
with Stovall and his strange sickness. While the
problem of the sixth lieutenant could have been
described in a reasonably rational way, the other
could not.
And since Jared was positive his uncle couldn't
explain the ominous flaw, he saw no reason
to bring it up.
Because the rain had chilled the house, a fire had been
lit in the sitting room hearth. Gilbert pulled a
heavy chair up near it. Amanda snuggled at his
feet, fondling her bracelet and yawning.
Gilbert's right hand moved gently, caressingly over
her shining hair. In his other hand he held a goblet
of port. But he drank very little of it.
Jared reveled in his uncle's recognition of his
maturity. Gilbert had poured wine for his nephew
without any reference to his age. He finished the first
glass quickly, helped himself to another and resumed his
seat, crossing his legs. His polished boots
reflected the firelight. He had changed
to civilian clothes for dinner. His fob hung below his
trim purple jacket.
"I appreciate your thoughtfulness in bringing
me that bit of wood from your ship," Gilbert said.
"I'll treasure it."
"It's really of no value, uncle-was
"On the contrary. And the fact that you chose that sort of
gift says something interesting about you."
Amanda yawned again. The goblet sparkled with fiery
highlights as Gilbert raised it toward the mantel
where the French sword hung above the Kentucky
rifle. The green glass tea bottle shimmered
directly below the gun.
"You are--instinctively, it seems--a Kent. A
collector of mementos. That's good. But in other
ways, you've changed remarkably in a very short
time-was
Though Gilbert spoke matter-of-factly, Jared
was disturbed. He had a strange feeling the conversation
was about to take a gloomy turn. The rain ticked
against the planks nailed over the windows. By the light
of the fire, Gilbert looked weary and withered.
"It's mainly because my voice has gotten deeper,
I think."
"No, it's more than that. The way you carry yourself, for
instance. I've been told danger can gray a man
overnight. If that's true, I see no reason
why it can't pull a boy from childhood
to manhood in a month."
Gilbert set the goblet on a table beside his chair.
Amanda had closed her eyes. Careful not to disturb
her, he rose and approached the mantel.
"I am not a man of particularly morbid
temperament, Jared. But all of us are mortal, and
in my case, the time granted me on this earth may be
shorter than that granted to others. May be," he
repeated, a hand raised to silence his nephew's
automatic protest.
"I say that only because my physician has said it
to me. I don't like to borrow trouble. I've always
believed, however, that those who are blind to future
possibilities are certain to be punished by them."
"Amanda told me you were ill again," Jared said. "Do
you mean to say it-it's more serious than we know?"
"I've no idea whether it is or not. I just
have-oh, call it a premonition."
That was the moment Jared knew his uncle was concealing
something:
"Uncle Gilbert, please tell me the truth.
What has your doctor said?"
Gilbert waved. "The usual nonsense about too
much work. The strain of trying to convert others to my
viewpoint--a lot of twaddle. I'll
probably live to be an old horse."
Jared stared into his uncle's eyes and didn't
believe it. Neither did Gilbert, he realized with a
jolt.
"But since you are old enough to discuss such matters,
it's wise for us to at least recognize the
possibility that
I could be removed from the affairs of this family at
any time."
With a glance, Jared tried to warn his uncle that Amanda
had awakened. She was listening, her head leaning against
the chair, her eyes large. Gilbert appeared not
to notice that, or Jared's warning.
"In that event, what would be your attitude about a
career with the firm?"
"I'll have to answer you honestly-was
"I'd have it no other way."
"I don't know if I'm the sort to run a printing
house."
"Very well. Should anything happen to me, you must then
rely on my general manager, Franklin
Pleasant. He would be a good steward of the Kent
interests until such time as you might decide to throw
your lot with the firm comor, barring that, sell it.
Naturally I'd hate to see it sold.
But I won't force you into a mold of my own
devising. Your father was almost--never mind, that's
extraneous. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Jared nodded slowly. He hesitated to speak what
was in his thoughts. But his uncle's frankness and the
fire-shot darkness conspired to make his mood as
somber as Gilbert's:
"I think you're saying decisions should not be trusted
to Aunt Harriet."
"Yes, God forgive me."
"I still think it's premature to imagine something will
hap-was
"Perhaps, perhaps," Gilbert interrupted. "But
indulge me a little while longer, if you please.
It's often struck me that a man's life is something
like one of those gambling games the clerics abhor.
In cards, for instance, the outcome depends partly on
what you're dealt and what you draw by chance. At the
same time, you have the opportunity to make choices--
to show skill or lack of it; boldness or cowardice
--in your disposition of the hand.
A man also has certain things given to him. His
capacity for learning. Sometimes his health--but those
factors needn't control him completely. They
needn't defeat him if they capriciously
take charge for a while. That happens in this world,
despite our best efforts to order our own lives-was
Jared remembered Stovall; remembered Ollie
Prouty's death.
"I know."
"I want to share some thoughts about your life, Jared.
How you might control and guide it in the years to come.
As I said before, I'd never tell you exactly what
to do, for reasons we won't go into. But whatever you
do and wherever you go, I do want and expect you
to remember one thing. You are a Kent. A member
of a family not content to simply prosper without concern
for this country which makes prosperity possible for all.
Everything we are--you are--is summed up in our odd
penchant for collecting little souvenirs of the times in which
we've lived. I've noticed the books and
scientific samples in your room, for instance.
During your absence, your aunt wanted to store them
away. I said no. Those things are signs that you're
a Kent--as is that splinter of wood you brought
home."
He returned to the mantel. "As a Kent, I
want you to share the reverence I have for these objects-was
A hand encompassed the sword, the rifle, the
bottle.
"combecause they are the sum and symbol of the way your
grandfather pledged his life to what he believed. Many
men-and women-pledge themselves to nothing but their own
self-interest. That's not the Kent way. Not my
way, and I hope not yours. If Kent and Son must
vanish one day because you choose another course,
don't let these objects vanish-or what they
represent. Guard them as you would your own life.
Humor me in
this, Jared--promise me you will revere and protect
what you see before you."
In a whisper, Jared said, "I will."
And the voice of his doubt whispered in turn, If I
am strong enough. If I am not what my father was-
He was conscious of Amanda's upturned face,
evidently still unnoticed by Gilbert. With an almost
mystical fascination, she stared at the bottle and the
fire-lit weapons.
"See that you live up to the words on that fob as
well."
"I'll try."
"Finally--take care of your cousin. I fear you are
the only one who can do that adequately."
Jared opened his mouth, ready to tell his uncle
Amanda was listening. Young as she was, she
apparently sensed the reason Gilbert spoke as he
did; she understood his references to poor health and the
possibility of death. Nestled against the chair, she
had tears in her eyes.
Jared said, "I'll take care of her, sir."
Gilbert walked to the front windows, stared at the
rainy darkness beyond the one remaining glass.
"If we survive and win this war--as we must--there will
be great challenges for a man who is willing to look
for them without fear. We are gaining new territory
all the time. The pace of invention and technical
progress is astounding. The United States can
expand, and prosper. Despite greed and faulty
thinking and all the cruelties and aberrations of the
human condition, this nation can become something unlike
any other state or kingdom in the world's history.
Your grandfather recognized that, I have tried to, and
I want you to do the same. I hope you will not be
drawn into selfish byways, but will stay on the high
road--the road of cause and contribution and
commitment. In the Kent family, that's a kind of
religion. Those are its altar pieces-was
Jared's gaze followed the slender hand back to the
mantel.
"comand you are called to be one of its
priests. Strong men of conviction will be needed,
Jared. They are always needed, but they will be needed more and
more urgently in the years ahead."
He began to pace. "The country's still in its
infancy--growing, experimenting. Like a child, it could
fall and flounder-and be abandoned by the march of history.
Many questions over and above the immediate ones of this war remain
to be resolved. The nation's survival depends on
their resolution. One is the matter of the franchise.
I have thought long and hard on it, and I've concluded
that although the men who founded this country had great wisdom
and courage, in some respects they were narrow
traditionalists. Influenced by an English
heritage--a heritage of aristocracy. It was
natural that American aristocrats should lead the
drive for independence. It's easier to find leaders
among the rich simply because the rich can concern themselves with
issues larger than making a living. But we've
gone past that stage. If the principles of
freedom Mr. Jefferson expressed so well are
to have any validity, all men must have the basic right
to control their government through their elected officials.
All men, not merely those who meet their state's
voting requirements--so much money, so much
property, so much education. Such
requirements must be abolished or the democratic
ideal is a sham."
"Did President Jefferson really believe in
freedom, uncle? He still keeps slaves down in
Virginia, doesn't he?"
"Yes, he does. Like all human beings, he's a
study in
contradictions, to a black man."
"How do you feel about that?"
"I'd be horsewhipped for saying it, but I feel it
must
come. First, however, the whole slavery question must
be addressed-and God knows where that confrontation
will lead."
"Would you even let women vote?" "Oh, no, I
draw the line there! Men are temperamentally suited
to the tasks of the world. By their very nature, women are
domestic creatures."
Unseen by her father, Amanda scowled. Gilbert went
on:
"Another problem is this dreadful business of the
northeast seceding-or talking about it. Some of my
acquaintances claim that since the Constitution
grants only certain powers to the central
government, it therefore implies that the states
retain all others-including the privilege of
deciding whether to remain in the union or withdraw.
However, that same document begins with the words, "We
the people." It does not say, "We of the several
states." Once founded by the consent of all, the
union can't be sundered at the whim of a few. Any
other interpretation could tear this country apart. Men must
recognize that danger. Be prepared to counter it-was
Again he pointed to the fob Jared was wearing. "No
matter where you are, or what you are, I expect you
to be one of those men."
Stunned into silence by everything his uncle had said,
Jared simply stared into the dark, sunken eyes. At
last, Gilbert smiled:
"I think that's quite enough for one evening. Shall we have another
glass of port?"
"You didn't finish the first one, sir." "So I
didn't! My mind wanders lately. Damned
annoying-was
Gilbert passed a palm over his forehead. With a
start, Jared saw that his uncle's brow was wet with
sweat. He was breathing in a raspy way. He
groaned softly as he lowered himself into his chair,
tousling his daughter's hair.
Jared said, "She's been listening too,
uncle."
Gilbert looked at him. "Yes, I was aware."
"You were? I thought-was
"I wanted her to hear. She's just as much a Kent as
you are, Jared."
He bent and kissed his daughter's cheek. The rain
rattled on the planks. Jared helped himself to more
wine, wondering whether he could ever live up to all his
uncle expected of him.
Accompanied by a harpsichord moved in for the occasion,
the baritone sang every verse of the song Jared now knew
by heart:
"The first broadside we poured Swept their
mainmast overboard, Which made this lofty frigate
look Abandoned-O- Then Dacres he did sigh.
And to his officers did cry, I did not think these
Yankees were So handy-O!" his
Jared reflected dully that the songwriter had
gotten things a bit mixed up; Guerri@ere's
mizzen, not her mainmast, had gone down under the first
salvos.
Two more verses, he thought. Then the toasts begin.
We're going to broil here half the night.
But most of the several hundred men gathered in
Faneuil Hall were enjoying the performance,
tapping or stamping the beat of the drinking song to which new
words had been set. Copies of the lyrics were
available all over Boston in a fast-selling
broadside.
With appropriate fervor, the baritone launched
into the final verse:
"Now fill your glasses full, Let's drink a
toast to Captain Hull, So merrily we'll push
around The brandy-O- For John Bull may drink
his fill, And the world say what it will, The Yankee
tars for fighting are The dandy-O!"
Loud applause greeted the end of the song, and earned
the baritone several bows. Jared sat back in his
chair, folded his arms and closed his eyes. The
hall was an inferno, and the dinner had made him
sleepy. He ached for a breath of outside air,
hot as it was. But since he couldn't make a
spectacle by walking out, a surreptitious nap was
the next best thing.
A voice droned from the dais. Another was still
droning when he woke up to discover nothing had
changed, except for the temperature, which seemed more
hellish than ever, and the quantity of pipe and cigar
smoke, which had reached asphyxiating proportions.
In his place of honor, Captain Hull
still looked quite alert and attentive, however. His
cheeks gleamed like polished apples and his dress
uniform was resplendent. At his right hand lay a
velvet box containing a commemorative medal
struck in gold at the order of the Congress.
Silver medals had been struck for the officers.
All of them were present on the dais except for
Morris and Stovall, who were still under medical care.
"Won't they ever stop?" one of the boys at the table
whispered as yet another well-dressed gentleman
rose to offer a toast.
"That's only sixteen so far," a second boy
said.
"Fourteen," said the first
"It damn well seems like a hundred and
fourteen!"
A gentleman at the next table shushed them. The
speaker raised his glass:
"Our infant navy! We must nurture the young
Hercules in his cradle, if we mean to profit by the
labors of his manhood!"
Every man in the hall stood up, and drank. Many
stamped or shouted, "Hear!" The boys were required
to stand but not to drink. Only the hardiest topers among
them kept pace with the toasts, and that group
didn't include Jared.
The guests resumed their seats. Waiters brought more
wine to each table. Jared perked up slightly when
Gilbert, seated at the extreme left end of the
dais, stood up with glass in hand. Jared noticed
a few sour expressions when his uncle rose.
"Christ, he's white as chalk," a boy whispered
as Gilbert cleared his throat. Jared sat forward,
wide awake and alarmed. The boy was right.
Gilbert held his glass aloft.
"To unconditional victory! We have suffered the
injuries and insults of despotism with patience, but
its friendship is more than we can bear-was
A groundswell of grumbling greeted the extreme
anti-British sentiment. But it hushed the instant the
glass fell and broke.
Gilbert swayed, his eyes rolling up in his head.
His fisted left hand jammed against the center of his
chest. In
the silence, his gasps could be heard in every corner of the
hall.
Jared jumped up. Gilbert toppled, smashing china
and dragging the tablecloth after him as he slid to the
floor.
In the sharp air of late October,
Constitution put to sea. Jared Kent was aboard. So
was a new sixth lieutenant.
After the frigate passed Boston light, Jared
looked back at the blur of the channel islands.
Uncle Gilbert had suffered a seizure from which he
had not yet recovered. His heart rhythm remained
irregular. He'd been unconscious when Jared
slipped in to kneel at his bedside and bid him a
silent goodbye.
As the familiar coastline receded and the noisy
routine of shipboard began in earnest, Jared
remembered the responsibility with which Gilbert had
charged him on the night of his homecoming. Gilbert
had spoken of a premonition, too. Although the
doctor continued to refuse comment, Jared still had the
feeling his uncle had known much more about his own failing
health than anyone in the household realized.
In a way, Jared was thankful Bainbridge had
put to sea in company with Hornet, a twenty-gun
sloop of war. Shipboard gossip said they were
to rendezvous with Captain David Porter's
Essex, thirty-six guns, then proceed south
to search for enemy convoys bound around Cape Horn
on their way to the Far East. Dangerous duty comb
preferable to remaining behind while Aunt
Harriet raved and wept over the injustice of her
husband being struck down at age twenty-nine.
But distance couldn't relieve Jared of worries about
his uncle-
Or about his own ability to cope with the future, if
he came home from the cruise to find himself the
surviving male of the Kent family.
Book Four Cards of Fate
Mr. Piggott
IN THE DRESSING room adjoining her bedroom
on the second floor, Harriet took off the
bandeau that held her breasts in place when she was
dressed. She added the bit of lingerie to the pile of
petticoats and the long-waisted, lightly boned
corset lying on the floor.
Harriet's upstairs maid had been ready
to assist her in undressing, of course. The
lascivious girl undoubtedly wanted to see what
sort of nightgown her mistress had chosen-so she
could gossip about it with the other servants. Harriet
refused the help. Her bed apparel this evening in
mid-July, 1813, was solely her affair.
A moth circled the chimney of the lamp on her
dressing table. She studied the beating beige wings.
She felt exactly like that poor creature
--frantic--though only her quick breathing and her
racing heart betrayed her state.
With the greatest of effort, she'd endured the ceremony
performed by the Reverend Channing in the front sitting
room. She'd feigned composure during the modest
reception afterward, chatting with guests and concealing her
inner turmoil. But she wasn't at all sure she
could stay calm now. She faced the rest of the night with
disgust, even outright fear.
Outside, the hooves of a carriage horse
clopped rapidly. Beacon Street was becoming a
raceway for commercial vehicles and young bloods
on horseback. The hoofbeats set off a wistful
yearning for the safe, quiet
days of her childhood in New York. Being a
woman certainly had its undesirable aspects-
Undesirable? Why not be truthful? The word was
loathsome.
She had often expressed her loathing during the
initial year of her marriage to Gilbert. By the time
she became pregnant with Amanda, it was
unmistakably clear to him that physical intimacy
repelled her. After the child was born, he left her
alone.
But her current situation reminded her all
too vividly of her first wedding trip. Reminded
her of the revulsion; the anguish.
Like a prisoner, she was sentenced to that again tonight.
Well, it was the price she had to pay for marital
respectability. But she refused to gaze at the
mirror and confront the reality of her own body;
especially the breasts her opaque cotton chemise
concealed from sight but revealed in contour.
Her lips compressed angrily. She snatched at
the moth, crushed it between her fingertips and flung it
aside.
Seating herself, she began to comb out her long, dark
hair.
Something else stunned and angered her suddenly. She
leaned forward, touched the top of her head. In the
mirror, she saw gray hair.
She'd never noticed it before. She counted only six
or seven strands. But they upset her horribly.
Gilbert was responsible for that gray hair! He'd
wrenched her whole life awry last December when
he
died. He had been bedridden ever since his
collapse at the Faneuil Hall dinner in early
September. On Christmas
Eve, his heart had simply stopped beating
while he slept.
The household was in a turmoil for days.
Immediately, Harriet found herself coping with problems
normally the purview of men: funeral preparations;
arrangements for burial of the body at the family
plot in Watertown--there had been no end to the
aggravations. She recalled one of the worst--the
necessity of sending servants all over Boston just
to find a fashionable mourning costume for Amanda: a
black cashmere dress with white frills; a white
mull cap; gray stockings.
The whole period was a dreadful ordeal. But she
got through it-only to be plunged into another. At the
end of February, that wretched Jared had come home.
He'd been discharged from service along with most of his
crew because Constitution was to be laid up in the Navy
Yard indefinitely, for repairs. Having taken
part in a second major engagement--the capture and
sinking of the British frigate Java off the coast
of Brazil--the boy was decidedly changed.
Harriet had noticed a difference in him when he
returned with Captain Hull. But at the second
homecoming, the change was even more marked.
Physical maturation was part of it, of course.
Abraham's son had grown taller. The
relatively soft flesh of childhood had turned
to muscle. But the change went deeper than mere
passage through normal adolescent development.
Jared carried himself differently. With confidence; even
a certain air of authority. Harriet could recall
years gone by when she had deliberately intimidated
him- and taken secret pleasure in the way it
visibly withered his spirit; lent his eyes a nervous,
unhappy quality-
Now her sharpest admonishments produced little
response comother than a cool, almost hostile
stare. It was harder than it had once been to make
him lose his temper. She found the boy's new
self-assurance infuriating. She regretted that
she'd lost her power to make him feel terrified and
demeaned.
Mercifully, Jared wasn't underfoot too long after
his
return. At his own request, he went to work at the
printing company under the supervision of Mr.
Franklin Pleasant, a jowly, phlegmatic
man who seemed to understand the ins and outs of the coarse,
controversial trade in which her husband had been
involved. Mr. Pleasant had taken over operation
of the company pending a decision from Harriet
as to whether she wished to put Kent and Son up for
sale. On several occasions he begged her not
to sell. His pleas carried little weight. He was a
tradesman and always would be; why, the fellow
didn't even have a diploma from one of the lesser
colleges!
Although Pleasant gave her a weekly report,
Harriet paid scant attention to the business. She was
aware that the list of titles to be published in the
fall had been reduced. And she knew circulation
of the Republican was off sharply. No one could
match Gilbert's way with words, Pleasant said.
Even those details failed to interest her.
Gilbert's demise had brought one benefit,
however. It had put an end to those horrid
visitations by antiwar hooligans who threw stones.
To make doubly sure, she had given Mr.
Pleasant definite orders that there were to be no more
articles or editorials stating or even implying
support of the war.
That action helped her in another sphere as well.
She was once more accepted and treated cordially
by members of Boston's better families.
Except for minor naval victories of the sort
Jared talked about with quiet pride, the war
was proving a disaster. The New England Federalists
took smug satisfaction in having foreseen that.
To punish the upstart nation, Britain had clamped a
blockade on Chesapeake and Delaware Bays the
preceding December. The blockade had been
extended to the mouth of the Mississippi and the ports of
New York, Charleston and Savannah in May.
Though New
England's harbors were still open, the northeast felt the
effects of the blockade in shortages of everyday
goods, and in rising prices.
In consequence, the outcries from press and pulpit
grew louder. They culminated in gloomy
predictions of American defeat. As if to confirm
the predictions, news reached the city that the much-touted
Captain James Lawrence had lost the frigate
Chesapeake to the British just thirty miles from the
Boston waterfront.
Through most of the month of June, Harriet was forced
to endure Jared's defense of the defeat. Lawrence
might have lost his frigate, but not his fighting spirit!
Dying, he had exclaimed, "Don't give up the
ship!"
In vain, Harriet tried to convince the misguided
boy that such sloganeering was foolish. It
certainly hadn't helped save Lawrence's
life-and it gave the country a false confidence.
President Madison was steering the ship of state
straight onto the rocks of military and economic
disaster--all Harriet's friends and their husbands said
so. The sooner America pleaded for terms, the
better!
During one such argument, Harriet almost succeeded in
goading Jared into a rage. But he controlled his
temper and replied, "You-and your friends-are entitled
to your opinion, Aunt Harriet." She seethed
over the little exhibition of self-control.
The war made daily living difficult. Even a
family as well off as Harriet's had trouble
buying the necessities comand if they were available,
prices were cruel. Managing household affairs
by herself was a strain. Perhaps that was part of the reason she'd
succumbed relatively quickly to the marriage
proposal of a man she had only met in March,
at Reverend Channing's church.
What she had liked immediately about Mr. Andrew
Piggott was his gentility. He wore the proper
clothes. Cultivated the proper people. Disavowed and
damned
the war. He was educated--a graduate of
Yale down in New Haven. That wasn't
Harvard; but one couldn't have everything.
More important, Mr. Piggott didn't misuse
his education by wandering into philosophical byways and
espousing radical causes, as Gilbert had.
Piggott told her he had become a man of
independent means when an uncle in Albany left
him an inheritance. Harriet made a few
inquiries around town and found no evidence
to contradict Piggott's claim that the uncle was a
prosperous fur factor associated with Mr.
Astor. She had to admit the inquiries were
superficial; in her eagerness to end the lonely
struggle that was widowhood, she accepted Piggott's
credentials almost at face value. He was
urbane; polite; and appeared to be welcome in the
best circles.
She wasn't totally imprudent, though. Mr.
Piggott first proposed in June. She put him
off. She needed to satisfy herself that he wasn't
marrying her in order to take possession of the assets
of Kent and Son. She questioned him about it several
times. Repeatedly, Mr. Piggott assured her that
he wished to live a gentleman's life, not soil
his hands in business. He would be perfectly
content to let Franklin Pleasant operate the
company until Harriet decided about its
disposition.
He also disarmed her by confessing to two vices. He
liked liquor, he said. And he enjoyed
card-playing. In fact, when he wasn't squiring
her to salons, dinner parties, or the Federal
Street Church, he spent most of his time at the
Exchange Coffee House, hunting up other
affluent and respectable gentlemen he could engage in
a marathon game of solo. At other times, the
game was shemmy--the one French invention whose origins
Mr. Piggott, a good Federalist, overlooked.
The games were always played in private rooms
rented for the occasion, he said. His fondness for cards
would never cause a scandal. Everything was conducted with the
utmost discretion.
Another small investigation seemed in order.
Harriet called on Franklin Pleasant, and he
in turn sent out one of the Republican's writers.
She got back a report that yes, Mr.
Piggott did involve himself in card games
organized at the Exchange; games in which the
stakes were rumored to be quite high. But he seemed to have
the income to support his passion.
Finally, then, Harriet accepted the proposal,
telling herself she could wean Mr. Piggott from his
not-quite-respectable pastime after they were man and wife.
She had yet to learn the extent of Mr.
Piggott's interest in sexual matters. It was a
topic one didn't discuss prior to marriage.
Tonight would surely shed some light on that repellent
subject, however-
As she finished brushing her hair and walked to the
wardrobe to select a gown in which to greet her new
husband, she resolved that in the boudoir, too, she
would rule. She had accepted Mr. Piggott because
he seemed a decent, pliant man of good social
connections; a man who would understand her wishes and
accede to them. She meant to make sure he did-
A noise in the outer room startled her. The latch!
She darted back to the dressing table so he wouldn't
see her in her chemise.
"Andrew? Is that you?"
"Indeed it is." He had a deep, mellow
voice. A little too mellow right now, she decided.
He had imbibed somewhat heavily at the reception.
"I won't be ready to receive you for at least a quarter
of an hour."
He laughed. "Don't trouble yourself with bed
clothes, my dear-was
Andrew Piggott appeared in the dressing room
entrance, gazing at his wife with alarming directness.
He was about Harriet's age, with good features and a
ruddy complexion. His eyes tended to be squinty,
and he carried a fair amount of flesh on his
frame: some might even describe him as portly.
But that mellow voice charmed everyone, compensating for the
small signs of self-indulgence: a florid
nose; the beginning of a paunch.
Harriet caught her breath as he studied her.
Mr. Piggott had already discarded his dark green
clawhammer tail coat with its elegant black
velvet collar. She saw it on the bedroom
floor behind him. He stood before her in his pea-green
waistcoat, fluffy stock, fawn trousers and
gaitered pumps. His eyes moved slowly from her
throat to her breasts.
Undone by the sudden interruption and his candid stare,
Harriet crossed her arms over her bosom.
"The clothes will come off soon enough anyway,"
Piggott said with a genial smile. The dreaded moment
had come--too quickly.
Harriet Lebow Kent Piggott was terrified.
"I wish you would retire and permit me-was
she began.
"Nonsense." Piggott waved. "We're married
now. Very enjoyable affair, too."
"I noticed you dipping into the punch quite often."
Piggott's eyes grew a bit less cordial.
"That's my business, I think. By the way--your
nephew refused to say more than a couple of words
to me."
Turning her back, Harriet hurried to the
wardrobe. "You can be sure Jared will hear about that."
She was less than confident that a reprimand would do
any good, though. "Not necessary," Piggott said. "If
he persists in his
rudeness, I'll speak to him. We will come to an
understanding, I promise."
Piggott's tone made Harriet glance around. His
smile remained fixed. But his eyes were humorless.
"I mean to say, if he doesn't show proper
respect for his new father, I'll take him aside
and thrash him."
"Jared has grown to be a very strong boy-was
"Headstrong is more like it. Sea duty quite inflated his
hat size, I think."
"He's like his mother now. She was an arrogant
creature-was
"Well, I can deal with him. Gentleman at
Yale don't spend all their hours musing over the
classics! They've been known to fight
free-for-all-was
Piggott rubbed the fingers of his right hand against his
palm, as if in anticipation. Then he walked
toward her.
"Time enough for that in the weeks to come. At the moment our
concern is pleasure."
Harriet was afraid she might swoon. She
noticed a disgusting lump under Piggott's trousers.
She groped behind her for a gown-
Piggott seized her around the waist, pulled her
to him, sounding a shade annoyed:
"Let's not concern ourselves with false propriety,
my dear. I trust you are happy to be Mrs.
Piggott-?"
"Of--of course."
His dark eyes focused behind her, on a shelf of the
wardrobe.
"Not sufficiently happy to wear one of my wedding
gifts."
His clasping fingers hurt her waist. She writhed
away, spun to the shelf, plucked down the pair of
white linen tubes decorated with bright red
ribbons:
"I have certain standards, Andrew-was
"Pantalets are coming into fashion."
"But false pantalets are worn only by dancers
and harlots."
He nodded, his face enigmatically empty of
emotion:
"I'll forgive your reluctance. If you're less
reluctant in bed-was
He took hold of her waist again. She realized that
he might be drunk. She smelled the ginned punch
on him, blending with the odor of his cologne. As he
dragged her against him, she felt something stiff press
her flesh through the chemise.
Her mouth went dry. Her eyes blurred. She
gasped.
Visibly annoyed, Piggott stood back.
"What's this? You are reluctant."
"No. No, it's-a vaporish dizziness. Just
give me a moment-was
She moved quickly to the dressing table, sank down,
eyed Piggott in the glass. His features had
hardened- exactly as his flesh had hardened beneath his
trousers. He stared at her in an accusing way; he
wasn't deceived by her lie.
He took two steps, came up behind her,
deliberately thrust that bulge against her back
while his hands slipped under her arms. He started
fondling her breasts. She blurted the first thought that
came into her head:
"Has Amanda retired?"
Piggott jerked his hands away. He laughed, a
harsh sound.
"Amanda, Jared--who else shall we discuss, Mrs.
Piggott?"
"I only wanted to know-was
"Is that what you propose to do this evening? Talk?
It's not what I propose to do!"
"I thought--I thought you respected my wishes-was
"Yes! But I remind you that we're married. I have
rights."
In a faint voice, she said, "And I'll permit
you to exercise them-was
"Well! That's generous of you! My dear, there's no
permitting about it."
Seeing her shocked expression, he forced another
smile. But the way he raked a hand through his thick
black hair revealed his anger:
"To answer your blasted question--yes, Amanda has gone
to her room." Piggott ran his tongue
over his lower lip. "Quite a fetching little creature now
that she's started to fill out. She's begun to bleed,
I assume-?"
"Andrew-to " "It's a fact of life, isn't it?
And she has, hasn't she?"
Harriet swallowed. Not even Gilbert had ever
posed such a frank question. It was all she could do
to answer:
"In--in April. Prematurely."
com8Thought so from the way those breasts are popping out.
Your daughter's going to be a beauty. I've
noticed the way she glances at men. Teases them with
her eyes-was
Harriet could hardly believe what she was hearing;
Piggott sounded almost lustful.
"comI venture she'll be tumbled before she's
twelve. And enjoy it!"
"That's vile!" Harriet cried. "Such talk
isn't suitable even between husband and wife."
"Then shall we try something that is suitable between husband
and wife? You've jabbered enough!"
He dragged her up, wrapped one arm around her
waist and drove his tongue between her lips.
III.
What had begun as a day of nerves and
worry ended as an utter nightmare.
Mr. Piggott wouldn't be denied. He carried her
bodily into the bedroom, refusing her even the
decencies of
drawing the curtains or dimming the lamps. The
harder she struggled, the rougher he became.
He flung her on the turned-down bed and sprawled
beside her, nuzzling her throat, her temple, her
eyelids-
Thick-fingered hands rubbed and pinched her nipples.
He pulled up her chemise, forced one hand between her
legs.
"By God you're a prime one," he groaned as he
fingered her. "But I'll have you craving more before we're
finished, Mrs. Piggott-was
He seized the bodice of her chemise, tore it.
She lay exposed on the bed, her nipples
wrinkled as prunes. She was incapable of speech.
She rolled her head from side to side, making
small, incoherent sounds.
Piggott shed his clothing. He had soft white skin.
He pulled her legs apart and flung himself over her
body.
Harriet's dry flesh hurt when he assaulted
her. Piggott could feel that. But he kept
thrusting in spite of it. His fingers found her bosom
again. Harriet moaned under the hard caress of his
thumbs-
Piggott moaned too, jerking back and forth as the
rhythm quickened. Harriet felt a muscle jump in
her awkwardly bent left leg. Piggott's whole
midsection seemed to pummel her. And there was not even
darkness to conceal his noisy rutting-
He jammed his hands beneath her buttocks and
squeezed:
"Ah-ah-was
When he withdrew and rolled on his side, she dragged
herself toward the opposite edge of the bed. He shot out
a hand, seized her hair:
"Where are you going, Mrs. Piggott?"
"To find-clothes. I trust you'll-allow that. You've
satisfied yourself-was
"Not by half, my dear!"
"I told her what he wanted next. Dear
God, you must be mad!" "Mad for a taste, Mrs.
Piggott," he laughed. He had no strength
to fight him. The buzzing in her ears became a roar.
She tried to pretend he wasn't doing what she
felt him doing: a filthy, unnatural act-
There was no rest for her until well after
two in the morning. Piggott assaulted her twice
more. The last time seemed endless. He'd worn himself
out, yet he wouldn't halt the pounding that tortured her
body and numbed her mind. After the first time, he'd
blown out the lamps. But that no longer mattered.
Finally, he convulsed; groaned; withdrew. He
crawled under the covers, chuckling:
"For a wife, Mrs. Piggott, your behavior is
exceedingly odd."
"Yours-was She could barely speak. She lay on her
side, her spine toward him. She clutched her
stomach, the stickiness of him an abomination between her
legs.
"comyrs is an animal's."
That generated a deep laugh. How had she
misjudged him so badly?
Until today, his caresses had been discreet, almost
hesitant. Seldom had he done more than peck
her cheek. His frantic desire for--copulation was
the only word she allowed herself to think--gave him a
bestial quality.
And he was laughing about it!
The mellow voice boomed in the darkness:
"I am always a gentleman in public, Mrs.
Piggott. But in the bedroom, I have my
appetites--yes, I do. D'you honestly
believe they've never heard of fucking at Yale
College?"
"Oh, your vile mouth. Your vile, vile-was
"Be quiet, woman! You make me sick."
"I--I will never again permit-was
"Novelties? Indecencies!"
"Call 'em what you will, Mrs. Piggott. We shall
indulge, never fear. Good night."
After a noisy plumping of his pillow and a few
moments of heavy breathing, he began to snore.
Harriet Lebow Kent Piggott lay rigid in the
warm air of the bedroom. She listened to the wheels of
another carriage speeding along Beacon and wondered
how she could have been so deceived. So misguided as to have
married the kind of debased man who slept beside her
now in perfect contentment.
What a ghastly mistake she'd made. What a
ghastly comand irrevocable-mistake.
"Oh yes you will. This is one area of our marriage
in which I mean to call the tune. I've quite a few more
novelties to show you."
V.
News of some encouraging developments in the west
reached Boston in the autumn of 1813.
An officer of talent had at last replaced the
bunglers who had led the western army. William
Henry Harrison, the same man who had routed the
Shawnee at Tippecanoe, was commissioned a
major general of militia by the alarmed Kentucky
settlers, then given a national command by Secretary
of War Eustis in September. With the rank of
brigadier general and a force of some ten thousand
soldiers, he was ordered to retake Detroit.
But it remained for a twenty-eight-year-old naval
officer, Captain Oliver Perry, to make that
possible. Perry handed a crushing defeat to the
British blockade squadron at
Put-in-Bay on Lake Erie. The dispatches
said the flagship of Perry's small flotilla
flew a pennant inscribed with Lawrence's dying
words aboard
Chesapeake. But the dispatches also carried an even
more positive slogan that was soon on the lips of every
literate citizen. At the end of his bloody
three-and-a-half-hour battle, Perry had sent a
message from his heavily damaged ship to General
Harrison somewhere on the San-dusky River. In
it he wrote, "We have met the enemy and they are
ours."
Sweeping the British from Lake Erie permitted
Harrison to advance on Detroit. He found the
enemy had evacuated it and slipped across the river
to Upper Canada. Harrison followed. A
battle at Moravian Town on the north bank
of the Thames River caused only a few deaths on
either side. But one of those deaths brought great relief
to the western settlers. Never again would the Shawnee
Tecumseh terrorize the frontier.
Harrison and Perry helped end the threat of an
Indian confederation manipulated by the British. They
cleared the enemy from the northwest. The redcoats
withdrew all the way to the Niagara frontier.
Harriet Piggott read the news items in the
Kent paper from time to time. But they had no power
to excite or even interest her. A much more personal
battle was being waged in her own household.
On a Tuesday in late October, Franklin
Pleasant called. The face of the graying general
manager was unhappy:
"Mrs. Ken--forgive me. I meant to say Mrs.
Piggott -"
Wan, Harriet lifted a hand to wave aside
Pleasant's embarrassment:
"I wish it were Mrs. Kent again,
Franklin. I don't doubt the whole town's
laughing about the way a foolish widow was
victimized."
"I pay no attention to that kind of nasty gossip,"
Pleasant declared. "However, a problem has arisen
at
the company, and I thought you should know. Actually there are
two problems. Let me take the more serious one
first."
Harriet's dull-eyed silence showed she expected
the worst.
"This morning," Pleasant said, "I was served with
papers. One of our six book presses is to be
removed. It seems your husband-was
"Who has not been in this house for three days."
"Yes? Well, I believe I might have some
grasp of the reason. Evidently he's been engaged
in another of his gaming sessions."
"Cards?"
"Aye. At the end of a losing streak, he-was
Pleasant swallowed.
"comhe refused to retire gracefully. It's not my
place to say it, but Mr. Piggott's fondness for
alcohol evidently leads to rash decisions. He
insisted on continuing in the game. To finance his
play, he signed a chit wagering the press I
mentioned."
"Wagering the press?" Harriet whispered. "Is that
legal?"
"The claimant sent a lawyer to Kent and Son this
morning, and I asked the same question. I'm afraid
it is quite legal. I verified that by consulting Mr.
Benbow before I came to see you."
"Who is this claimant?"
"I've since discovered that too. His name means
nothing, but he's known for loitering in the coffee
houses--striking up friendships with prosperous-looking
people comand drawing them into games for high stakes."
"Which he wins by cheating?"
"There is that suspicion-but no evidence has ever
been brought forward. Very likely his victims are
too humiliated-was
"And our lawyer can't block this-act of robbery?"
"He cannot. Had Mr. Piggott won his game,
there'd be no problem. But he continued to lose. The
press will be taken from the premises, and sold."
Harriet covered her eyes. "Oh dear God,
Franklin. It's all my fault-was
Pleasant touched her hand. "Don't score yourself.
We all make errors in judging other people.
You were--you'll forgive me--not at all yourself during
those weeks in which you kept company with your present
husband. Mr. Gilbert was dead. It's only
natural you'd want someone to fill his place. But
what's done is done. We can make do without the
press. I'd urge you to speak to Mr. Piggott,
however. Insist that he refrain from similar wagers."
Pleasant's smile was feeble. "Else he's
liable to strip us to the walls."
After a moment Harriet said, "I'll speak to him."
"Good."
"But I have no legal means of compelling him to do
anything."
"You mean-there was no agreement signed before marriage
to limit his access to your property?"
Sadly, she shook her head. "I believed his
lies about wanting no part of the business. Kent and
Son is as much his as it is mine."
"Then-if I might suggest-was
He stopped, red-faced.
"Yes?" Harriet prompted.
"I am correct in assuming you're not entirely
happy with your husband's character, am I not?"
Harriet almost burst out crying. She cried often these
days. Piggott had dropped his mask of
gentility. He treated her as a chattel. He was
absent from the house more than he was present. But almost
every time he returned, he demanded his rights in bed. Of
late she'd taken to retiring to her room by five
o'clock, and locking the door.
"That hardly covers it, Franklin," she said. "I
have been duped. I was a willing, even eager
accomplice, but the fact remains-I have been
duped. And I don't seem to have any legal
recourse."
Pleasant's eyes turned shrewd:
"Perhaps we can establish one."
"What do you mean?"
"Only that I'd like your permission to have one of our
reporters do another bit of probing into Mr.
Piggott's background and behavior. A little more
thoroughly this time. It may yield nothing. But if
there's evidence of immorality at these card games,
for instance-women present-was
He shrugged, his cheek still deep pink.
Harriet said, "You have my permission."
"I'm happy to hear you say that. Now we come to the
second matter. The day before yesterday, Mr.
Piggott called on me in person-was
"Whatever for?"
"To inform me ahead of time that the press would be
attached, and that I should not cause any
difficulties. I'm afraid he and your nephew
got into quite a heated argument. They do dislike one
another-was
Harriet pressed her shaking hands into her lap:
"Intensely. Tell me exactly what happened."
"Mr. Piggott had been imbibing. To be honest,
I didn't believe what he said about the press.
I thought it was a drunkard's joke--else I'd have
consulted Mr. Benbow before today, I guarantee you.
In any case, Jared was working close by. There
were-remarks exchanged. At one point, Master
Jared completely lost his temper. I thought he was
going to attack your husband. I prevented an
actual fight, though-was
In the midst of her misery, Harriet felt a
brief twinge of pleasure hearing about Jared. But the
pleasure faded quickly:
"What did my husband say?"
"First he maligned Master Jared's character-unjustly.
The boy has worked hard and done well in the press
room-was The statement displeased Harriet, but she said
nothing. "I told Piggott as much, too. He then
made one utterly indecent reference to your
daughter. About her-physical appearance. I
hesitate to say
more-was
Dread closed over Harriet then. On several
occasions she had noticed Piggott watching Amanda
closely. Amanda was a beautiful child. Much too
beautiful for her own good.
Pleasant was waiting for a reply. She composed
herself:
"You needn't say any more, Franklin. I
understand."
"That was the remark which sent Master Jared into a fury.
Mr. Piggott had to flee for his own safety.
I-was
Pleasant started. Harriet had buried her face
in her hands, weeping uncontrollably.
"comI agreed with Jared to say nothing about it. But when
the disposal of the press proved to be anything but a
joke, I changed my mind-was
His voice trailed off. Harriet gave no
indication that she'd heard.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Piggott," he whispered,
picking up his hat and stealing out.
"Be damned to you, woman!" Andrew Piggott
exclaimed.
"But you have no right to wager-was
"I said be damned to you!" Piggott shouted, raising
his hand to her.
Harriett dodged away. She had asked her
husband to come to the library when he returned to the
house two
days after Pleasant's visit. She hoped
privacy would allow them to have an amicable discussion.
The hope was misplaced from the beginning. Piggott had
proceeded to grumble about needing a change of linen.
He barely listened to her pleas. Now, at the end
of the confrontation, he got control of himself and lowered his
fist, saying:
"We share tenancy of all the assets of this
family, Mrs. Piggott."
"I'm sure you made certain of that before the wedding,"
she said in a bitter voice.
He smiled. "I did. And I couldn't afford to be
embarrassed during the game in question. I had to find
some way to recoup-was
"So you gambled something which wasn't yours, and lost that
too!"
He fussed with his stock. "Your shrillness is
annoying. I'm going upstairs and then I'm leaving.
I'm overdue at the Exchange Coffee
House. Met a couple of Maryland gentlemen there
only this morning. They're in metal refining. Pig
iron into wrought--think that's what they said. A new
version of something called a puddling furnace has
been perfected on the Continent but they can't secure
any information about it because of the blockade. They're
hoping to put an inquiry agent aboard one of the
neutral ships calling at Boston. Most
agreeable chaps-was
"What's the point of all this?" Harriet demanded.
"Why--just that we're playing this evening, Mrs.
Piggott."
"With your money!"
At the library door, he gave her a murderous
look.
"With ours, if I choose. And there's not a damned
thing you can do about it, my dear."
He raised his beaver hat to his forehead, tipped it
and walked out.
Act of Vengeance
AMANDA KENT COULDN'T keep her mind on the
book she was supposed to read by Monday, as part of
her study of what the mistress of the dame school
termed "fine literature." The book was a handsomely
bound edition of a long poem that had something
to do with a lady and a lake. The story took place in
Scotland, but Amanda only succeeded in reading part
of the first canto. The poem was as dreary as the weather!
She wandered to the library window. Watched dead
leaves blowing across the Common. Noticed a few
snowflakes in the air. Pedestrians passing the
house looked chilly and uncomfortable.
Despite the darkness of the day, no lamps had been
lit as yet. It was a Saturday afternoon in early
November, and no one was home. No one, that is,
except the servants. But they were virtually
invisible. Very faintly, back in the kitchen, Amanda
could hear cook singing to herself. The rest of the house was
silent
Amanda picked up an unfamiliar newspaper.
Mr. Franklin Pleasant had brought it to the house
only the day before. Of late, Mr. Pleasant
called on Amanda's mother quite often. Amanda had asked
why, but Harriet refused to answer, saying only that
Mr. Pleasant's visits would soon change their
lives for the better.
What could that mean? she wondered, idly scanning the
front page of the paper which mama said had been started
up in competition to Kent and Son's Republican.
Amanda found the family newspaper totally
boring, packed as it was with paragraph after paragraph
about the war. This new one, the Boston Daily
Advertiser, seemed a little more lively. One story
had to do with Indians in the Mississippi
Territory; that was down south, wasn't it?
The Indians were called Creeks. Amanda hadn't
heard the name before. It struck her as funny. But there
was nothing amusing about the paper's vivid description
of a massacre of white settlers at a place
called Fort Mims. Near the end of August, a
fanatical Creek faction, the Red Sticks, had
slaughtered at least two hundred and fifty men,
women and children.
Amanda wasn't familiar with the word "fanatical."
After reading of the grisly activities of the Red
Sticks, however, she thought she understood its meaning.
The paper declared the Red Sticks would rue their
brutality. A man named Jackson, a major
general of the Tennessee militia, had raised two
thousand volunteers to fight the Indians. The
Advertiser stated that the former congressman and judge
whose nickname was Old Hickory would punish the
bestial savages in fitting fashion.
Amanda enjoyed several delicious shivers while
reading the article-and another giggle over that
nickname. Imagine a soldier being described as
an old tree. Americans had such a passion for
funny names!
Another item on the front page diverted her for a
few moments. It described the death of a well-known
New England witch, Moll Pitcher, who lived out
in Lynn. The story said Moll had been famous for
her ability to predict the future, locate lost
articles and brew love potions.
With a sigh, Amanda put the paper down. How she
wished she had a potion! Several, in fact. One
to correct each of the unhappy circumstances that were
making day-to-day existence so miserable. Glumly,
she walked
back to the window, planting her elbows on the sill
and twisting the bracelet of tarred rope.
Amanda had grown taller in the first half of 1813.
Mama said she'd soon have to wear a bandeau with her
chemise, to contain those fleshy bumps that had appeared
shortly after that hateful flow began-
If she'd had access to magic potions, she'd
certainly have used one to stop the strange and alarming
changes taking place in her body. Though mama
assured her the flow was perfectly natural, it
made her head hurt whenever she got it.
And it was an untidy nuisance besides.
Another magic potion to restore her flat chest would
have been welcome, too.
Then one more-to bring papa back. If only he were
here, he'd set things right in the house. In its vast
and almost imcomprehensible finality, her father's death
had left an empty place in her existence. No
one, not even her cousin Jared whom she worshipped,
could fill it.
But if no potion were available to restore her father
to life, she'd certainly wish for one to put her mother
in better spirits. Amanda often felt guilty because she
loved her mother out of a sense of duty, rather than
spontaneously and with joyful abandon, as she'd loved
Gilbert. Still, she hated to see Harriet
unhappy, because that unhappiness affected the entire
household. And mama had been miserable ever since
her marriage during the summer.
Well, it was no wonder! How could she be happy as
the wife of that Mr. Piggott with his syrup voice?
His squinty eyes-his
And his hands. Amanda despised his hands most of all.
They strayed in a too familiar way over her arms
and shoulders whenever she was unlucky enough to be alone with
him. He pretended he was touching her because
he was affectionate; because he wanted to be a second
father to her.
She didn't believe him. She was sure papa would
never have touched her breasts and then claimed it was an
accident.
Yes, a potion to forever banish Mr. Piggott from the
house was perhaps the most desirable potion of all,
provided she could have her real father back at the same
time. What a pity the witch had died! If she
hadn't, Amanda fancied she might very well have gone
all the way to Lynn to consult her.
She did count it a blessing that Mr. Piggott
played cards. That pursuit, which all preachers
condemned, took him away from Beacon Street for
long periods. In fact he hadn't been home
during the past week and a half except for brief
visits to change his clothes.
Late in the evening two days ago, Jared had
revealed a piece of shocking news about Mr.
Piggott. The family--except for Piggott, of
course--was gathered in the front sitting room just
before Amanda went to bed. All red in the face, Jared
told his cousin that Mr. Piggott had gambled away
one of the company's printing presses.
It was the first time in a long while that Amanda
had seen her cousin genuinely angry. Since coming
back from the navy, Jared didn't act like his old
self. He spent most of every day and often part of the
night at the printing house, and when he was home, he
said very little. He no longer proposed deliciously
dangerous adventures, such as climbing the roof of
an ice house. He was obviously trying to behave
properly, but he frightened Amanda a little because he
looked so severe. He seemed to be keeping all his
feelings locked up inside himself-
He didn't keep them locked up while
describing what Mr. Piggott had done, however.
He growled that Piggott had better not do anything like
that again. In a way,
Amanda was glad to see her cousin angry. He was more
like the Jared she remembered-
The rest of the evening was puzzling, though. Instead of
expressing anger toward Mr. Piggott, mama
grew upset and argued with Jared. He had no right
to reveal such matters to Amanda, she said. And besides,
the loss of the press was a good thing. It had opened her
eyes to the need for drastic steps. Ever since then,
Amanda had been trying to form a mental picture of
someone hurrying along the street taking drastic
steps. But she still couldn't imagine what such
steps looked like.
The same evening Jared blurted the news about the
press and incurred Harriet's wrath, he stole
into Amanda's bedroom after she was tucked in. Like a
conspirator, he led her to his own cluttered room
and latched the door. From under his pillow, he took
something that both frightened and fascinated her. A
pistol.
He'd bought it with his wages, he said. He meant
to keep it down at Kent and Son, in case
Piggott dared to gamble away any more of the firm's
equipment. He looked quite angry and determined, and
when Amanda reminded him that mama said Mr.
Piggott had the legal right to gamble a printing
press, Jared turned red a second time, flew
into a fury and called her stupid.
She was hurt. Yet, oddly, she was comforted too--just
as she had been earlier. Jared was Jared again. He
told her courts and lawyers were useless in dealing with
rascals such as Piggott--only he used a much more
wicked word than rascals. He said courts and
lawyers actually helped men like Piggott steal what
wasn't theirs comb no one was going to steal from the Kent
family. Mr. Piggott might have a legal right
to bet a Kent press in a gambling
game. But the next lawyer who showed his face at the
firm with such a claim would answer to a higher law.
The law of possession.
When he said that, he raised the pistol.
It was all rather mystifying to Amanda. So many large
words and complicated concepts. But Jared's feelings
certainly weren't secret any longer. She begged
him not to do anything that would land him in trouble. The red
faded from his face and he promised he wouldn't But
she knew he was fibbing. She had never seen his blue
eyes so unpleasant.
Amanda hoped there would be no trouble. No more
terrifying shouts and thumps from behind the closed doors
of the library as mama and Piggott screamed at one
another.
She hoped there wouldn't be any more gambling of the kind
that provoked Jared, either. But that hope was probably
foolish. Just yesterday, mama had let slip the
admission that Mr. Piggott was again involved in a
card game somewhere in the city. This particular game
had been in progress for more than a week, and mama
was worried. Amanda had suspected the reason for
Piggott's prolonged absence, naturally. She
prayed the man was wagering money and not printing
presses-
Oh, it was such a dreadful muddle! And to top it
off, she just couldn't work up enough interest to finish
Scott's tedious poem by Monday. That would earn
her a bad mark-
Life had been so good until papa died! Why
couldn't he come back? Tears appeared in the
corners of her dark eyes. Leaning on the sill,
she twisted the cordage bracelet one way, then
another-
With a little cry of fright, she straightened up. She
saw a familiar figure lurching toward the stoop.
It was Mr. Piggott, red in the cheeks and clutching
his hat against the wind!
Amanda bolted out of the library, raced across the dim
hall, started up the stairs. Piggott opened the
front
door before she'd climbed half a dozen steps.
He called her name.
She felt a blast of cold air on her neck.
Letting go of the heavy rail of the stair, she turned.
Saw her stepfather silhouetted against the gray light
of outdoors.
He closed the door. Its click echoed loudly in
the still house.
"Amanda dear? Come here a moment."
He stood in the deep shadow by the closed door; she
could barely see him. But his voice was quite loud;
harsh. It started her heart beating fast under her
frock of yellow percale. She climbed another
step. Her high-topped cloth shoes seemed to weigh
pounds apiece.
"Do you hear me, child? I said come here"
Piggott shuffled out of the shadows, looming in the
cross-light from the library. Digging her nails
into her palms, Amanda descended the stairs.
Where were the servants? Why had she been caught
by herself like this-his Oh, if only she were a witch from
Lynn! She'd cast a spell and strike him dead-
At the foot of the stairs, she stopped. He
approached, bent down, laid a hand on her forearm.
She was certain she was going to faint dead away.
II.
Piggott dropped his hat as he squatted beside her.
She wriggled but he wouldn't release her. He
acted quite agitated:
"Where is Mrs. Piggott, Amanda?"
"Mama's gone out."
He looked relieved. "Do you know where?"
She hesitated before answering:
"She didn't say."
"You're lying to me, child." His fingers tightened.
"I want you to tell me where Mrs. Piggott has
gone, and how long she'll be away." "I don't
know how long-was
"Ah!" He smiled in a sly way. "But you do know
where?"
"No, I-was
"No lies! I am your father, remember."
"You're not!" Amanda cried. "You're not and you never
will be! Mama went to Mr. Benbow. About you!"
Shrieking the last word, she wrenched free and leaped
toward the stairs. Piggott caught her, ripping her
silk sash as he dragged her back.
Amanda stumbled, sprawled across the lowest stair.
Piggott crouched, clasped both arms around her,
pulling her against him. She smelled the bad odor from
his mouth; and his cologne; and rum.
"She went to the attorney's? Why-his Put your hand
down! If you dare strike me-was
"Mr. Piggott?"
Pinned on the stairs, Amanda saw him go rigid.
He released her, leaped up and whirled toward the
dim spill of light from the dining room. Amanda
recognized Florence, the downstairs maid.
"I heard someone cry out," Florence said.
"Was it you, Miss Amanda?"
"Yes, he-was
"She fell," Piggott interrupted. "Leave us
alone."
The maid looked uncertain. "But if Miss
Amanda's hurt-was
"I'll see to the child. Get out of here!"
Florence fled. The door to the kitchen crashed shut,
sealing off the light.
Piggott breathed loudly. He leaned toward the
ten-year-old girl, cupped a hand beneath the small
swell of her right breast:
"In other circumstances I'd strip you naked and
give you a hiding you wouldn't forget, my girl--
yes, and something else, too."
Amanda tried to cringe away from him. Away from that
wicked, fondling hand. But Piggott was too big.
And she was trapped on the stairs, pinned between the man
on her left and the wall on her right.
All at once he drew his hand back.
"But I've no time. I'm going upstairs for a
valise-was
Amanda thought the front door had opened. Piggott
apparently failed to hear; his voice was very loud.
"comand if you call the servants or interfere
in any way, I'll punish you as you've never been
pun-was
"Punish her for what, Andrew?"
He straightened up as if he'd been whipped.
Amanda scrambled past his legs, hurled herself at the
dim figure near the front door:
"Mama--mama-was
Sobbing, she wrapped her arms around Harriet's
skirt. She felt her mother's hands on her hair.
Those hands trembled almost as badly as her own.
"What was he doing, Amanda?" Harriet asked.
Controlling her tears, Amanda gasped, "Making me
tell-where you'd gone."
"You have some special need to know that, Andrew?"
"None of your damn business, Mrs. Piggott"
"He said he's going to pack, mama-was
"Is that right?"
Harriet approached the foot of the stairs.
Piggott had moved up to the fourth riser, an
indistinct hulk in the chilly darkness. Some of
Amanda's terror passed, driven out by the strange,
almost happy tone of her mother's voice:
"You're leaving, Andrew? Good. You'll save me
considerable trouble."
"Trouble? What the hell are you talking
about?"
"Legal proceedings."
"Yes, I heard you'd gone to see that old bastard
Benbow-was
"Amanda told you?"
"He forced me, mama."
"That's all right, dear--don't worry. It's
typical of Mr. Piggott to threaten a child. But we
won't be bothered with him any longer-was
Hugging the wall near the front door, Amanda
watched Piggott jump down two steps, whip up
his fist. Harriet darted out of range. Piggott
called her a filthy name.
"Curse all you want, Andrew. That won't
change anything. I have indeed been to the offices of
Benbow and Benbow. I've passed certain information
about you into their hands-was
"What information?" For the first time, he sounded shaken.
"How you lied to me before our marriage. You're not from
a well-connected family. You never attended any
college. You're a tanner's boy from South
Boston-was
"You set spies on me?"
"Yes, and it was long overdue. This card game that's
occupied you all week-was
"What about it?"
"That too has been observed from the street outside.
Women have been seen going in and out of those rented
rooms. Women of bad character. I won't be more
specific in Amanda's presence. But I have ample
grounds for a bill of divorcement. Mr. Benbow
senior will undertake the suit on my behalf. I have
been victimized, Mr. Piggott. Deceived and
victimized-was
"It's no less than you deserve, you harpy!"
Piggott roared, darting down the last two steps.
Harriet lunged aside as Piggott lashed the air
with his fist
"Get out!" Harriet breathed. "Take your
personal belongings and get out of my house. If you
try to claim any of my property, Mr. Benbow
will have a warrant drawn for your arrest."
Piggott laughed then; loudly.
"You've developed a surprising amount of
courage, Mrs. Piggott-was
"Hence forward, my name is Mrs. Kent!"
"Well, that's all you'll have hence forward--your name.
After our--our chat last week, I had a feeling you
might go to your lawyer. So I haven't worried
too much about the size of my wagers with the
gentlemen from Maryland."
"The card-players-?"
"We started with cards. Then we changed games.
We tried a new one just introduced in New
Orleans by a young sport named de Mandeville."
"What has this to do with-?"
"Hear me out, Mrs. Piggott. I want you
to hear every detail before I go. The game is played
with dice--do you know what dice are, Mrs.
Piggott?"
"Of course I do. You will stop calling me-was
"The gentlemen told me the game's a variation of
hazards--very popular in English coffee houses,
where Mr. de Marigny de Mandeville picked it
up. The New Orleans gentry call it
crapaud, after Johnny Crapaud, which I gather
is a scornful name for Creoles. Wouldn't you like
to know how I fared at crapaud, Mrs.
Piggott?"
"Damn you, get out!" Harriet cried, raising her
own hand.
Piggott rushed at her, struck her forearm with his
fist. Harriet let out a low cry. Piggott
seized and shook her. "You'll damn me ten times
over before this day's done, woman!" He
let go, stood back, his smile vicious. "My
luck ran against me. I kept losing. Heavily.
But the gentlemen were quite pleasant about it. They
accepted
my note wagering the assets of Kent's. They
suggested the idea, actually. It didn't pain me
"greatly when I lost the final rolls. As I
say, ever since our chat, I suspected you were going
to act against me-was
In a whisper, Harriet said, "Wait, sir."
"comI suspected some ploy like this bill of
divorce. I'm sorry to inform you, madam-was
"Wait. You said the assets of Kent's-was
"combecause of my losses, you no longer own-was
"What assets of Kent's?" she screamed. Amanda
covered her ears, buried her face against the wall.
The kitchen door banged open again. Amanda heard a
scurry of feet as several servants rushed
to discover the cause of the new commotion. She wouldn't
uncover her eyes, though. She was too frightened.
Piggott boomed all the louder:
"The printing house, woman. The whole goddamned
printing house!"
Silence.
Four of the servants watched from the dining
room doorway, not daring to speak. Piggott
chuckled:
"Need I point out that I was still your husband when I
signed my note? Your interview with your blasted
Mr. Benbow is a mite tardy."
"You--you lost-?"
"Everything."
"God in heaven," Harriet said softly. "Oh
dear God in heaven-was Suddenly her head came
up. She stalked him. "You did it to spite me.
You did it because you knew-was
"Suspected," Piggott broke in.
"Suspected, my dear. Same thing, though, I
suppose. There was precious little disappointment in
losing what I didn't own in the first place. But
there was a great deal of pleasure, I don't mind
telling you. Of course, if the final rolls had
gone the other way, I'd have taken the gentlemen's
money
and left here with it. Whichever way the game came out,
I'd already decided to leave. I can do so now with
immense satisfaction. You'll have to sell this house.
Dismiss these cattle who fawn and wait on you-was
One of the servants, the young gardener, took a step
forward. Florence held him back.
Harriet began crying:
"It isn't true-was
"It is, and it's what you deserve."
"No. It can't be legal-was
"As legal as the first wager. Entirely legal.
If you don't believe me, go down to Kent and
Son this minute. My friends should be there with the same
attorney who was engaged after I lost the press
playing shemmy. They're taking possession this very
afternoon."
"You're lying. Lying to me-to "
Piggott could no longer contain his rage. He ran
at Harriet again. Through fingers pressed over her
eyes, Amanda saw the man lift his right arm to his
left shoulder, then slash outward with his fist. He
struck Harriet's cheek, a loud, pulping blow.
She fell. Amanda screamed, "Mama-to " and rushed
toward her as Piggott roared:
"If you don't believe you've nothing left, go
down there and see, you fucking bitch!"
The family's young gardener slipped from the group of
servants, flung off Florence's restraining hand,
wiped his fingers on his leather apron:
"You'd better take your things out of here quick,
Piggott-was
"Put a hand on me and I'll break your spine,"
Piggott said.
The young gardener blinked, hesitated. In that moment,
Andrew Piggott spun and ran up the stairs two
at a time. His laughter floated behind him, heavy,
rich, triumphant.
Amanda pushed past Florence, knelt at her mother's
side. Cheeks wet from crying, she chafed
Harriet's hands:
"Mama, get up. Please get up."
"We'd best help her into the sitting room, Miss
Amanda."
"Yes," Harriet breathed. "Help me up,
Florence-was
Her bonnet fell off as she tried to rise. She
clutched the maid's hand, pulled herself to her feet.
Amanda gave her the bonnet. Her eyes widened in
surprise as Harriet put the bonnet on,
struggled to fasten the ties beneath her chin.
"Come rest, mama-was Amanda begged,
"I must go to Kent's. Now. This instant."
"No, mama, wait-to "
"This instant!" Harriet repeated, turning and moving
unsteadily toward the front door.
She jerked the door open, spilling gray
light over the stricken servants and the almost
hysterical child. Her step remained unsteady as she
descended the front steps and disappeared. A moment
later, Amanda heard a heavy rumbling, the snap
of a whip, the rattle and ring of shod hoofs on the
cobbles-
A shout:
"Watch out, woman!"
The unseen horses neighed wildly. Then, through the
open door, Amanda saw them plunge past, pulling
a dray loaded with big barrels. The frantic
driver was hauling on the reins and jamming a boot
against the brake lever.
The wagon shot out of sight, sparks spurting from the
rear tires. Dazed, Amanda didn't immediately
understand why the servants gasped and rushed outside.
But
when the young gardener's voice drifted from the street--
"Christ save us!"--she realized something terrible had
happened.
IV.
Amanda slipped through the doorway, blinked and shuddered
in the bitter wind sweeping along Beacon Street.
The servants had all left the stoop. She saw
them down on the walk, to the left, huddling
over someone fallen half into the gutter.
To the right, the dray was stopping; the driver had gotten
his frightened team under control. He leaped down, raced
back, his leather cap flying off, his boots
clattering.
He checked at the edge of the crowd as people appeared from
nowhere to surround the servants, hide Amanda's
view of the fallen body.
Her mother. Harriet's bonnet lay on the
sidewalk, stained red.
The dray driver shrank from the hostile eyes of the
servants.
"She--she come along the curbstone," he stammered.
"All of a sudden, she-fell right in front of the
horses. I couldn't stop in time-was
Standing abruptly, Florence said, "We must carry
her inside."
"I don't know," the young gardener said. "It might
hurt her worse to move her-was
Florence cried, "We can't leave her lying in the
cold comon the street-all these people staring-to "
Sounding reluctant, the gardener said, "All right"
"Is she breathing?" the dray driver asked him.
"Just barely."
The servants lifted Harriet gently and
bore her up the steps into the house. On the stoop,
Amanda got a clear view of her mother's head. It
seemed to loll at an odd angle. Her cheeks were
bruised and bloodied. Still numb from watching the awful
scene with Piggott, Amanda couldn't quite believe what
she saw.
The servants put Harriet in the front sitting
room, on blankets spread on the floor. One
maid rushed out of the house to fetch a doctor. Then
the gardener dashed past Amanda who was watching from the
hall, afraid to go in.
The gardener ran upstairs. In a minute or so,
he came back swearing. He informed the others that
Andrew Piggott had vanished. Out the back way,
most likely. "Why isn't mama getting up?"
Amanda said in a hushed voice.
The gardener began, "Her neck is-was Florence
silenced him with a sharp look.
Then the maid said to Amanda, "She can't get up,
child. She's hurt. You'd best go to your-was
She broke off as one of the other girls motioned.
Florence knelt down. Put her ear close
to Harriet's mouth. When she rose, tears tracked
her cheeks.
She came toward Amanda, hands extended as
if to gather the child to herself and comfort her. Gazing past
her, Amanda saw the gardener pick up another
blanket and cover Harriet's face.
"Amanda-was Florence could barely contain her misery.
"comcome with me to your room. You mustn't stay
and look-was
Amanda knew then. She knew the second blanket
meant permanence-
She tried to rush to Harriet's body. Florence
blocked her way. "No, child!"
Amanda's grief burst out in a wild cry:
"Jared? Jared, come help me-to " She fell against
Florence's skirt, wailing hysterically.
Act of Murder
"JARED? WE GOT a visitor. It's that
damn lawyer."
Jared barely heard the first words. But the last one
struck him like an icy shower. He almost dropped the
stack of untrimmed sheets as he deposited them
on the pallet behind one of the thumping flatbed
presses.
He straightened up, the sound of his own breathing loud
in his inner ear. His heartbeat quickened as he turned
toward the open front door. Snow swirled there.
He'd been too busy to notice when it
had started falling from the dull Saturday sky.
He scowled, recognizing the short, portly man
just closing the door. In one hand the man carried a
valise Jared had seen before.
"You'd better fetch Mr. Pleasant," he
whispered to the pressman who had spoken to him.
The pressman reached for a rag to wipe his inky hands.
Jared grabbed the rag, flung it aside:
"Right now!"
The pressman didn't protest being ordered around
by a fifteen-year-old boy. He knew there was
trouble looming. The presence of the well-dressed
gentleman surveying the first floor work area charged
the atmosphere with tension.
Jared felt that tension with mounting intensity. His temper
had flared when he spoke to the pressman. That
mustn't happen again. He had to stay calm until
he learned the reason for the lawyer's call-
Instantly, his resolve was threatened. He could
feel anger starting to simmer. A dull ache spread
across his forehead as he studied the lawyer's
expression. Smug. Disdainful-
One by one, the four other presses stopped. Two
apprentices who had been cuffing each other quit
suddenly. The pressman raced for the
stairs.
The portly gentleman continued to scrutinize the
room. Lanterns hung from the ceiling beams
stretched Jared's silhouette across the floor as he
walked toward the front. He recalled with bitter
clarity the last time the man-and his infernal
valise-had been on the premises. A large,
empty section of floor space was a constant
reminder of that visit
"Good afternoon," the portly man said. His gaze
jumped past Jared's shoulder, a deliberate
affront. The boy reddened.
"What do you want?" Jared demanded.
The portly man condescended to look at him again.
"I'll communicate that to the manager, if you don't
mind."
"You'll tell me first! My aunt's the owner."
The portly man was amused:
"Not any longer, I'm afraid."
A knot twisted in Jared's midsection. Surely
he hadn't heard correctly-
The man brushed by and strolled down the aisle between the
presses. Jared almost grabbed him; then literally
fought his hand back down as the man passed. The
lawyer seemed unperturbed by the hostile
stares of the men and boys on both sides of the room.
Jared thought of the pistol he'd gotten in case something
like this happened again-
No. Forget the pistol.
Only hours after buying the second-hand weapon,
he'd decided the purchase was rash. He'd gone
to the gunsmith's when the first press was taken; gone
there with an almost drunken feeling of fury. But then,
with the gun in his possession, he'd realized his
mistake-
For weeks, up until the lawyer called the first
time, Jared had consciously struggled to keep a check
on his temper. To disprove, through new patterns of
behavior, his old fears about himself. He hadn't
succeeded completely. But he had made large
strides, and he took pride in the fact. Then the
lawyer arrived-and afterward, he bought the gun, and stored
it in a niche up in the second-floor warehouse
section.
That's where it must stay, he said to himself now. Don't
even think about it-
Footsteps hammered on the stairs. No one moved
save the portly gentleman, who propped his
valise on one of the rails separating the central
aisle from the work areas. The man opened the
valise, fished out papers.
Franklin Pleasant appeared on the stairs, his
waistcoat unbuttoned, his cravat undone. The
pressman who'd gone to find him was right behind.
Wary, Pleasant approached the portly man:
"I trust you're not here to attach more of our
equipment, Mr. Elphinstone."
"I'm flattered you remember my name, Mr.
Pleasant."
"As I'd remember any thief's."
Elphinstone met Pleasant's glare with a smug
smile:
"I deplore your animosity, sir. I am only
an attorney, hired by my clients to conduct
business on their behalf. I have no interest in
removing another press-was
Franklin Pleasant looked relieved. Having
lulled him, Elphinstone closed the trap:
"I have come to inform you that new owners are taking over this
establishment."
Pleasant gripped the rail, his knuckles white.
The ache in Jared's head worsened instantly.
"You must be insane," Pleasant said.
"Is that right? Be so good as to scan this document.
Particularly the attached note. Signed
by Mr. Andrew Piggott in the presence of my
clients, and duly witnessed by two residents of the
rooming house where Mr. Piggott and my clients were
gaming. The document-and the note-will stand up in any
court of law in this state. They're just as legal as
the note Mr. Piggott signed in connection with the
press."
Outside, Jared heard wheels grind to a halt.
A restless horse stamped and blew. Laughing
voices blended with the slam of a coach door.
Footsteps approached the front entrance.
Jared didn't look around. He was watching
Pleasant's face.
The manager leafed through the legal sheets. Fingered a
slip of paper waxed to the last one. Pale, he
let his hand fall to his side.
Elphinstone snatched the legal-size sheets and
began to fold them. Pleasant looked at Jared, but
his words were addressed to everyone.
"Elphinstone's right This time, Piggott's lost the
whole place."
Despite the effort of will that had held him
white-lipped and silent, Jared felt his anger
loosed like a flood within him. In a tick of time, his
mind swirled through distorted images of
Uncle Gilbert. His throbbing head rang with
remembered words: the promises he'd made about
protecting the Kent interests. A faint inner
voice of warning faded as he lunged forward with a
shout:
"I don't believe it!" He seized the lawyer's
collar. "You're a damned, deceitful liar-to "
Elphinstone squealed as Jared shoved him against the
rail:
"Take your hands off me or I'll have you clapped
in jail!"
"You'd better do as he says, Jared," Pleasant
warned.
"But that paper can't be legal-to "
Pleasant shook his head. "The last one was."
Beyond Elphinstone, Jared saw an apprentice's
head whip toward the front door. The sound of the
door opening had barely registered in Jared's mind.
Now he noted a startled look on the
apprentice's face-
And heard a voice that numbed him:
"It's legal, Mr. Kent. You are now working for
me."
Two men, elegantly dressed, stood at the
front entrance, framed against the background
of a carriage and swirling snow. Jared's blue
eyes locked onto the man nearest to him; the other
fellow, older, was a blur.
All Jared could see of the first man was half a
face. A glowing brown eye. The young visitor
wore a white silk bandana tied around his forehead.
The edge of the bandana made an oblique line that
ran from the left side of his forehead across his nose and
right cheek to the curve of his jaw.
Perfectly relaxed, the visitor used a
lacquered stick to knock snow from the brim of a beaver
hat in his other hand.
"Mr. Kent and I are old acquaintances," the young
man announced to the goggling employees. "Permit
me to introduce my companion-Mr. Walpole,
general manager of the Chesapeake Iron Finery,
Baltimore. My name is Hamilton Stovall.
My family owns the refinery comand now, it seems,
a Boston printing house."
II.
"Jared-was
Pleasant's voice sounded remote. The boy's
ears were filled with a roaring again, as of a huge wind
unleashed.
He could have sworn the earth shook--then
realized it was only the frantic, heavy rhythm
inside his own chest. The scope of the monstrous
duplicity began to register--and with it came an
overwhelming sense of failure.
"I should have killed him. I didn't, and because I
didn't, this has happened-
"comwho is this person?"
Stovall said, "Why, I'm the fellow who became
acquainted with Mr. Kent's uncle by marriage.
Played cards and dice with him-was
"Not by accident," Jared breathed.
"Oh no, dear boy," Stovall smiled, tapping
his lacquered stick against his flawlessly cut mauve
trouser leg. "Ever since my untimely separation from
the naval service-was
His free hand touched the bandana hiding half his
face.
"comI've laid plans for a return to New
England. We are trying to secure information on the
new modification of the Cort furnace being used in
Europe. And it's impossible to get an inquiry
agent aboard an outbound ship down in our part of the
country. I could as easily have visited Providence
to make arrangements, but I chose Boston for a
special reason--which Mr. Kent of
course understands."
Again Pleasant whispered:
"What's he talking about?"
Jared licked his lips, trying to still the shaking of his
hands at his sides.
The pistol. Remember the pistol-
Without thinking, he glanced at the stairway.
Stovall noticed. Jared forced his eyes back to the
young man with the stick; saw him for a moment as a
blurred image. He had to leave the pistol where it
was. Had to, or he'd only compound the damage
he'd already done-
But reason's voice was faint, its promptings
overwhelmed by humiliation and guilt. Jared watched
lawyer Elphinstone sidle along the rail, out of his
reach. He clenched his fists so tightly they ached.
Pleasant was waiting for an answer. Jared finally
finished the sentence:
"comI served with Mr. Stovall aboard Constitution.
He was sixth lieutenant."
"Tell them what happened," Stovall said
affably. But there was hate in his glaring eye.
"Tell them how you caused me to fall against a
cannon that broke loose during the action with
Guerri@ere. How my face came in
contact with the heated barrel. My face and my hands-was
Tucking his stick under one arm, he showed his palms.
Jared and the others saw the ruin of puckered scar
tissue.
"Even having recovered, I'm no longer welcome
where I was welcome before. Hostesses--young ladies
--decline to invite me to their levees-was Despite
an effort to control his voice, it grew louder.
"Thanks to you, Mr. Kent, I'm disgusting to look
at. Do you wonder I planned to return to Boston
from the first moment I awoke in the hospital?"
"You can also tell them why we had trouble," Jared
said.
"That's not neces-was
"He talks about young ladies but he fancies men
and boys."
The older man, Walpole, spoke at last:
"Take your stick to the young liar, Hamilton!"
Stovall rapped the lacquered wood against a scarred
palm; a heavy sound.
"It's a shotted stick, Mr. Kent. It could ruin
you for life--as you've ruined me. However, since my
family now controls this company, I have a duty
to behave as befits an owner. To put a curb on
my temper, no matter
how filthy and false your accusations. I'll defer
physical punishment in favor of what's already been
exacted-was
He started forward, a slow, languid walk that
held every eye in the room.
"I readily admit I thought of hiring men
to waylay you, Mr. Kent--I can't be imprisoned
for a thought, can I? I decided that was entirely too
coarse. Too quick. I wanted something more lasting. It
struck me nothing could be more suitable than destroying
you by destroying your family. I entertained various
means. But a few inquiries in the local coffee
houses showed me one that was ideal. The stupid sham
gentleman who married your aunt is rather notorious.
More to the point, so is his passion for gaming."
"So you made his acquaintance-was
"Actually," Stovall cut in, "a sharp we
hired made his acquaintance first. The sharp--shall we
say--tested Mr. Piggott's skill at cards?
The sharp was the chap who won the press. When he
reported Mr. Piggott to be the soul of
gullibility--especially after a few rounds of rum
--Mr. Walpole and I contrived a seemingly
accidental meeting at the Exchange-was
"Contrived to cheat him too, I don't
doubt!"
Hamilton Stovall smiled. "That, my dear
boy, you'll never know."
"Of course Piggott was cheated," Pleasant
fumed. "Marked cards. Weighted dice-was
Stovall waved. "Immaterial. The games are
over. What remains is-this-was
The stick shimmered as Stovall tapped the legal
papers in Elphinstone's hand.
"Our proof of ownership. It was quite easy to tempt
Piggott into his last, excessive wager.
Plenty of that strong drink I mentioned--a few
apparently spontaneous suggestions during the heat
of the betting-was
Slap went the stick against the paper.
comand Kent and Son belongs to the Stovalls."
From behind Jared, Pleasant burst out, "We'll
fight you, by God! Our attorney Benbow-was
"He'll be able to do nothing." Elphinstone waved the
document. "Nothing!"
The pressman who'd run upstairs stalked to the
raf.
"Damned if we need any lawyers to settle this-was
Stovall spun and rammed the ferrule of his stick
against the pressman's throat.
The pressman gasped, his right hand flashing up to the
stick as other employees started forward, fists
ready.
"You had better restrain yourself, my friend-was
Again Stovall jabbed with the stick. The pressman
turned scarlet, grabbed the stick at the midpoint.
"comelse you'll rot in jail for assault."
"It's not an idle threat!" Elphinstone
exclaimed. "I'll see to it!"
"Let go of the stick, Joe," Franklin
Pleasant said. "These-gentlemen and I will retire
to the office upstairs and discuss-was
"There's nothing to discuss!" Jared shouted. "Stovall
and his cronies, they're-was
"Jared, be silent! For the sake of every employee of
this company, don't say another word. Joe-let go
of the stick."
The pressman scowled. But he obeyed the manager.
Stovall examined the finish on the stick as Jared
wiped his sweating upper lip. He glared at
Pleasant. "I won't let you just surrender-was
"Be silent!" Pleasant directed the warning not
only to the boy but to all the confused and angry men and
apprentices. "I am still manager here-was "In the
employ of the Kents!" "My dear boy, you
forget-that's all changed," Stovall said, strolling
past Jared and pushing through the gate in the rail. A
huge, tow-haired pressman blocked
his path. The young Marylander raised his stick.
Sweating, Franklin Pleasant shook his head. The
pressman retreated.
Stovall gave a short, brittle laugh and
walked on, tucking the stick under his arm again:
"The firm of Kent and Son is now irrevocably
part of the assets of the Stovall family-to do with as
we please. We may wish to change the politics
of your paper-was
He rapped knuckles against the screw lever of a
press.
"comsuspend publication of your books and your
gazette alt-"
He approached a type font, grasped the top
of the case, pulled. The case crashed to the floor,
scattering hundreds of bits of metal.
"comor raze it to the ground."
Trembling, Jared cried, "You goddamned, conniving
-"
Pleasant grabbed his shoulder: "I demand that you
hold your temper! Nothing will be gained-was
Jared flung off Pleasant's hand and
sprinted for the stairs.
The rage in Jared Kent was out of control. He
knew Hamilton Stovall wouldn't be making
boasts if he lacked the legal means to back them
up. Let Pleasant quibble and delay. He
wouldn't
As he reached the second floor, he heard
contentious voices erupt below. Pleasant was
shouting. Some of the pressmen too. And the lawyer-
The voices faded as Jared raced between the towers of
books in the warehouse area. At the wall niche in
the back, he stood on tiptoe, groped, pulled
down the pistol. The English box-lock piece was
a good fifteen years old. Six stubby barrels
clustered around a seventh, central
one. A plate above the trigger guard on the right
side carried the maker's mark, and his name, Nock.
Jared had loaded and primed the pistol before storing it
in the niche. He pulled the lock back to cock
position; the first shot would discharge the central barrel
and one adjoining. He hid the pistol under his shirt,
then sped for the stairs again. Stovall would never take
the place. Never!
On the third floor, one of the Republican's
reporters glanced up from his copy.
"What's all the row downstairs, Jared?
Pleasant fairly tore out of the office-was
Jared didn't bother to answer. He dashed into the
cluttered office once used by his grandfather, then
by his uncle. Mr. Pleasant had installed a
convenience lacking until his occupancy--a small
Franklin stove that heated the room to oven
temperature.
Breathing hard, Jared jerked open the doors of the
free-standing stove. His reflection in the
smoke-stained windows looked like a goblin's. He
snatched sheets of newspaper copy from the desk,
tossed them onto the fire.
Then invoices. More foolscap copy. A book.
Another-
He moved with incredible speed. He pitched everything
on Pleasant's desk into the stove. Finally the
grate could hold no more. Flames shot from the
stove's front as the fire grew-
Let Pleasant prattle about lawyers! Let him
discuss! Jared knew it was too late for any of that
to help. He knew Stovall.
"For Christ's sake, Jared, what are you doing?
Catch those things-to "
The reporter lunged into the office, jerked
back as Jared pulled the seven-barrel flintlock
from his trousers.
"I don't want to shoot you, Tommy-was
"Have you gone mad?" The reporter pointed. Two
smoldering books and a pile of blazing sheets had
fallen out of the overflowing grate. Smoke was curling
from the ancient flooring. "You'll burn the place
down!" "That's just what I intend."
The reporter's sweaty face glistened as the fire
brightened. Smoke hazed the office now. The
tawny-haired boy--taller than the reporter--
crouched with the seven-barrel pistol in his right hand, and
something akin to lunacy in his bright blue eyes.
The reporter whirled and fled down the front
stairs. "Fire! We've a fire up here!"
Jared darted behind the Franklin stove. He touched the
top gingerly, gave it a shove. The stove tipped
forward, crashed, spilling the contents of the grate.
Jared's face broke into a ghastly smile as the
flames spread to the desk, one wall-
The heat was intense. Coughing, Jared backed out of the
office. Ran to the head of the stairs-
Men were coming up. He recognized the loudest
voices. Stovall and his companion-
He waited, the back of his neck hot from
the flames. The blaze wasn't yet bright enough
to illuminate the lightless stairs. He barely
made out dim figures appearing on the landing
halfway between the two floors. But someone down there
saw him clearly. "He's got a gun!"
Jared thought he saw a patch of white on the landing;
the silk bandana. He aimed the seven-barrel,
pulled the trigger. The central barrel and another
went off simultaneously, a second after
Hamilton Stovall wrenched someone in front of
him.
The other man--Walpole--shrieked. Flung his
arms wide and fell back to the landing, blood darkening
his coat where one or both of the balls had struck.
Jared felt the old, devastating nausea sweep
up from his belly-
"Murder!" Stovall cried in the confusion below. "The
boy's done murder!"
Jared revolved the barrels on the spindle, readying
another shot. His hands shook. The nausea was almost
overpowering-
Fire shot from the office door, burning the wall
on either side. Stovall had cheated him again.
"Murder! He's done murder! THE PLACE
IS BURNING-WAS
Stovall's shout thundered as Jared ran for the rear
stairs.
He emerged in the alley behind the building. Fat,
wet snowflakes struck his hands and face. Their
coldness sobered him a little.
But in his imagination, he still saw Walpole falling,
his coat bloodied-
Jared careened across the alley to a fence. He
dropped the pistol, shot out his hands. He could find
no purchase on the fence planks. He fell
to his knees, his palms raking over the wood.
Splinters stabbed his skin as the shuddering shook him,
spasm after spasm-
Once the trembling passed, he scrabbled in the
snow until he located the pistol. He stuffed it
into his trousers, stumbled for the end of the alley.
There he stopped. He glanced right, to the intersection
of the narrow cross-street and the one that ran in front
of Kent's. At the intersection, he saw men racing
by, heading for the printing house in response
to voices crying fire.
He turned and gazed up through the pelting snow to a
rear window on the top floor. The window glowed
orange. The fire had spread all the way to the
back-
Jared's mouth twisted into a peculiar smile. His
ears buzzed. His belly ached. But the trembling was
over, and he still felt the intoxication of the rage that had
seized him just before he bolted upstairs.
"I did what had to be done, he thought. Better that
Kent and Son burn than fall into the hands of someone
like Stovall-
He wasn't entirely oblivious to the consequences
of his actions, though. He'd shot Stovall's
accomplice. For that, they could hang him-
Like some pursued animal, he spun and ran to the
left, slitting his eyes against the snow. The darkness
of the narrow street soon hid him.
IV.
Observed surreptitiously from the blackness of the
Common, the house on Beacon Street seemed
quiet enough. The snow was falling harder now.
Jared hurried along Beacon to the end of the block.
Cutting left, then left again, he approached the
house through the small backyard.
His teeth were chattering and his soaked shirt stuck
to his skin as he crept from the darkness into the
stairwell behind the pantry. Beyond a door to the
kitchen, he heard voices. Two or three
servants, talking softly. He started up
the stairs, testing each riser so it wouldn't creak.
Fortunately the servants had lit a fire in his
room on the third floor. With the door shut, he
pulled off his sodden shirt and warmed himself a moment.
On hands and knees, he groped under his bed. He
dragged out the small canvas bag he'd brought
home from sea duty. Backing up, he knocked
over a stack of books.
The books thudded on the carpet. Jared tensed,
listening -
A half minute passed.
A minute.
He stood up, carefully opened his wardrobe, found
a fresh shirt, a few underthings-
His hand went slack. The clothing spilled to the
floor. Blinking, he knelt to pick it up. In that
moment, the dizzying anger that had possessed him for the
past hour faded--replaced by a full realization of
what he'd done.
He had destroyed Kent's.
Destroyed it!
Part of the blame was Stovall's. But only a
small part. He, Jared Kent, was the truly
guilty one. Surrendering to rage and unreason and the
stunning shock of seeing Stovall again, he
had behaved as he always did: At the moment when
coolness counted most--the moment of crisis--he had
been unable to deal with the situation except in one,
destructive way. He had failed again.
And the new Jared he'd worked so carefully to create--
the Jared who could be proud of his self-control--proud
of finally giving the lie to everything Aunt Harriet
said about him--he had destroyed that Jared Kent
alonf with the printing house.
What a fool I was, he thought, still kneeling but
seeing nothing around him. A fool to think I could
change--that I had the strength to change. He
remembered the terrible nausea moments after the pistol
discharged. The punishing sickness was proof once again that
all his old feelings about his worthlessness were
correct; and that for the past months, he had only
been deceiving himself-
An almost animal cry burst from his lips then. He
buried his head in both hands.
After another minute or so, he lifted his head;
drew a long breath.
All right. It's done. You are what you are. Now you
have to save yourself as best you can-
He fumbled with the clothing, stood up unsteadily,
trying to assess the situation calmly. That
Stovall, his intended victim, had let someone
else die in his place only compounded his problem.
No magistrate would put much importance on
Jared's contention that he meant to shoot the man who had
cheated his family. Murder was murder. He'd be
sought and arrested if he didn't run-
Despairing, he gazed down at something he'd
pulled from a drawer in the wardrobe without being aware
of it. The medal and the broad green ribbon.
His feeling of having betrayed Gilbert's trust was
sharp and hurtful. He touched the tea bottle on the
medal's obverse. Rubbed his thumb slowly back and
forth over the raised Latin legend.
Take a stand and make a mark.
Well, I've made a mark, he thought. But it's
not one to be proud of-even if it is the only kind
I'm capable of making.
And because of it, what kind of life is left for me-his
The door opened suddenly. Jared's hand constricted
on the medal as he whirled:
"Amanda!"
It took him a few seconds to realize that her
face looked raw; her eyes puffy.
"Come in and close the door!"
With a peculiar, lethargic slowness, his
dark-haired cousin shuffled into the room. He shoved
the fob into his bag, then added the sheathed Spanish
knife and a few more items of clothing.
"You mustn't tell anyone you've seen me here,
Amanda."
She didn't respond. But she recognized the
contour of the pistol butt showing beneath his shirt:
"Is that your gun, Jared?"
"Yes."
"Why are you putting things in the bag?"
"Because I'm leaving, and you mustn't tell Aunt
Harriet you saw me."
"Leaving? Where are you going?"
"Away from Boston. As far as possible as fast as
possible."
He jerked the drawstring tight on his bag. Then,
seeing that his curt tone had alarmed her, he dropped
to his knees beside her, touched her face.
"I don't want to leave. I must. I'll be all
right. Promise me you won't tell your mama-was
Amanda whispered, "Mama's dead."
"Dead?"
His hand fell away from her cheek. His mouth hung
open. He understood why her face was tear-reddened.
Yet he somehow couldn't believe what
she'd told him:
"I hope you're not making up a story. Death is
a very
serious-was
"She's lying in the sitting room this minute!
Florence said I mustn't look at her. She said
I had to stay in my room until someone takes
mama away. But I heard a noise in here-was
"Where's Mr. Piggott?"
"I don't know. I was alone when he came home
this afternoon. Then mama came home, and there was a
terrible fuss. Shouting and cursing and crying--Mr.
Piggott hit her. Then mama ran out into Beacon
Street. A wagon was coming along, very fast. She
fell in front of it-was
"Oh my God."
"Mr. Piggott ran away just like you're doing."
The boy was speechless. Amanda flung her arms around
his neck.
"Please don't go away and leave me, Jared.
I'm frightened of Mr. Piggott. What if he should
come back?"
Jared guessed the reason for Piggott's abrupt
flight.
And for the quarrel. Harriet must have found out
about her husband's last, disastrous wager. "Jared-?"
"I doubt he'll come back." "Why won't he?"
"Never mind!"
Her eyes brimmed with tears. "Don't talk to me
that way, Jared. Don't be cross-was
He patted her arm clumsily. "I'm sorry.
I'm-upset, that's all." He stood. "I must
go-was
Yet he couldn't move. His eye traveled from his
cousin's face to the cheerful hearth, then to his display
cases. On one of the glass fronts, the fire
twisted his image into an ugly distortion.
Murderer-
By his own hand, all the underpinnings of his world had been
cut away-
But Amanda was no better off. He looked at her,
small and lovely, watching him with fear and
uncertainty. How would she survive?
In the answer to that, he saw both a heavy
responsibility that had fallen to him, and one slim
opportunity to redeem himself a little. He put
gentle hands on her shoulders.
"Amanda, you must listen carefully-was
"I will."
"There's been trouble at the printing house.
I think I killed a man." Her eyes grew
huge. "That's the reason I must go away. I'll
be arrested and sent to prison if I don't. I
think you'd better come with me."
She was slow to grasp the idea:
"You mean-away from here-?"
"Yes. Tonight. I'll take care of you. That is-was
Bitterness showed in his eyes. "comI'll try. I
am old enough-was
"But I don't understand why-was
"Your mama isn't here to protect you, and I
promised Uncle Gilbert I would."
And if I don't keep that promise somehow, I'm
finished.
Seeing her reluctance, he added, "Mr. Piggott
might come back-was
"That's not what you said a minute ago."
He struggled to keep his voice quiet and firm.
"I was wrong." He hated to lie. But he knew of
no better means to persuade her to accept his
protection than invoking Piggott's spectre.
He sensed her wavering:
"I looked outside, Jared. It's snowing-was
"Goddamn it, I know it's snowing!"
"Oh, don't lose your temper! Don't
swear at me-was
"I apologize. Please, Amanda-no more tears.
Let's go to your room. Find some clothing. A warm
coat-was
She held up her hand. For the first time, he noticed
the cordage bracelet.
"Will you let me take this?"
"Yes, yes--but hurry!"
She fought as he tugged her hand:
"What's happened to you, Jared? Your face is
funny. You don't look like yourself-was
And what do I look like? What I am?
MURDERER.
"Stop talking and come along!"
He said it with such ferocity that she obeyed without
another question. As they passed the head of the stairs, he
glanced down. He saw no one on the second
floor; heard nothing. The house seemed an
enormous well of silence. Silence that mourned the
passing of the dead, and the destruction of the living.
Twenty minutes later, two figures emerged from
the darkness around the Beacon Street stoop.
Jared had decided to risk stealing out the front way
in order to satisfy himself about Aunt Harriet.
He'd crept to the door of the lamp-lit
sitting room; seen the body beneath the blanket.
Leaving Amanda shivering in the dark hall, he stole
in, his eye turned warily toward the passage
leading to the kitchen where voices still murmured.
He lifted the blanket. Stared. Let the
blanket fall. There was no satisfaction in seeing
her dead.
"I'm cold, Jared," Amanda said as they slipped
across the street to the Common. He'd insisted she put
on her heaviest coat and fur-lined bonnet. But
already her teeth were chattering almost as badly as his.
He tried to make light of it:
"Oh, you won't be cold for long. I know a cozy
stable in the South End. We'll stay there tonight, very
snugly. In the morning we'll slip across the
Neck to Roxbury. We'll have a wonderful
adventure-was
What a pathetic sham! But Amanda was young enough
to believe him--almost. She sniffled, clutching his hand
tightly.
From the Common, Jared looked back at the Kent
house, its windows shedding warm light into the moving
pattern of snowflakes. The sight engulfed him in
a pessimism blacker than any he'd experienced
before. Hope was futile. He could never be
anything more than what he was: the inheritor of
weakness and unbridled emotion; a creature
possessed by the past, and carrying its curse forever
into the future-
He turned away. Lowering his head against the wind,
he guided Amanda into the dark.
Hamilton Stovall stood across the street from the
printing house, watching it burn.
In the distance, a clanging bell and the clatter of
hoofs signaled the approach of a fire wagon. The
snow continued to fall, but Stovall, bareheaded,
seemed perfectly comfortable as he gazed at the
flame-filled windows.
Close by, lawyer Elphinstone looked as if he
were freezing. A man ran up to him, spoke
briefly. Elphinstone bobbed his head, approached
his employer:
"Hamilton?"
"What is it?"
"The doctor that boy fetched just looked at
Walpole. He's going to pull through."
"I suspected he would. I examined the wound
myself."
"Is that why you were so slow to send for the authorities?"
Stovall said nothing.
"How did he get in the line of fire,
Hamilton?"
"He stumbled."
"Oh. I understand only one of the balls struck
him-was
"Yes."
"Well above the heart, luckily."
Stovall's uncovered eye glistened with reflections
of the blaze now threatening the adjoining buildings.
Noisy men milled in the street. The fire bell
clanged louder. Stovall seemed oblivious
to everything but the flames gutting Kent and Son.
"Going to be a total loss," Elphinstone
muttered.
"I imagine it's well insured."
"Will you keep the money, or rebuild?"
"I haven't decided." After a moment, he added,
"Anyone seen the Kent boy?"
"No. I expect he's fleeing for his life. He
heard you shout murder. He undoubtedly thinks
Walpole's dead."
Hamilton Stovall's mouth curved up at the
corners. His brown eye glared as the fire shimmered
on the white silk of the bandana.
"Let him," he said.
Has
Ordeal
THE ROAD LED on toward a town whose lights
gleamed faintly in the darkening day.
Jared wished they could push on to that settlement. There,
they might find a public house like the one in
Philadelphia where he'd worked part of a week,
scrubbing floors and washing ceilings. The labor had
left him stiff and sore every night, but it had given
them a temporary haven in the stable attached to the
public house complus a quantity of biscuits and
meal for the next stage of their journey.
Now the biscuits were eaten, and the meal too. They
had to stop again. But going on to the town was impossible.
He was too tired and weak. And Amanda was beginning
to make small, fretful sounds that indicated her own
exhaustion.
She was nearly as disreputable looking as Jared himself.
Her cheeks were pale. Her dark hair hung
tangled around her shoulders, picking up
snow-crystals beginning to blow out of the northwest.
The draw-cord of the canvas bag was slipping from his
shoulder. He tugged the cord up close to his
collar as he surveyed the first of two farmhouses
ahead. The houses and outbuildings were set
about a quarter mile apart, and windows in both
dwellings were lighted.
"Might as well try the first one," he said.
Amanda didn't respond. She acted dazed. Her
hand moved aimlessly, brushing snow from her sleeve,
then
fingering a rent in the front of the coat that had once
been clean and fashionable but now, in December,
bore the marks of hard use. "Come on, Amanda."
She murmured something that might have been an argument
or a complaint. Jared took hold of her elbow,
guided her around the worst of the ruts in the road to the
first farmyard. An almost sensual joy possessed
him when he thought of resting behind solid walls.
They'd taken no more than a couple of steps toward
the house when a huge brindle animal shot around the
corner. Amanda screamed. The shepherd charged them,
barking. The sound seemed loud enough to reach to the end of
creation-
"Run!" Jared yelled, turning and starting away.
An instant later, he heard his cousin's second
outcry, whirled back and saw her on the ground,
floundering.
The shepherd came on, teeth bared. The dog made
straight for Amanda.
Jared lunged, caught the girl's arm, literally
dragged her to him. The watchdog jumped at his
legs. Jared kicked, struggling to pick his cousin up
at the same time. Somehow he avoided the snapping
jaws and reached the road.
The dog stopped at the edge of the property, but kept
barking. Jared cradled his cousin in his arms and staggered
down the road, unnerved by the yapping of the animal,
by the thought of the harm Amanda could have suffered-and
by disappointment.
"There, he didn't hurt you," he panted. Amanda
kept moaning softly against his neck. "Amanda, stop
that. You're all right."
"Yes. Yes, but the dog scared me-was
"He scared me too." The barking stopped
abruptly.
Jared glanced back. He could barely see the huge
animal as it padded toward the house. He set his
cousin on the ground.
"We'll try the next place. There are lamps in
the back--see?" He pointed. "Let's go around that
way-was
She stumbled as they started into the second yard. Jared
caught her and held her up. Night was coming fast.
The wind was stiffening, driving the snow harder.
The ground was already covered with a white crust.
A memory of the warmth of the Boston house tormented
Jared for a moment. He put it ruthlessly aside.
He could allow himself no weakness; no regrets.
They had come a good distance, but they had to go even
further, surviving day by day and hour by hour-
He led his cousin down the side of the shingled house.
They must keep on; never falter; never stay in one
place too long. This was still civilization. He was still
a murderer -
He'd considered it an accomplishment just to reach
Philadelphia before the worst weather began. But
he'd been nervous working at the crowded public
house. Even with the war going on, Philadelphia
attracted a great many visitors. What if someone
from Boston recognized him-his
So they'd taken to the road again, putting more miles
between themselves and the threat that Boston represented. As
yet, Jared had no clear destination in mind. He
knew he'd have to choose one eventually. Eventually,
but not tonight-
The snow was growing steadily thicker. It reminded him
that it wouldn't be as easy to steal food in deepest
wintertime as it had been on the long trip down to the
Quaker City. He hoped they wouldn't have
to resort to thievery tonight. He hoped begging would
serve instead -
The rear porch creaked under his feet. Amanda
refused to climb up with him. She stood in the yard
and stared at him with a slack expression. Her thin
fingers kept plucking at the tear in the coat.
God, how despicable he was to subject her to this-to 
His stiff hand rapped on the door. Inside, he
heard a man's guttural voice. Then a
woman's, a little lighter, not so foreign-sounding. A
small boy asked a question and the woman shushed him.
Boots clumped.
The door opened to reveal a man in his late
twenties, plainly dressed, with curly blond
hair and blue eyes. An old flintlock glinted
in his hands. The young man peered at Jared, then
glanced beyond him, wary.
"Ja?"
"Good--good evening," Jared stammered. "My--sister
and I-was He stood aside so the farmer could get a
clear look at Amanda down in the whitened yard. With
fair glibness, he slid into the tale that had served
them before. "We're on our way to Pittsburgh-was
"Alone? No von else?"
"Just the two of us. We're from Rhode
Island-was He didn't intend to tell anyone they
came from Boston. Who could say how far
Massachusetts law might reach? "Our parents
died in a fire, so we're going to Pittsburgh
to live with our uncle."
The young man's eyes remained suspicious. His
wife appeared behind him. Despite her youth, she was
rough-skinned and stooped. Jared was almost dizzy
inhaling the aroma of fresh bread that suffused her
kitchen.
"Children, Karl?" the woman asked.
"Ja. Dey say dey're going to Pittsburgh-was
"Look, I'm not armed in any way-was Jared
raised his hands. He'd concealed the Spanish knife
and the London-made pistol in the canvas bag on
his shoulder. "There's nothing to fear. We'd only like
permission to sleep in your barn."
The woman's face softened. "The barn will be
frigid
in a storm like this. We could let them come in,
Karl-was
Jared was quick to capitalize on her sympathy:
"If there's any way I could work for you for a day or
so, I'd be glad to, in exchange for a little food
to take
with us-was
"De roads are very bad dis time of year," the
farmer advised him.
"I know, but we need to get to Pittsburgh as soon
as we can."
The young man set the butt of his flintlock on the
floor. Jared felt relieved.
"Might find one of de wagon men in town who'd
take you," the farmer said.
"Town?" Jared repeated.
The young man gestured in the direction of the lights
glimpsed on the road. "Langaster. But I cannot
gif you charity, dis is a poor household-was
"I told you I'd work! Please, can't we come
in? My cous--my sister's nearly frozen."
For a moment he thought the farmer would say no. Had
something hinted to the young man that the visitors weren't
brother and sister? Jared's light eyes and Amanda's
dark ones, perhaps? Just as the farmer was about to speak, his
wife touched his arm.
The man glanced at her, shrugged and stepped aside.
"Ja, all right. But you sleep in de barn."
"Karl-was
"No, dey go to de barn."
"That's fine," Jared assured him.
"If you can help me split wood, I maybe
gif you some corn-was
"Amanda, come on!" Jared cried, darting down the
steps into the blowing snow. His excitement. at having
found them a sanctuary disappeared as he gazed at the
dim oval of her face. Her eyes were
tear-filled.
"I want to sleep, Jared," she said, teeth still
chattering.
"We will! These people are going to let us stay in the barn.
But first we can go inside."
"You better carry her," the woman said. "She
don't look so well."
Wearily, Jared picked his cousin up and bore her
to the porch and into the lamp-lit kitchen where the smell
of fresh bread drifted, indescribably rich and
sweet. One more step taken, he said to himself as the
farmer closed the door against the wind's whine.
Don't worry about tomorrow or about the day after--be
glad you've found a place away from the storm-
But as he set Amanda on her feet and started
brushing snowflakes off her brows and eyelashes,
he thought again of the immense distance still ahead of them;
thought of all the cheerless roads yet to be walked; of
all the strange doors that might or might
not open when he knocked-
It seemed too great an effort to ask of any
human being, let alone two who were not even
adults.
But Jared was able to banish that kind of pessimism very
quickly. All he had to do was remind himself of what
lay waiting for him back in Boston. Hungry and
tired as he was, he showed firmness in guiding
Amanda to the chair the farmer's wife pulled out from the
table. Her son, a blond copy of his father, was
awestruck by the visitors.
Jared spoke because he knew he must:
"I'd like to thank you for doing this. We've come a long
way today."
The farmer stood his flintlock in a corner, saying
nothing. His wife broke the tension with a smile:
"That is very clear. Please-sit down and eat."
Jared and Amanda stayed four days with the German
couple. Jared split eighteen cords of wood for the
farmer, whose name was Konigsberg. The young man never
quite lost his suspicion of the visitors. But his
wife, whom he called Hilde, accepted their
stories at face value, and treated them
generously. By the time the cousins set out with
Konigsberg on his weekly trip
to Lancaster for supplies, the woman had persuaded
her husband to give them not only a good-sized ration of
corn, but some bread and a thin blanket as well:
"That will keep you a little warmer on the way
to Pittsburgh, ja?"
III
The wagon creaked and swayed. From the head end,
Jared heard the teamster cursing. His whip popped like
a gunshot.
The driver, Francis Quilling, had agreed
to take them to Pittsburgh on this, perhaps the last
trip he could make before the roads became
impassable; he had agreed because Jared would provide
the extra strength needed to free the wheels from deep,
muddy ruts.
Quilling was a garrulous man, and a braggart. No
one made shrewder investments than he did. His
house was one of the largest and finest in Lancaster,
envied by everyone. His seven children were all supremely
intelligent; paragons of Christian virtue. And
during good weather, he wouldn't lower himself to take
help along on one of his runs; he could do it all,
no assistance required.
But he did admit that in early winter, particularly
after the sun shone for a while, boggy places
presented a
problem. If the wagon mired, Jared's job was
to jam pieces of plank beneath the iron tires, then
help Quilling push the wheels while the straining
horses pulled the wagon forward over the boards.
It was just before sunset. Amanda sat staring at her
cousin in the wagon's dim interior. Quilling had
allowed Jared to take a short rest because the ground
hereabouts was frozen hard.
As Jared yawned, Amanda touched his hand:
"Where are we going, Jared?"
"Why, you know very well. Pittsburgh. Be there in a
couple of days, Mr. Quilling said."
"And after that?"
"I don't know."
"Can't we stop in Pittsburgh?"
"We'll have to, until the river opens up again."
She shook her head. "I mean for longer than that."
"No, we've got to keep going."
"Where?"
"I don't know yet, Amanda!"
"But I'm tired!"
"Then sleep. Put your head down."
"I mean I'm tired of walking and being dirty and
hungry-was
"We'll find a place to stop," he said, sounding
confident.
"I don't believe you. I don't think you know where
we're going. You're just pretending. Telling me
lies. Aren't you? Aren't you?"
He didn't reply. She rolled away from him,
covering herself with the blanket given them by the
Konigsbergs. He stared at her filthy hair,
accused by her silence but unable to admit his guilt
aloud.
An old poster preserved on the wall of an
emporium in Pittsburgh provided the first hint of
an answer.
Even in winter, the boat yards at the head of the
Ohio didn't shut down. Work was done indoors,
in sheds that protected the river craft under
construction. Jared found a job as a boy-of-all-work
in the noisy Suck's Run yard at Boyd's
Bluff, across the Monongahela from the busy town.
All during January and into February, he ran
nails and lumber to the laborers sawing and hammering
on flatboats and keelboats that would take to the
water when good weather came.
At the end of his fourteen-hour day, Jared rode the
ferry raft back to Pittsburgh. The
ferrymen worked in pairs, using long poles to push
away floating chunks of ice. The trip was always
tedious because Jared was always exhausted. All he
wanted to do was clean the sawdust and shavings from his
hair and his body, then go to bed and sleep.
With his wages, he and Amanda had been able to take a
room in a shabby boarding house whose owners, an
elderly couple, obviously weren't too
scrupulous about their guests. Jared was never questioned about
why he and a small girl were traveling together.
Jared's pay was low, so the room was tiny. He
slept on a blanket on the floor while Amanda
occupied the bed. The landlady set a fair table,
though. And Amanda had a place to stay during the day,
safe from the none-too-savory men who drifted in and
out of the downstairs parlor.
Occasionally Jared spent a little of his money to bring his
cousin a newspaper. Apart from that, entertainment for
Amanda was non-existent. Confined in the room,
she grew even more sallow and unhappy. Only
Jared's return in the evening revived her spirits.
Two or three times a week she questioned him about their
destination. He always gave the same answer:
"I still don't know."
Then they saw the poster.
Jared worked six days a week. One Saturday
evening, he took Amanda to a store to buy her some
penny candy. As the cousins walked in, the
storekeeper was conversing with a couple of rough-looking
types lounging in chairs by the cracker barrel.
The storekeeper came to wait on them. Amanda's
eyes glowed as she surveyed the candy spread out in
small wooden trays. But Jared's attention had
been captured by the poster tacked to the wall:
March 17, 1811
Premier Voyage
Down the Ohio and Mississippi!
The Unique and Remarkable
STEAMBOAT
"New Orleans"
constructed by
Mr. NICHOLAS J. ROOSEVELT
Associate of the Celebrated
Steam Pioneer
Mr. ROBERT FULTON
Captain A. Sack, Pilot
Busy counting out licorice pieces, the
storekeeper didn't pay much heed to Jared. The
boy continued to gaze at the name of the vessel.
Certain things that he'd read and been told
about the south came back to mind. How warm it was there.
How gentle and easy a life-
True, the Indians had been active in that part of the
country. But the military was moving against them. The
name of the steamboat suddenly seemed to provide
exactly the sense of direction he needed.
The storekeeper accepted Amanda's coin and turned
to her cousin:
"That was quite a day."
Startled, Jared said, "What?"
"The day they launched Orleans. Never saw such
crowds in this town." He scratched a white
eyebrow. "But you sound like you come from back east-was
"We do."
"They got steamboats on the New York rivers,
don't they?"
"Yes, but I've never seen one."
"Well, old Orleans was mighty handsome. Had a
great big wheel in her stern. We sent her off with a
hurrah you could hear for miles. She was supposed
to make trips between here and the mouth of the
Mississippi. Turned out she wasn't built quite
right. She didn't have the power to get through the falls
of the Ohio very easy comand once she did, she never
could come back upstream past Natchez.
She's hauling cotton down there, they say. There's
a lot of talk about putting bigger steam boats on
th@eOhio soon. Then you'll see goods being carried
like you never saw before-was
The storekeeper broke off; swung around. One of the
men from the cracker barrel, burly and thick-lipped,
had walked to the counter. Pretending to examine a tin
of tobacco, he was actually staring at Amanda in an
oblique way.
"You want to buy that, Rafe?" the storekeeper
asked.
"If you don't, then don't shake it. Ruins the
tobacco."
"I might want to buy it," the man answered,
nibbling
at his lower lip. All at once Jared comprehended
why
Amanda was being scrutinized.
Though still only ten years old, she was maturing
rapidly. Her face promised beauty in
adulthood. And her
breasts, already grown large for one so young, showed
clearly beneath her dirty coat.
Jared tugged his cousin's hand. From Amanda's
expression, he knew she was aware of the
man's interest. It obviously upset her. Jared
doubted that she understood the reason for the attention,
though. As he led her past the burly fellow, he
heard the tobacco tin rattle back on the counter.
Fingers closed on his arm:
"Ain't seen you two in this store before, have I?"
Jared wrenched loose. "Does it make any
difference?"
"Leave them be, Rafe," the storekeeper warned.
His tone made clear that Rafe wasn't exactly
his favorite customer.
The burly man grinned, his eyes lazy-looking in
the lamplight. "Hell, I was just being"
cordial-was
"You can be cordial with folks your own age."
"Now Morris, don't carry on so. If I
got a mind to greet somebody-was
"Let me put your candy away," Jared said,
seizing Amanda's wrist. The chunks of licorice
dropped into his other hand. He opened his coat. The
butt of the London-made pistol and the sheathed
Spanish knife were clearly visible at his belt-as
he intended.
He tucked the candy into his pocket. As far as he
could tell, the older man wasn't armed.
At the sight of Jared's weapons, the man's
interest cooled rapidly:
"Shit, you're makin' a fuss for nothin',
Morris-was He ambled back to his crony.
Outside, Jared realized just how upset Amanda
was:
"Why did that man stare at me like that?"
"Because-was He didn't hesitate long. It was time
she understood. "combecause you're very pretty."
"No I'm not. I'm all dirty."
"Makes no difference. You're a handsome girl, and
you look older than you really are. That's why I
insist
you keep the door locked while I'm over at the
yard. And why I never want you to speak to men when
I'm not around."
As they tramped toward the boarding house in the winter
darkness, Amanda seemed to brighten:
"You're not teasing me?"
"No."
"We're so raggedy-I never thought anyone would look
twice at us."
"Not me, Amanda. Y."
"Did he really think I was pretty?"
"You saw how he gawked."
She nodded, actually smiling a little. Then she
shivered. "Mercy. Imagine!" A moment later:
"You're sure you're not teasing?"
"Believe me, Amanda--some men lose their heads
over pretty girls, and you're going to be one of the
prettiest. That'll be nice for you, but it'll also be
a problem."
In the light from the front of a hotel, he saw her
lips still curved in that thoughtful smile.
But it vanished quickly enough:
"I want my licorice."
"Here. Want to know something?"
"What?"
"I know where we're going."
"You mean we can't stay in Pittsburgh?"
"Don't start that again. I've already said no."
"Why can't we?"
"Just because."
"Oh, I'm sick to death of hearing that, Jared!"
"But you'll like where we're going."
"Tell me and see if I will."
"We're going down south. A city called New
Orlens."
"Is it far?"
"Not very," he lied. "We should be there
by late spring or early summer."
"Is it warm?"
"Yes, it is."
"Did you just think this up, Jared?"
"Why, no," he said, trying to summon a smile
himself, "I've had it in my head several days now."
"Liar."
He laughed and rumpled her hair.
New Orleans. The more he turned it over in his
thoughts, the more certain he was that the poster had provided
an invaluable inspiration. He'd decided long ago
that they'd never go into the west--into the country where his mother
had died and his father had failed.
But the south--that was different. It was a mellow,
gentle land. He'd heard that New Orleans was a
splendid old city, full of wealthy folk who
spoke Spanish and French and lived in a grand
style. From the storekeeper's remarks about river
commerce, and from what he knew personally about the
frantic pace of boat construction, Jared
suspected that New Orleans was also a thriving
commercial center. If Mr. Fulton's
steamboats made their appearance on southern rivers
as they had in the east, travel and shipping time would be
cut drastically. More and more cargo would be
moving up and down the Mississippi. Someone who was
industrious should be able to find work easily at a
major port-
So, for the first time in weeks, each of the cousins had
something to be happy about. Amanda had her licorice.
And Jared had his destination.
In late February, he quit his job at the
Suck's Run yard. It hadn't been profitable
employment. His small salary barely met
expenses. Thus he was immediately
forced to look for a means of financing the next stage of
their journey. After several days of combing the docks,
he managed to sign onto a keelboat making a
run to Louisville, at the falls of the Ohio.
But the captain was parsimonious. Jared would be
allowed rations and sleeping space for one, not two.
He didn't quarrel. By now he was used to sharing
everything with his cousin.
Soon after the boat got under way, he realized again
that Amanda had ripened to the point where she was bound
to attract the stares of older men. Despite her
disreputable appearance and her pale skin, the luminous
beauty of her eyes and the curves of her swelling
figure drew many a sly glance. Jared kept his
pistol and knife visible at all times.
Amanda seemed conscious of the attention. Once Jared
caught her returning a man's rough greeting with a
coquettish smile. That evening he lectured her
severely. She was too young to experiment with her
newly discovered ability to interest the opposite
sex!
Amanda retorted that she'd only thought it might be
fun to see how bad-smelling, bearded men reacted
to a little friendliness-
"Besides, I was only teasing."
"They don't know that. You tease them too much and
they'll want to try-was
Uncomfortable silence.
"Try what, Jared?"
"Nevermind."
"Are you trying to say they'll want to do what men and
women do together?"
Jared actually blushed. "Do you know about-?"
"Of course I do."
"How?"
Now it was her turn:
"Never mind."
She made a disappointed face. "Oh, very well."
But her eyes were still merry. She was entranced with her
new-found power. God help me, Jared
sighed silently, I've forced her to learn too many
hard lessons too early. His familiar sense of
guilt put him in a bitter and depressed mood the
rest of the evening.
Don't you dare curse me, Jared Kent!"
"All right, I'm sorry. But you pay attention
to what I'm telling you about-was
"Pooh! If any man starts to--to hurt me or
something, I'll just tell him he mustn't. If he
thinks I'm pretty, he'll do what I say."
He would have guffawed except for the fact that she was
serious. He replied the same way:
"You may be able to twine men around your finger when you're
twenty, Amanda, but it won't work when you're only
ten. You mind what I say. Don't lead them."
"Damn you for an impudent little minx-to "
VI.
The keelboat glided on down the Ohio, and Jared
found himself studying the terrain with a peculiarly intense
fascination.
In the misty meadows and towering trees that moved
slowly astern on both sides of the river, he saw
primitive beauty. At the same time, the vistas
of silent forest and shining river filled him with loathing.
Occasionally, on clear days, he glimpsed
game on shore. Great prong-horned deer. Fat
pheasants. Wild hogs. He began to understand why
people would seek this new country, content to huddle together in
small settlements of the kind the keelboat passed
from time to time. The boat's coming was always announced by a
blast of an old bugle owned by a member of the
crew.
When the bugle pealed, men and women in the settlement
ran down to the shore and held their children up to see the
vessel. Jared felt sorry for the children-and the parents.
The older people usually waved with great animation. But they
had a lonely, haggard look about them. Perhaps that was
why they waved.
There was a strange duality in Jared's interest; a
duality that didn't escape him. The great forest
did impress him with its stark splendor. He could
tell the land would be beautiful the moment the weather
warmed. He could visualize the greening boughs; the
bursts of wildflower color.
Yet be hated all he saw.
He tried to find a rational explanation for that
feeling. On the surface, it seemed simple. The
land had lured his mother and father with false promises of
ease and abundance. They had found reality far
different. The land had subjected them to the
same hardships it worked on anyone who came
to challenge its dominance. They had not been strong enough
to endure, and they had been destroyed.
Jared loved the memory of his parents to the extent that
it was possible for him to do so, knowing so little of them. But
what had happened to them had happened in the past. It
seemed insufficient to explain the loathing and unease
that gripped him in the present.
One morning, unable to sleep, he went out on deck
just as the light was breaking. He yawned and rubbed his
eyes in the red dawn-and blinked suddenly at
movement in the brush on the left-hand shore.
An animal stood there, its hindquarters concealed
by a spray of ferns. Its great shoulders and head were
fully visible. It resembled some huge, sleek,
tan-colored cat. Its eyes caught the rising
sun for an instant, burning like pieces of
iridescent crystal-
Jared shuddered.
In its jaws, the cat held the remains of a
smaller, darker animal.
A raccoon? A possum?
No way of telling. The prey was dead; crushed;
nothing more than mangled meat and brown, bloodstained
fur. Jared put the back of his hand against his
lips, feeling the sickness rise.
With immense grace and power, the cat turned and
loped away from the shore, and then Jared understood.
The land was like the cat. He and all the others who
came to it were prey. Some survived. Some could not
He was one of the latter. Bone-deep, he knew that.
Times beyond counting, Aunt Harriet had told him that
he was what his parents had been: flawed. He had
seen countless evidences of his own. Wasn't the
tremor in his belly, stirred by the sight of the
bloody carcass in the cat's mouth, just one more?
He was the child of Abraham and Elizabeth, knowing with a
certainty that he bore their weaknesses. Sometimes he
tried to tell himself the conviction was irrational. Yet
he believed.
If he challenged the land, it would destroy him. That
was why he and Amanda had to flee to New Orleans;
to civilized comforts. It wasn't merely a matter
of being far from Boston. He probably could lose
himself anywhere out here. But he would not-
He understood, on that scarlet morning, the real
reason he hated the land.
He hated it because it made him afraid of himself.
Louisville impressed Jared as a prosperous,
if faintly pestilential, place. A
profusion of ponds dotted the forests of oak,
hackberry and buckeye that surrounded the town. But
Louisville proper was as lively as
Pittsburgh,
and the warehouses and docks testified to its importance
in commerce. Kegs and barrels containing everything from
whiskey and flour to corn and lard were piled high on
the wharves. Chickens and turkeys squawked in great
tiers of wooden cages. The river men who carried
and handled the goods kept the taverns and bordellos
noisy all through the night.
Jared found temporary work unloading and uncrating
newly arrived shipments at a general store. The
store's signboard read Audubon and Rozier,
Merchants. Mr. Ferdinand Rozier was the only
partner in evidence. During the week and a half that
Jared worked for Rozier, he learned that the man's
former associate per-ferred fine art to business.
Audubon and his wife had moved down the river
to Henderson a few years earlier. There, Rozier
said, Mr. Audubon had no doubt abandoned
storekeeping entirely, in order to make sketches
and paintings of what interested him most--wildlife;
birds, chiefly. Rozier laughed at that. There was
no market for portraits of birds! He
was convinced his former partner was destined for failure.
Rozier agreed to pay some of Jared's wages in
trade. Provisioned again, he and Amanda set off
along the Cumberland Trail during a warm spell
in early March. In forty-eight hours, the weather
changed. Sleet began to slant down from the sky.
The cousins were struggling along a heavily wooded
stretch of road at twilight. Great tree limbs
soughed in the wind. Within minutes, the sleet
completely soaked their clothing.
They hunted for a farm that might offer shelter, but found
none. They were forced to spend the night in the open.
The storm continued until the following morning. When
the light broke, Jared's head was hot and his eyes
had a glazed look. Though not ill, Amanda was almost
as miserable.
"We--we've got to hole up a while," Jared
gasped as he and his cousin started out. The whole world
seemed gray, wet and forlorn. "Anyplace--
I'm not feeling good-was
The sunny visions of New Orleans were gone.
Instead, he saw only his cousin's drawn face--
or feverish imaginings.
Hamilton Stovall strutting through the main floor
of Kent's.
Stovall's general manager dying in a welter of
blood.
The printing house afire.
"Take my hand," Amanda said, sniffling. Jared was
terrified by the sickly whiteness of her skin. What
if she caught a chill and died just because he'd dragged
her all this way-his
They managed to negotiate another half-mile of
road, passing a bogged and abandoned freight
wagon. Jared's eyes watered and blurred. The world
seemed to consist of gargoyle trees against a sodden
sky.
Suddenly Amanda exclaimed, "There's a creek
ahead!"
"I don't see-was
"And a cabin!"
"I can't make it out-"
"Here, hang onto me. I'll lead you-was
It was the longest distance Jared had ever walked. Or
so it felt. His head ached. One moment he burned;
the next, he froze. After an interminable time, they
reached the creek and crossed.
The water soaking his feet felt warm--another
indication of how sick he was. As they stumbled across
the dooryard of the cabin, a damp rooster
scolded them from a small shed nearby.
Jared's voice had a wheezy sound:
"Knock on the door, Amanda-was
She did, loudly. In a moment the door was opened.
Swaying, Jared heard a young girl speak:
"What do you want?"
He tried to focus his eyes; saw only shifting
gray shapes.
"Who is it, Sarah?" a woman called.
Before the girl could answer, Jared lunged forward. Not
intentionally; his legs simply gave out. He fell
toward the door, his hands scraped by the rough logs on
either side. The last thing he heard was the girl's
shriek of fright.
Adding her wail to the commotion, Amanda threw herself on
top of her cousin. Sobbing, she begged him to get
up. But he lay motionless, his head and chest resting
on the cabin's puncheon floor, his legs extending
into the yard where the sleet beat down.
Reverend Blackthorn
"JARED?"
On the other side of the small fire he'd built
at sundown, the boy rolled onto his belly.
"What?"
"Are you feeling all right?"
Jared peered through the flames at his cousin, who was
even more wan and pinch-faced than she'd been just a
few weeks ago. He tried to make his lie
convincing:
"Yes."
"You look funny."
"I'm fine."
She regarded him in stoic silence. He tried
to recall when he'd last seen a smile on her
face. It was in Kentucky, he decided. At the
cabin on Knob Creek, below Louisville, where
he'd collapsed from sickness and exhaustion in early
March.
The cabin belonged to a farmer and his family. Jared and
Amanda stayed with them almost two weeks. The farmer's
wife put cooling poultices on his sweating skin,
and brought him slowly out of his lethargy with generous
helpings of food and attention. At the end of his
recuperation, Jared was convinced he'd beaten the disease.
But now it was mid-May, and since leaving the cabin
on Knob Creek, he'd suffered a similar
illness twice more. It had shaken him with fever and
chills; watered
his bowels, left him limp-and forced them to stop for a
day or so each time.
From the way he felt at the moment--weak and shivery
--he might be in for still another attack.
Apparently Amanda saw it coming too.
Across the fire, she locked her frail arms around
her knees. Her shoes were splitting apart at the
soles. The hem of her muddied skirt was ragged, and
so was her fine coat. She stared dully into the darkness
of the Tennessee woodlands beyond the perimeter of light.
She was the same young girl who had left Boston with
him, yet she had changed. Almost without his being aware
of it. It was more than a matter of growing an inch or
so; more than the pronounced development of her
figure. She no longer protested about the hardships
they were undergoing. She shared the work of building evening
fires. Sometimes lately, he gazed at her and
thought he was looking at a grown woman. Her
strength seemed to be increasing while illness drained
his away-
Trees newly leafed rustled in the night wind. The
cry of an owl drifted through the clearing. Unseen
nearby, a small river purled over stones.
"I'm so tired tonight," Amanda said at last. Not
complaining; stating a fact. "I'll be thankful when
we get to New Orleans."
Bracing on one elbow, Jared shoved his
long and dirty yellow hair off his forehead. As he
did, he felt the clamminess of his skin. He
tried to sound encouraging:
"I'll bet we make it before the end of June."
"Those men with the wagons--the ones who came over on
the ferry with us-was
"What about them?"
"They said there was a town near here."
He nodded. "Nashville."
"I think you should see if someone will put me to work
while we're there."
"You-?" He laughed; a kind of croaking sound.
She jumped up, tearing a burr out of her dark
hair:
"Don't make fun of me, Jared Kent!"
"I'm not-was He forced a straight face. "But
I'm the one who works."
"I can wash floors and carry water just as well as
you can! Besides, you're sick."
"I am not."
Stamping her foot, Amanda showed some of the animation
he remembered from another time--another world.
"You're fibbing. I can always tell when you're
fibbing-was She circled the fire to kneel beside him.
"Do you know what I'd really like? To stop for
good-so you don't keep getting sick-was
"Amanda, the answer is no."
"I've heard that till I can't stand it any more!"
Jared sat up, trying to keep his temper. He
held out his hands to warm them at the fire. His nails
were cracked and grimy. His hair hung nearly
to his shoulders. His cheeks were sunken, his good
looks all but destroyed by paleness and the fever-glint
in his eyes.
With a sigh, he said, "You know I won't stop
anywhere around here. This is the land of country where mama
died."
"Yes, I've heard that too. Over and over! I
still don't understand-was
"Because you're too young. Let's not argue. We're
going where life doesn't demand so much of people. It's
warm in the south. New Orleans has soft air--
balmy winters. I didn't stop in Louisville
for the same reason I won't stop more than a couple
of days in Nashville. I despise this country, and
you'll just have to accept that."
Unsatisfied, she flounced back to her original
place. "Oh, I don't understand you, Jared. Why
does it make any difference where your mama and papa
lived?"
"It does, that's all! You don't know what this
country did to them. I do. We're going to find a
better place."
She shook her head. "You don't make sense."
"I'm tired-so let's drop it!"
His anger produced another unhappy look from the
girl. She started to comreply, but didn't. She
sat down, arms crossed on her knees, her face
stony.
Jared's ears rang as he stumbled around the fire,
feeling ashamed all at once. He dropped down
beside his cousin, tried to cradle her against his shoulder.
At first she resisted. But the loneliness and the chill
of the spring night proved stronger than anger. She
huddled close.
"Take my word, it's better that we go on to New
Orleans," he said. "The worst part's over. The
warm weather's coming. And the wagon men said General
Jackson whipped the Red Sticks for good a month
or so ago. The trace from Nashville should be safe
to travel-was
"We could stop," she said quietly. "We could if
you didn't hate everything so much-was
"We're going on." His tone carried a note of
finality, warning her to say no more.
She sighed again. "All right. I know better than
to talk to you when you're sick."
"Dammit, I'm not-was
"Jared, be quiet and cover up."
She pulled up the thin blanket given them by the
Konigsbergs in Pennsylvania. Then she changed
her position so that he could lean against her shoulder.
She started to stroke his forehead. Spent and dizzy,
he didn't protest-
Unquestionably, the fever was back, brought on by continued
exposure to the elements, and poor food. Their
diet lately had consisted of creek water, wild
berries, and occasional corn filched from the cribs of
isolated homesteads.
Her hand moved slowly, comfortingly across his damp
skin. "You know what I'm thinking about now?" she
asked in a drowsy voice.
The fire seemed to afford very little warmth. His bones
felt locked in ice, and his teeth clicked as he
answered:
"No."
"Knob Creek. I could have stayed there the rest of
my life. It was such a nice, warm cabin-was
"But too small for permanent boarders. We were
lucky the Lincolns took us in as long as
they did."
Lost in her memory of bright lamps and kindness, she
mused on, sounding almost happy:
"I could have gone to blab school with Sarah-it would have
been such fun, being in a schoolroom where everyone
reads their lessons out loud at the same time. I
could have taught her little brother, too. Taught him his
letters--Abraham was fascinated with letters. Always
trying to draw them on his slate with charcoal, or in
the mud with a stick. He'll be smart when he grows
up, I think. For five years old, he was very
quick-was
"He was," Jared nodded, shuddering. The owl hooted
again.
"He liked me. He kept asking me to write
words for him. We could have stayed somehow-was
"No. I heard Lincoln and his wife talking about
moving to Illinois or Indiana, where the soil's
better for crops."
He did remember Tom Lincoln and his wife
Nancy with fondness, though. They had been much more
open and generous than the German farmer in
Pennsylvania. For a moment he almost wished
Amanda's dream could have come true-
"I only hope New Orleans is as
nice as you say, Jared."
"It will be," he murmured, not at all certain.
"I never want to be cold again. I never want
to be hungry again. I've had enough."
"Well, we finally agree on something. I have too.
Now go to sleep."
V.
When Amanda closed her eyes and began to breathe
regularly, Jared eased away from her. He
didn't want to move, but the fire needed more wood.
He covered her with the blanket. Circled the
embers, stumbling once-the fever was rapidly growing
worse. He was sweating heavily.
He shuffled into the darkness at the edge of the clearing.
It seemed to take an eternity to gather a small
quantity of loose brush. As he worked, he
glanced occasionally at the stars visible through the
treetops.
He hadn't learned the geography of the heavens
well enough to use it to judge direction with complete
accuracy. He tried to recall the conversation of the
teamsters coming across the ferry further up the
Cumberland. The men said the north-south stream near which
they'd camped was a small river known as Stone's.
It emptied into the Cumberland. A few
miles west of the point where the rivers met should be the
town of Nashville. There, Jared hoped to find a
place where they could rest out of the weather for a day or
two.
He'd also have to find some chores to do again. He almost
smiled, thinking of Amanda's insistence that she hire
herself out. Lord, how she'd changed in only a couple
of months!
Once supplied with food, they'd head south along
the trace, the Chickasaw Road, that would take them
nearer New Orleans. And by summertime, there might
be an end to the weariness and hunger and pain-
He dumped a last armload of green sticks on the
fire and coughed as smoke clouded up. God, how
he ached! His face was wet with perspiration-
He mustn't weaken now. They had survived the
winter, and he was thin and hard because of it. He didn't
know how many miles they'd traveled since leaving
Boston, but it must be an incredible number. What
seemed ironic was the possibility that something
entirely uncontrollable might defeat them. Not the
danger of animal predators. Not unscrupulous
humans, either; but sickness. The sickness that had
gripped him intermittently since late
February, and threatened to reduce him
to helplessness again-
He stumbled a second time as he returned to his
cousin. He lay down beside her and tugged part of the
blanket over his legs. The back of his head rested
on the hard ground. He stared at the stars. They
blurred and changed position too quickly as the fever
mounted-
III
He opened his eyes. Felt the brush of the May
wind on his face. Saw, as if through gauze, the
high, budded limbs of trees against the rosy sky.
Dawn.
He heard the soft rush of Stone's River. And
another sound, totally unexpected-
The stamp of a horse.
He lay still, trying to clear his throbbing head. Where was
his pistol-his
In his canvas bag. But his knife-was
He felt its reassuring hardness at his belt.
Only then did he lift the blanket so as not
to disturb Amanda. He rolled on his side,
scrambled up-
A lean man hunkered beyond what was left of the fire:
a few red coals glowing amidst white ash. The
man
wore a filthy beaver hat with a hole in it. Behind
him, a swaybacked gray horse fretted, tied
to a low branch. "Morning, boy. Trust you don't
mind sharing your fire with another traveler-?"
At the sound of the voice, Amanda stirred, sat up.
Jared put his hand behind him, moved it back and forth, a
wave of warning. He heard her quick intake of
breath. She understood. She got to her feet, hid
behind his back.
"Who are you?" Jared asked. "Where'd you come from?"
The man chuckled. "Why, I might ask both questions
of you."
He rose, dusted off his hands--big, hard-looking
and bruised. As he turned slightly, faint
eastern light pinked his face beneath the brim of his
beaver hat
Tufts of gray hair showed around the man's ears.
His linen and stock had a yellow cast-like the teeth he
displayed in a smile that struck Jared as false.
The man's fingers hung nearly to his knees. His
abnormally long arms looked powerful.
He extended his right hand in greeting. Jared didn't
offer to shake.
"I want to know where you came from."
Frowning, the man lowered his hand. His arm
brushed the flap of a coat pocket aside. A
small black-bound book stuck out of the pocket.
A testament-his
The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Came
up Stone's from Nashville. I'm headed for a little
place I own a few miles east of here. Left
Nashville late, and without supper. So when I
saw the fire-was
He shrugged. "I stopped to get warm, that's all."
The glow of dawn set small fires in the pupils
of the man's sunken eyes. Jared had grown through the
winter. He was approaching six feet; but the
stranger was taller. The man's slumping shoulders
tended to minimize his height but not his aura of
strength.
"Hardly expected to find two youngsters camped in
these woods," the man said. "You realize we're
all trespassing-was
Jared said, "I didn't see any signs posted."
The man swept his hand in a wide arc. "Belongs
to the judge all the same. Oh, but I doubt he
or any of his niggers will be out this far this early. We
can eat breakfast in peace and go our respective
ways."
Just then Jared noticed two other odd things
about the stranger. Bruises showed not only on his
hands but on his throat. And part of his right earlobe was
missing; a half-moon of tissue had somehow been
torn away.
The man swept off his disreputable beaver. "My name
is Blackthorn, Reverend William
Blackthorn. Who do I have the pleasure-?"
"Never mind. Amanda, let's get our things together."
"You mean you're not going to eat?" Blackthorn's
heavy brows hooked together. He gestured to the bags
hanging on his saddled horse. "I'd be happy
to split some of my biscuits and wild honey-was
"No thanks, we're going on to Nashville."
Jared got busy folding up the blanket while
Amanda peered at the stranger, her dark eyes
sleepily curious. The man acted polite enough.
But for no reason he could pin down, Jared didn't
like him.
The Reverend Blackthorn sniffed. "Traveling on
an empty belly certainly isn't good stewardship
of the health the Almighty granted you, boy.
Strikes me that you and your ladyfriend-was
"My sister," Jared snapped, angered by the lingering
emphasis the Reverend put on the last word.
"Is that a fact?" Blackthorn ran a
palm down the side of his patched trousers. "You're
fair and she's dark- and you're shoots off the same
tree? Wondrous are the ways of God. Eh,
boy?"
The sunken eyes--greenish, Jared noticed--
seemed
to stray past him again. He stepped to Amanda's
side. He wondered whether the Reverend actually
deserved his title. The bruises, that bitten
place on his earlobe--those hardly seemed
appropriate for a man of the gospel.
Blackthorn scratched his groin. "How old are
you, girl? Fourteen?"
"You're way off," Jared said, stuffing the blanket
into the canvas bag. He had trouble speaking; the
fever thickened his tongue and made his teeth click.
"Am I, now? Remarkable! I'd have sworn she was
a young woman-was
Blackthorn's eyes flicked back to Jared.
"It's strange indeed to find two persons your age
abroad in the Tennessee wilderness. Run away from
home, did you? Or maybe you're indentured people?
Give the slip to your masters?"
"None of your affair, Reverend."
"Here, now!" Blackthorn's voice
roughened as he approached. "That's no way to speak
to a pilgrim who only seeks to share your fire-was
"We're leaving. The fire's yours."
"You don't look well, boy. Don't sound it,
either. Your teeth are knocking so loudly, I'm
surprised it doesn't wake the judge in his bed.
Are you sick too, girl-?"
Blackthorn reached around Jared, brushed his fingers
across Amanda's forehead. She retreated quickly:
"Don't you touch me!"
Jared's hand dropped to the hilt of the Spanish
knife. He made sure the man saw the move.
"Come!" Blackthorn exclaimed. "I meant no
disrespect to your--ah--sister. I only intended
to see to her health-in the manner of the man of
Samaria."
His eyes fastened on Jared's, hostile despite
the
yellow smile. "I'd hardly say your
behavior's Christian, boy-was
"And you don't act much like a preacher."
Blackthorn rubbed his chin with one bruised hand. "I
am. At the same time, I claim to be the best
free-for-all fighter in half a dozen counties.
I've had some setbacks in Nashville.
Circumstances make it necessary for me to move on after
a stop at my cabin for a few belongings. Traveling
takes money if a man wants to sleep under a
roof and partake of decent food. No doubt you have
a little money-was
Dropping his pretense of cordiality, he extended
his hand.
"Give me that canvas bag."
Dizzy with fear and fever, Jared jerked out the
knife. He was totally unprepared for the astounding
speed with which Blackthorn moved.
The man grabbed Jared's arm with both hands, twisted.
Jared's fingers opened. The knife fell into the
coals. Bobbing down, Blackthorn closed his big
yellow teeth on the back of Jared's hand.
Jared yelped. Blackthorn let go, stepped
back, wiping his lips.
"All's fair in free-for-all, boy. Now may
I examine that bag?"
Jared launched himself with fists up. Blackthorn
sidestepped, brought his knee up savagely. Pain
erupted in Jared's groin.
He tumbled into the ashes and embers, yelped again,
rolled away. Amanda's cry of terror sounded above
the chatter of birds and the burble of the river.
On his back, Jared started to get up.
Blackthorn dropped on Jared's belly with both
knees. The tall man's face twisted with glee as
he jabbed his thumbs into the outer corners of Jared's
eyes:
"I can pop "em neat as grapes," he breathed.
"There's several in Nashville who can testify
to that-was
The thumbs dug deeper. Jared kicked, to no
avail. Tried to tear at the massive wrists against
his jaw. Futile--Th`e edge of a thumbnail
scraped Jared's left eyeball. Wildly, he
hammered at the tall man's forearms. He couldn't
dislodge the huge hands.
"Shame to blind someone so young," Blackthorn panted.
"Shame to rob you of the sights of God's bountiful
creation. But you're not Christian-was
He wrenched his left knee over, drove it
into Jared's crotch a second time. Jared screamed.
Amanda leaped on Blackthorn, trying to claw his
face.
"Goddamn you for a spiteful child!" Blackthorn
roared, battering her with one fist. Amanda sprawled,
the wind knocked out of her.
Jared jerked his head to escape the darting
thumbs. Blackthorn pounded his nose twice.
Already dazed, the boy watched the tall man and the
rustling trees blur and distort-
Gasping, Blackthorn lurched to his feet. One
huge boot lifted; Jared saw the hobnails on
the bottom. Blackthorn stomped his stomach, leaving
him retching and half conscious.
"Now I'll have that peek in your bag."
Amanda crawled toward her cousin, repeating his name.
Jared locked his hands over his middle, thrashing from
side to side. He had to get up-
He heard Blackthorn open the canvas bag,
dump its meager contents: the pistol; the fob; the
blanket; items of dirty clothing-
"Nothing!"
He flung the bag on the ground.
"You've not been Christian, either of you. I think
I'll repay that in kind before I ride on-was
He pointed down at Jared. The bruised hand
seemed huge, the fingertip even bigger:
"I'm glad I didn't take your sight. I
want you to watch what happens next. William
Blackthorn's fought boys and made 'em grow up
right while they bled. Done the same thing for girls in
a different way-was
The gray-haired man tossed his hat on the ground
and unfastened the buckle of his belt.
Frantic, Jared drove his right hand toward the
knife lying in the ashes. Blackthorn paused in
unbuttoning his trousers, raised one leg and brought
his boot down on Jared's fingers.
Again Jared cried out. His limp hand flopped into the
coals. He smelled burning hair, pulled his hand
back as pain seared it-
"Amanda--run!"
She tried. But the stranger was faster. He caught
her around the waist, laughing. Her shrieks stilled the
birds in the nearby thickets. Blackthorn's
horse stamped and blew noisily.
Still laughing, the Reverend tumbled to the ground, the girl
trapped in his arms. Jared dragged himself to hands and
knees. He tried to move fast but he couldn't.
Blackthorn flung Amanda on her back, fastened
hands at the throat of her dress and ripped.
Jared kept crawling toward the big man as he
straddled Amanda's thighs. Blackthorn plucked
aside her gray chemise, fondled the small
nubbed mounds of her breasts. He bent down,
nuzzling her cheek.
"Thy lips, o my spouse--drop as the
honeycomb--honey and milk--are under thy tongue-was
Jared realized the crazed preacher was quoting
scripture. He careened to his feet, took one
faltering step and fell.
Wailing, Amanda pounded fists against Blackthorn's
ribs. But he overpowered her by sheer size and
weight, ripping and tearing until her body was bared
below the waist.
"comthe smell of thy garments is like-was
Jared saw a bruised hand draw out a huge,
stiffened penis; press it down on the tiny mound where
a few dark hairs had sprouted to signal the start
of womanhood.
"comis like the smell of Lebanon-was
Blackthorn wedged a knee between Amanda's thighs,
forced them open.
"A garden-enclosed-is my sister," he grunted.
"My-spouse-a spring shut up--a fountain-sealed-was
Blackthorn jerked his hips forward. Amanda cried
out and arched her back.
Jared started crawling again, around the fire toward the
interlocked bodies. Amanda struggled feebly now
that Blackthorn had penetrated her. The girl's
eyes were closed. Her palms pressed against the
ground. The tall man's trousers and
drawers hung around his calves. His coat tails
flapped over his humping buttocks.
Jared heard the shrill, hurt screams of his cousin;
tried to shout:
"You--filthy bastard--I'll kill-was
Pain weakened his braced arms. The ground lifted
toward his eyes with a strange, terrifying slowness-then
slammed his face.
Time went by. How much, he didn't know. Once
more he fought upward, catching a glimpse of Amanda.
Her dark hair was fouled with dirt. She bit her
lips and flailed her head back and forth and beat the
ground, the cordage bracelet bouncing, bouncing-
Blackthorn convulsed. Groaned. Withdrew his
dripping, bloodied organ and panted for air.
He pinched Amanda's chin between his fingers. His
green eyes glowed in the sunrise. His yellow
teeth bared in a grin:
"Now," he breathed, "now you're worth something. Many
a man won't pay to pleasure himself with a virgin your
age. But once a girl's torn, that's another
story. You'll finance my travels nicely-was
The words whined and echoed in Jared's mind as he
pitched onto his side, blacking out. When he
awoke sometime later, the gray horse, its
owner and his cousin were gone.
IV.
Bedraggled and heartsick, Jared ranged the clearing,
trying to discover some sign of the trail Blackthorn
had taken. On the clearing's east side he found a
few low branches broken off. He knelt over
them, gulping air and fighting off tears of rage.
He still could hardly believe the inhuman act he'd
witnessed. But there was no denying Amanda had been
abducted. By a lecher--a maniac--who called
himself a man of God.
Guilt overwhelmed him for a moment. When Amanda had
needed him most, he'd failed her. Just as he always
failed. He couldn't excuse the failure on the
grounds that he was ill-or that Blackthorn was too
strong for him. He was supposed to take care of her-
and he'd let her be kidnapped.
Well, now he had another responsibility.
To find her-
The boy stumbled on through the brush for several hundred
yards. He lost the trail. There were too many
broken branches; too much brush disarranged
by animals.
He shouted Amanda's name, heard it boom through the
stillness of the woods. On the way back
to the clearing, he had to sit down once. The
physical punishment
he'd taken at the hands of the self-styled preacher had
left him almost without strength. He sat very still,
cursing himself silently-oath after damning oath.
In the clearing, he collected the few belongings
spilled from the canvas bag. The stranger had found
nothing worthy of theft except Amanda. He'd
left Jared his knife, his pistol, his clothing-
Stuffing them into the bag, he almost missed the fob
partially buried in the ashes of the dead fire. He
flung the fob on top of the other things and jumped
up-too fast. He swayed, sickeningly dizzy.
When the spell passed, he dragged the bag to the
trees along the river. There he sat down again,
trying to order his thoughts.
What Blackthorn wanted with Amanda, he couldn't
imagine. Surely the man wasn't so vile and
deranged that he'd do what he said--use her; sell
her as a whore to pay for what he called his
travels-
Travels, Jared said to himself. Start there-travels.
The man had left Nashville. There was a strong
intimation of trouble connected with the departure.
Blackthorn also had a cabin in the
vicinity-- Where?
He needed to find someone who could tell him that comwithout
delay.
Another of Blackthorn's remarks surfaced in his
mind. A reference to someone named the judge, living
nearby-
He glanced back toward the clearing, trying to guess
where the judge's house might be. Toward the south
greater-than or in the other direction?
He decided to go the latter way, to the winding
Cumberland River. If he found no house, he'd
work southward again.
Groaning, he stood up. He stumbled to the edge of
Stone's River and checked the position of the sun.
He
set off as fast as his bruised, aching body
permitted, trying to shut from his mind the images of
Amanda's rape. She wouldn't be eleven until the
summer-and Blackthorn had savaged her-
Better that he'd slain her outright!
No, don't think of that.
Find the house of the judge.
Someone--anyone-to tell you where Blackthorn
might have gone.
V.
The trees grew thickly here, screening the source
of the sound Jared was too dull-witted to identify.
He was weak; damnably weak. The fever and
Blackthorn's pounding made him stagger like a
drunken man. Branches stung his face as he
stumbled toward brighter light that indicated an end to the
dim woods-
He emerged on open grass. He took a few more
steps, blinded by the sunlight. He scuffed a boot
in dirt He was standing on some sort of smooth
track-
Only then did he recognize the thundering sound on
his left. A horse-
In a whirl of dust, a big bay stallion with a
black-skinned rider pounded along the track. Jared
had walked directly into the rider's path. The
frightened black saw him, frantically reined in.
"Whoa, Truxton Hol" up-to "
Jared hurled himself toward the far side of the track.
Halfway there, he stumbled and went down.
Sharp front hoofs dark against the sky, the bay
stood on hind legs, neighing wildly-
The last thing Jared saw were those hoofs slashing down
toward his head.
Judge Jackson
A SWEET SMELL drifted through the dark of
Jared's waking mind. He didn't know the origin
of the pleasant odor then, and it wasn't until
later that he learned it came from the blossoms on
scores of apple trees surrounding the two
blockhouses.
A passage connected the main blockhouse and a
similar one for guests. It was in this last that he
opened his eyes, resting on unbelievably clean
linen.
He discovered his battered ribs and hand were bandaged.
He blinked, saw a slender, sinewy black
woman drift into his line of sight and bend over
him. Her cheeks glowed. So did the whole room.
May sunlight fell through one large window whose
shutters had been opened all the way.
From Jared's right, beyond his range of vision,
fragrant blue smoke drifted. The black
woman felt his forehead.
"Well, his eyes are open, Miz Rachel.
Fever's gone, too."
Jared twisted his head to see the source of the smoke:
a plainly dressed woman running to stoutness. At
one time she might have been quite pretty, but sagging
flesh, and strain suggested by her melancholy
eyes, had left little more than a hint of beauty.
She pulled a corncob pipe from between her teeth and
laid it on a small table.
"I'm not so sure the young man will be thankful to be
awake when the judge comes home," the woman said.
To Jared: "Truxton is the prize horse in my
husband's stable. You nearly lamed him by dashing out of the
trees onto the race course."
Jared tried to sit up. The effort hurt. He
tugged the wool nightshirt from under one arm. It itched
ferociously.
"I didn't mean to startle the horse," he said.
"I'm sorry it happened. Is the animal all
right?"
"Yes."
"I was pretty worked up. Not thinking clearly-was
"Sick, too," said the black woman.
Jared nodded. "I was trying to find help because my
cousin was kidnapped-was
The white woman and the Negress exchanged quick
glances.
"Where "bouts?" asked the latter.
"We were stopped at a clearing on your property.
Near the river, south of your race track. How
did I get here?"
"Grooms brung you in. You were mutterin" something
fierce," the black woman said.
"Early yesterday," said the white woman.
"Yesterday-to " Jared started to struggle upright again.
The white woman pressed him back. She had
strong hands.
"Last evening, the judge fetched the doctor from
Nashville to look you over. The doctor said you
weren't to get out of bed for three days."
"I can't lie here!" he exclaimed. "I've got
to find my cousin!"
"What's your name, boy?" the Negress asked.
"Jared Kent. My cousin Amanda-was
"A girl?" the white woman interrupted.
He nodded. "She's not yet eleven. She and I
met a man in a clearing-was
The black woman raised a hand. "Hold on,
you're
sashayin' way too fast. You and this cousin--you're not
from these parts?"
The white woman picked up her pipe. She
tapped cold dottle into her palm, walked to the
window and let the dottle blow away in the pouring
golden sunlight. "I should think that's obvious from his
speech, Clara. Where do you come from, Master
Kent?" "New England."
He said it carefully. He didn't know the
identities of these people. Yet there was something about the
white woman's name that struck a responsive
note in his mind. What was it?
They were watching him. He finished his thought. "We have
no relatives left back there, so we were heading for
New Orleans-was
"You've relatives in New Orleans, then?"
"No, not a one."
A growling in Jared's belly told him it was
empty. But food didn't matter--nothing mattered
except the horror of what had befallen Amanda.
And he'd been sleeping a day and a half! Who could
say where Blackthorn might have gotten to by now?
"I just can't do what that doctor said," he told the
white woman. "I don't mean to act
ungrateful, but I can't, Mrs.-was
"Jackson. Rachel Jackson."
Jared was startled. Of course that was it. The judge
whom Blackthorn had mentioned was Judge Andrew
Jackson, the Tennessee soldier. He should have
guessed that was who Blackthorn was talking about. He
remembered an account in the Republican that stated
Jackson's home was near Nashville.
It was the name Rachel that had almost brought the memory
to the surface. From pressroom gossip, Jared
knew a few things about this woman who was
Jackson's wife.
"Mrs. Jackson," he went on, "I have to go after
the man who-attacked my cousin."
Clara frowned, glanced sharply at her mistress.
Mrs. Jackson asked:
"How was your cousin attacked?"
"She was raped."
The woman turned pale at the forbidden word. "And,
as you said, she was then carried off-?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"By whom?"
"A man who claimed he lived in a cabin near
here. A man with part of his right ear torn out. He
pretended to be a minister. Acted friendly. That was a
trick, so he could catch us off guard and steal our
belongings-was
Quickly, Jared searched the puncheon-floored
bedroom. He spotted the canvas bag sitting in
a corner. The Negress noticed his concern:
"Everything's there. We took your clothes out, though.
Boiled "em good 'cause they were crawlin"."
"Tell me the name of the man," Rachel
Jackson said.
"He called himself Reverend Blackthorn."
"Exactly what I suspected," Mrs.
Jackson whispered. "That trash-to "
"You know him?"
"Sure we do," Clara said, "William
Blackthorn isn't any more of a preacher than I'm
a brood mare in the judge's stable. Only way
Blackthorn got the title reverend was by givin' it
to himself."
Jared looked puzzled. "Why would he do that?"
Rachel Jackson said, "Visiting evangelists
who hold camp meetings are popular up in
Kentucky and Ohio. Blackthorn has a certain
talent for eloquence, and if he rides into a
hamlet a hundred miles from here and identifies
himself as a preacher, it's doubtful anyone asks
to see his credentials from a divinity school. I'm
afraid he
found that masquerading as a minister could pay handsomely.
The evangelist keeps the offering money after
expenses are met, you see. Blackthorn leaves
several times a year and comes home with enough cash for
three or four months. The Nashville clergy have
sent out circulars to the larger towns, but it
isn't possible to warn every settlement in two
states. I pity the poor people who've been taken in
by his sham piety."
"Around here, nobody's fooled," Clara said.
"Why, just this past year, Blackthorn's been in the
stocks for fightin' and raisin' hel--the devil. Like
Miz Jackson says--trash."
"If he was bound for his cabin, he won't be there
long," the judge's wife added. "How do you know,
ma'am?"
"Because three days ago, a number of gentlemen in
Nashville arranged to have him run out of town."
"Yes, he hinted about that. I didn't know whether
to believe him."
"It's true. William Blackthorn is a
vicious, illiterate brute. Half crazy, I
think. He's gouged out more eyes and bitten off more
fingers than anyone can count." Jared showed his wrapped
hand. "He tried that with me. He hit me enough so that
I couldn't stop him. He talked about taking Amanda
with him, on what he called his travels. I
didn't understand then-was "Now you do," said Clara in a
grim voice. Jared nodded. "He carried on about
selling Amanda. Selling her like a who--a
prostitute," he amended. "I couldn't
believe any man would do a thing like that." "William
Blackthorn would," Rachel Jackson said. "I
pity you, but I pity your little cousin more. Ten years
old. Imagine-to "
"She's well developed for her age.
Blackthorn mistook her for older."
"When the judge be back, Miz Rachel?" Clara
asked.
"Nightfall or later." She turned to the boy.
"My husband is major general of the state
militia-was
"Yes, ma'am, I know. Some teamsters I met
at the ferry on the Cumberland said that he and the
militia had beaten Weatherford's Creek
Indians-was
"At the Horse Shoe Bend. There's talk the
judge may be given a major generalship in the
regular army and put in command of the Seventh
Military District. The war with the British is
going badly in the north and east. Now there's fear of
an attack by sea, somewhere down on the Gulf.
Mobile Bay, New Orleans--those may need
to be defended. The judge is settling some affairs
in Nashville, in case he receives orders from
Washington."
"The judge ought to be receivin' orders to rest for a
year!" the black woman declared.
Rachel Jackson smiled sadly. "You know he'd
tear any order of that kind to pieces."
"But he shouldn't be so active in his condition! It's
bad enough that he's got a ball in his lung from
duelin' Mr. Dickinson-was
"I can't score him too severely for that, Clara.
He published his card in the paper because of me. Because
of what Dickinson said-was
"Any man shot once would rest a while! But
he's carryin' a double dose of lead!" The black
woman explained to Jared, "One of the Benton
brothers shot the judge in the left arm last
November. Another duel. Then he drank bad
water while he was chasin' the Indians, and he
says it's fluxed his bowels for life."
All of that confirmed what Jared had read about the
Tennessee lawyer and soldier. Judge Jackson,
as he preferred to be called, was a gamester; a
brawler; a man who settled affairs of honor
by dueling, illegal though that might be. Jared
wasn't overly interested in the
judge's health, however. Amanda was all that counted.
If he had to hobble, he was going to hunt for
her. He announced that intention-
And Rachel Jackson again shook her head:
"No, young man. You'll obey doctor's
orders-and speak to the judge when he returns."
"Ma'am, I can't wait for-was
"Indeed you can. If William Blackthorn
actually went to his cabin, he's probably left
again. Didn't you hear me say he was ordered
to leave the vicinity of Nashville? He was given
twenty-four hours--I suspect he's already taken
your cousin out of the area. Still, if it will put your mind
at ease, I'll have Culley, one of our
nigras, ride over to Blackthorn's cabin
immediately. He'll be back before the judge is, I
expect. When the judge gets home, you can discuss
your plans with him. I'm sure he'll take a
personal interest-was
She smiled, somehow emphasizing the melancholy of
her eyes:
"My husband doesn't mind flouting the law and
putting a pistol ball through a man's head. But
freestyle fighting--Blackthorn's forte--is
intolerable to him. The judge was one of those
responsible for getting Blackthorn out of
Nashville."
The black woman patted Jared's hand.
"You rest. I'll bring you up some food."
The two women left the room. Presently he
heard a mule clatter by beneath the window of the log
house.
He obeyed the women's orders because they made
sense. He realized he was still too weak to travel
any distance with speed.
Yet inactivity tortured him. In his mind, he
relived every moment of the rape for which he blamed himself.
Over and over, he promised himself he'd kill
Blackthorn when he saw him.
And see him he would. Somewhere. Somehow.
When he woke again, around dusk, he discovered a
mug of molasses and a dish of berries in honey on
the table beside the bed.
He spooned out some of the fruit and honey mixture,
relishing its flavor. The molasses he found
thick and unpalatable.
As he ate, he tried to recall what he knew
about the judge's wife. Some scandal having to do with
her marriage, wasn't it? A scandal twenty
years old or better-
Slowly it came back. She had been married
to another man. He had divorced her.
Jackson, a rising Tennessee lawyer who had
suggested the name for his own state, promptly married
the young woman, only to discover that her husband hadn't
obtained a divorce decree at all. He'd
merely petitioned for, and received the grant of, an
enabling act that would permit divorce if he could show
reason why the marriage should be dissolved.
The first husband--Robards, Roberds, something like
that--had churlishly waited two years before seeking the
actual divorce. His grounds became his former
wife's illegal and adulterous marriage to the young
Jackson.
If Jared recalled the story right, the charge was
technically true. The story was frequently
circulated in Boston, because Jackson had served
in the national legislature, and because the tale
illustrated, for easterners anyway, the crudity of
western mores.
The double humiliation of his wife being divorced and
branded an adulteress supposedly weighed on
Jackson's mind. Though he and Rachel had been
remarried in legal fashion after the divorce, a
stigma remained. Insulting remarks about living with a
fallen woman were one of the main reasons Jackson
was prone to calling
out so many men. Jared wondered whether it might also be
a reason for Rachel Jackson's strained look-
In any case, Jackson's propensity for shedding
blood--his own as well as that of his opponents--
was well known in the east. And mocked.
As Jared was finishing the berries, the black woman
brought in a lamp to light the room.
"Is the judge back?" he asked.
Clara frowned. "No. Culley is, though."
"Did he find-?"
She shook her head. "Just like we figured--he's
gone. The place is stripped bare. Culley said
the tracks of Blackthorn's horse were about a day
old."
"Surely someone knows where the man was headed!"
"I don't," Clara answered. "Mebbe the judge
will."
The door closed with a soft click. Jared pressed
both hands over his eyes.
III.
A rapping noise wakened Jared sometime later. He
started up in bed, seeing a long, grotesque shadow
on the wall.
The figure at the foot of the bed was hardly less
grotesque. Jared had never seen a man
quite so spindly, with such narrow, almost feminine shoulders
and long, high-waisted legs. The man leaned on a
cane. Even glanced at, he was a veritable
exhibit of afflictions: a left arm held stiffly
at his side; a hunched posture--perhaps the ball
lodged in his lung pained him? Pox marks pitted
his face. One cheek bore a white, badly healed
sword scar.
Yet for all his ungainliness and his general air of
physical ruin, the judge--for surely this must be
he--had a strangely commanding aura as he stood
tapping his cane and studying his uninvited guest. A
crest of thick
white hair rose above his forehead. His unblinking
eyes were a glacial blue. When he spoke, his
voice was rather high; almost shrill. But Jared had
absolutely no urge to laugh.
"I've heard your story from Mrs. Jackson,
Kent. If you'd lamed Truxton--one of my best
studs--one of my main sources of income in his
racing days--I'd pitch you out of that window yonder."
"I apologized to your wife for frightening the horse-was
"She told me."
"You're Judge Jackson?"
"I suspect," the other said in a dry
way, hooking a chair with his boot and pulling it to the
bedside. "Surely no one else could be such a
catch-all of ills and aches and old bullets."
He settled into the chair, leaning forward with palms
resting on the cane head. The blue eyes pinned
Jared.
"I understand you ran afoul of Blackthorn--whom we
should have caned till he couldn't walk."
"Yes, sir. He raped my cousin-was
"A young girl, I'm informed."
"Ten."
Jackson sniffed. "She isn't the first."
"Your wife sent a black man to the reverend's
cabin-was
"Don't call him reverend! Satan has more right
to the title than he does! The only place
William Blackthorn's fit to preach is hell,
and it's a shame he's taking so long to reach his
destination. Yes, the girl's gone. Blackthorn
too."
"They thought you might know where."
"I do not, because if I did, I wouldn't be here.
I'd be on a horse going after him. I'd see he
never maimed a man or molested a child again."
Jackson laid a bony hand on Jared's
arm. "I appreciate your anxiety. We'll do
our best to locate the blackguard. I presume
you'll go after him-?"
Wherever he is, Judge.
Jackson ruminated a moment, scratching the tough
white skin of the sword scar.
"I believe you. I'm not overly fond of
easterners, which I understand you are. But you've got a
certain look about you--determined. It could fool many
into thinking you're a Tennessean. That's a compliment, in
case you missed it."
Jared couldn't even articulate a thank-you. The
judge made him more than a little nervous.
Jackson's stare remained fixed and hard. "How
old are you, Kent?"
"Sixteen this coming October."
"And you trudged all the way here from the east?"
"That's right."
"Did you have any money?"
"Only what I made working along the way."
Jackson thumped his cane on the floor.
"By God, at your age that's quite an accomplishment!
You must have had a mighty good reason to undertake such
atrip."
Worried that he might face this kind of
questioning, Jared had barely heard the judge's
praise. He kept his voice as level as
possible.
"Yes. Our kin--my cousin's and mine--are no
longer living. We were making our way to New
Orleans."
Jackson scrutinized him a moment.
"What are you running from?" he asked abruptly.
In confusion, Jared answered, "Is it that
obvious-?"
"No youngster would travel as far as you have without a
compelling reason. You said your kinfolk are dead-was
"That's the truth."
"Are you a runaway apprentice?"
"No, Judge."
"In trouble with the law?"
Jared knew he couldn't lie successfully for long.
He nodded. "The Massachusetts law."
"Serious trouble?"
"I shot a man."
Silence. Then:
"In good cause?"
"Yes, sir."
Another pause, even longer. At last Jackson
shrugged:
"Well, I've done the same. We won't
pursue it unless you want to-was
"I'd rather not, sir."
"All right. I like your cut so we'll leave the
matter closed. However, I'd advise you to steer
shy of the Gulf Coast for a while."
Relieved, Jared said, "Your wife did mention
possible military action there-was
"I have a feeling the British will attack somewhere on
the Gulf. The numbskulls in the department of the army
have thus far botched all engagements with the enemy, and
I reckon it's going to be up to the west to do the work
right. It'd be just like Johnny Bull to sneak around the
back way, thinking we're napping out here. If I
get command of the Seventh District, we won't be
napping."
Again he stabbed Jared with those glacial eyes:
"Were you ever in the military?"
What in the world did that have to do with Amanda? the boy
thought, resentful. But the judge's intimidating
stare, plus Jared's feeling that he owed the man
politeness, made him answer the question:
"The navy, for two cruises, under Captains
Hull and Bainbridge on Constitution"
"Well, our seamen have acquitted themselves
better than the fools and charlatans in charge of the
army. By the Eternal, if they just give me a chance,
I'll show those redcoats how Americans can
fight!"
The emaciated man--nearly fifty, or at least
looking it--screwed up his features into a
caricature of menace. Only Jared guessed
Jackson was serious:
"I despise Englishmen damned near as much as I
do the butchering Cherokees and that lot." He touched the
old scar. "I got this in the Revolution-was
Abruptly, Jackson compressed his lips and
shook his head.
"You'll forgive me. I've been thinking about nothing
except the Red Sticks for months, and now that
we've cleaned up that business, the other enemy's on
my mind."
Still trying to be courteous, Jared said, "I understand.
My grandfather was in the Revolution too, as a matter
of fact."
"Was he!"
"At Monmouth Court House, a British ball
gave him a limp for the rest of his life."
"I acquired this charming mark when I was fifteen,
riding dispatch in the Waxhaw district of
South Carolina. Some of Tarleton's dragoons
caught me. One of his snotty subalterns sabered
me because I wasn't properly deferential. My
brother Hugh died of wounds in the war, and my brother
Robert of illness. My mother went aboard one of those
British prison hulks to nurse the American
captives and contracted ship fever and she died-was
"I'd say you have plenty of reason for wanting to do the
British damage."
"I hate every goddamned one of them!" Then he
smiled, wryly. "I do tend to get carried away
on the subject. However, I realize another
subject is of more importance to you. So if you'll
forgive my preoccupation with my enemy, we'll see
what we can discover about yours-was
He stood, leaning on his cane and coughing, his head
averted toward the open window. The mellow darkness
billowed the scent of apple blossoms into the room.
Distantly Jared heard soft, slurred voices
singing an unfamiliar melody.
Cane tapping, Jackson hobbled toward the door.
"I'll do all I can to find out whether our bogus
reverend gave any indication of his destination, following
the expression of our communal will that he remove
himself-was
Jackson turned, whipped the cane across in front
of his chest in such a swift arc that Jared jerked back
even though the cane's tip was several feet from his
nose.
"Remove himself or be shot down like the dog he
is!" Jackson exclaimed. "Too bad we
gave him a choice!"
He yanked the door open.
"I'll order several of my best niggers to make
inquiry in Nashville tomorrow. In the meantime-was
He pointed the cane at Jared.
"comy don't give my wife any cause for
worry. Take what you're fed and stay abed as
you're instructed and we'll all get along
splendidly."
IV.
Jared chafed under the enforced delay that resulted from
Judge Jackson's absolute domination of the
estate he called the Hermitage. The property,
six hundred and forty rolling acres with a slave
population of twenty, was centered around the crude but
somehow comfortable two-story blockhouse attached to the
other, similar one in which Jared recuperated.
He was invited to the main house as soon as the
doctor removed a few of the bandages and
pronounced him well enough to get up. The Hermitage
proper consisted of one huge room on ground
level. The room had a
mammoth hearth, a puncheon floor and massive
smoke-blackened joists overhead.
Upstairs, Judge and Mrs. Jackson and their
miscellany of children--three or four, Jared was never
precisely sure--had their quarters. One of the
small boys was named Andrew Jackson,
Junior. Jared couldn't keep the names of the others
straight, since they were usually all mixed up with the
slave children with whom they played. He did learn from
Clara, who controlled the kitchen attached to the back
of the house, that all the children were adopted. To add to the
burden of being publicly called an adulteress--
a burden already turning her into a recluse--Rachel
Jackson had proved barren. Clara said
scandalmongers called it Divine punishment. But
never within the judge's hearing.
Various men in military uniform came and went on
horseback at all hours of the day and night. Jared
soon decided the judge seldom slept. At the
end of Jared's fifth day at the Hermitage,
Mrs. Jackson informed him that the judge had indeed
been named to a generalship in the regular
army as a result of his spectacular rout of the
Creeks. Plans were being made for his early
departure to the south, where he still anticipated a
British thrust.
Several times Jared wandered into the main house, searching
for the judge and failing to find him. He began to fear
Jackson had forgotten his promise about gathering
information on Blackthorn's possible destination.
Then, one noon, he was abruptly told that a
huge banquet was being prepared for evening. "Last
meal the judge figures to eat here for a spell. You
too, I guess," Clara smiled.
Jared stuffed himself sampling everything set out on the
thick plank table in the lower room: slabs of bear
and venison; tender meat from ducks and wild
turkeys;
heaping bowls of vegetables and fresh, mealy
cornbread; maple sugar lumps tied on a string
for a confection--and the strongest coffee he'd ever tasted.
The judge spent most of the meal railing against the
British.
Afterward, he cleared the lower room of blacks, the
assorted small boys and his wife. But he
instructed Jared to remain.
Jackson produced a stoneware jug,
pointed to a chair.
"Pull that up here close to me, Kent."
Looking like a long-legged bird, he folded himself
into his own chair with a groan. He tilted the jug
over his forearm, swigged, then wiped the neck and handed
the jug to Jared:
"Treat it with respect. That's the sweetest sipping
since God made Eden. Tennessee whiskey. I
reckon you're old enough. Go on! Take a good
slug-was
Jared tilted the jug over his arm, hopefully showing
the grace Jackson displayed. But he slopped
liquor on his sleeve as the judge added:
"combecause I have glum news."
Some of the whiskey scalded down Jared's throat.
With unsteady hands, he held onto the jug. The
judge's expression was unsmiling.
"Yes, sir?" Jared prompted.
"One of my niggers finally caught a whiff of
Blackthorn's trail."
Jared waited.
"Before he left town, Blackthorn visited the bar
of the City Hotel. He boasted that he'd be glad
to leave. Said a man could do better where there's less
law. He mentioned the sort of place he
meant. St. Louis."
Jared wiped his mouth, feeling the whiskey burn his
belly. He set the jug on the puncheons near the
ferrule of Jackson's cane. The tall man
looked wasted and weary. Clara had told Jared that
while the judge was off commanding the militia against the
Creeks, his body had
pained him so greatly, he could neither sit down nor
rest in bed. So he'd ordered a sapling spiked to a
pair of posts in his tent, and spent hour after hour
standing, one arm and then the other hanging over the sapling
for support.
"St. Louis-was Jared repeated. "That's a long
way off."
Jackson's eyes showed more animation:
"Northwest, all the way to the Mississippi. But
if you've the gumption to go there, maybe you can catch the
bastard."
Jared nodded, his face unhappy. "I'll go."
"I thought you would." Jackson picked up the jug,
drank. "St. Louis is the capital of the new
Missouri Territory. Your best source of
information would be the governor."
"I'll remember that."
Jackson pointed a skeletal finger.
"Don't get your hopes too high, though. If
Blackthorn's gone any further, you're pretty
near done. By yourself, you'd have as much chance of locating
him west of St. Louis as you would of finding the
Ouragon."
Jared frowned. "The what?"
"Oh, that's what they call the damn river that's
supposed to cut from the Missouri to the Columbia but
doesn't. A myth--the Ouragon. You'd better
make a speedy departure, Kent. Get to St.
Louis before Blackthorn fades away just like the
dreams of finding the Ouragon did, once the beaver
men started heading up the Missouri to see what the
country was really like-was He sniffed. "You do realize
Blackthorn could have been throwing out a false scent,
too?"
"And not be there, but someplace else? I do."
Jackson whacked the ferrule of his cane on the
floor. "All right, then. You know there's a chance
it's a blind trail. But don't look so damn
grieved! It might not be.
You've got a scent to follow-which you didn't have before.
That'd be plenty for a Tennessean!"
"Well, I'm not a Tennessean!" Jared shot
back.
"That's very plain, Kent, very plain. I changed my
estimate of you since that first night we talked.
It's no less complimentary, mind--just different."
Jackson didn't speak with malice; only
bluntly. "I've glimpsed you around the property
once or twice. Your whole manner fairly
yells your dislike of these parts. You're not one of those
goddamned, ass-kissing Federalists, are you?"
Jared tried to give as stern a stare as he was receiving:
"No, s@ur! The opposite. I just never wanted
to wind up in the west. My-was
He hesitated, then poured it out, relieved somehow,
yet pained:
"commy father homesteaded in Ohio for a couple of
years. I was born there. My father failed as a
farmer. After Indians killed my mother, he went
back east. He never got over the failure, either.
He turned into a drunkard, disappeared--I never
saw him again."
Jackson's craggy features seemed to soften.
"And then you had to come back out here to escape the law.
I can appreciate why you don't think much of the west
--and less of your present situation."
Jared was thankful he didn't have to amplify his
answer; didn't have to explain that what
really tormented him was not his parents' failure but his
fear that he was doomed to repeat it in a land that invited
failure. He'd certainly made a good start,
losing Amanda as he had-
After a moment, he said, "Regardless of how I
feel, Judge, I'm going to try to find my
cousin."
He thought he saw a flicker of approval in the
judge's eyes. "You know," Jackson said in a
surprisingly gentle voice, "you're nothing
special in these parts, Kent."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, it must seem to you that the whole world has its
eye turned on you. Because of the trouble back east-was
Jared nodded at the uncomfortable truth.
"That's not so. Out here, what a man is counts for more
than what he was-was
And what I am is my parents' child.
"comandfor good reason. If you checked the history of people
who settled in Tennessee, for instance, you'd find
plenty of cases just like yours. Some came here for land.
Some came because they had a yearning to see new
country, and when they got tired or the yearning wore
itself out, they stopped. But quite a few came here because they
had to-and that's where you fit. You're a
westerner, like it or not."
Then I'm condemned.
But all he said aloud was, "I guess I am."
"Hell, boy, it's not that grim! This is a
bountiful land-was
"Oh, yes, I've heard that-often."
"Don't sound so sour! It's the truth! I love
the land out here-and the people. They may lack manners, but that
lack's more than made up in fortitude. I've had
some dealings with your part of the country, you know. I was in
the Congress and the Senate a while, until I got
my belly full and came back here to spend six
of the happiest years of my life, on the bench of the
state supreme court. I hated the capital about
as much as you hate the idea of going to St. Louis.
When I used to walk into a room crowded with all those
rich, educated politicians cozying up to each
other, trading favor for favor, vote for vote like
they belonged to some private club, I could feel them
looking down their noses at me. Backwoodsman!
they were thinking. Not fit to help run a country!
Back east, some of our gentlemen don't put much
stock in common people. Got to keep those poor, dumb
backwoodsmen in line! They don't know what's
good for themselves, so the members of the private
club will have to show "em. In Tennessee, it's
different. We believe in the kind of government
Mr. Jefferson professed to admire but somehow
never managed to put into practice. I'd like to see
a western man in the presidency one day. A man
who understood what the freedom of this country's all
about--by the Eternal, I would! Salt of the earth,
westerners-was
Jackson sounded almost sad. He shook his head.
"The only blood relations I have in all the world."
After a moment, he went on, "You know I'm
exaggerating. Blackthorn's a western man--the
worst kind. I think the east has a bigger quota
of Blackthorns, though. Only difference is, they
do their killing and maiming with words and money-was
Not wanting to launch into an argument, Jared said,
"I'll agree with you from the standpoint of kindness,
Judge. I've been wonderfully treated at the
Hermitage-was Jackson shrugged, brushed a bony
fingertip across one eye. "Nothing special about your
welcome here. Rachel takes to lost boys.
You've seen the pack we're bringing up. Pity she
couldn't bear her own," he sighed. "She's a
wonderful woman-as I'm constantly forced to remind
the sons of bitches who defame her.
Well-was He braced both hands on the top of his
cane and stood, wincing in pain.
"Are you sufficiently well to ride, Kent?" "I
think so. Most of my aches are gone-was "Nothing
broken, thank God, You were lucky
Blackthorn's thoughts were on your cousin. Else you
couldn't go after him. He'd have crippled you."
"I'll give him plenty of his own if I find
him," Jared promised.
Jackson smiled. "By the Eternal, I think you
will." He laid a lean hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Culley will have a horse for you at sunrise."
"Oh, Judge, I can't pay for-was
"Who said pay? I'm making an investment!" He
flourished the cane. "An investment in the punishment
of the good reverend. I'm investing a horse and food and
some sturdy frontier clothing and five dollars in
gold Culley will wrap in a kerchief. I'll be
off for Nashville before daylight myself. We're
mustering men-was His eyes actually looked merry a
moment. "The Tennessee regulars could use you, Jared
Kent."
"You know I've got other fighting to do, Judge."
With myself.
With my fear.
"Yes," Andrew Jackson said. "Bend down and
pick up that jug and let's drink to it, what do you
say?"
At dawn, Clara filled him with a hearty
breakfast. Culley gave him the kerchief containing
five gold pieces, then brought the horse to the
front of the Hermitage.
Rachel Jackson handed Jared an unexpected
gift--a black-bound Bible with a ribbon marker in it
"The judge has left for Nashville-was she
began.
"Yes, he told me he was going early."
She smiled in a melancholy way. "He's not the
most religious man who ever walked the earth. At
least not so you would notice in public. He might
think you need a jug of whiskey more than you need that
book. But perhaps it'll sustain you better than
whiskey in the weeks ahead."
A bit uncomfortable, Jared ran a hand over the
pebbled cover of the Bible.
"Mrs. Jackson, I thank you very much. For
everything."
"I pray you'll find your cousin in St. Louis."
He tucked the Bible into his canvas bag. "I
will."
Their expressions said neither of them fully believed
it.
Jared swung up into the saddle. "Goodbye, Mrs.
Jackson."
"Goodbye, Jared. God guide you in your search."
Pursuit to St. Louis
ON THE TWENTIETH of July, 1814, Jared
Kent approached St. Louis from the south, riding
Jackson's sorrel mare along the west bank of the
wide, sun-glaring river. He'd followed the river
shore since ferrying across two days earlier.
Necessity had turned him into a passable rider.
The sorrel was a gentle animal. Even so, he'd
been thrown three times during his first two days on the
road. Having thus demonstrated her mastery, the
horse settled down and Jared traveled the rest of the
distance without mishap--if you discounted the brutal
aches at the end of each day. By early July, his
body was more limber; accustomed to the up-and-down
rhythm of riding.
He reined into a grove of cottonwoods on a
slight rise overlooking the Mississippi. From
there he surveyed the town ahead. St. Louis
shimmered in the intense heat.
Sweat slicked Jared's body under the
heavy shirt and trousers the Judge's wife had
appropriated from one of the slaves at the
Hermitage. His untrimmed hair was tied at the
nape of his neck with a thong. His hands and face had
turned a dark brown from exposure to the elements,
and the skin was marked with dozens of insect bites that
itched ferociously. He looked tall and fit
sitting there. But he didn't feel fit. The
insides of his legs were still raw from long hours in the
saddle. And during every one of those hours, guilt and the
sense of his own inadequacy had been his constant
companions.
He dismounted. As he scratched at a puffy bite
on the back of his left hand, he gazed at the
canvas bag hanging over the sorrel's flank.
The Bible that Rachel Jackson had given him had
gone unread across all the miles of forest and
prairie. Although he'd sat in the family's box
pew at Christ Church often enough in his boyhood,
he'd never been especially religious, nor
particularly attuned to the meaning of the Scriptures,
the prayers and the preaching. He doubted there was much
God could do to help him in the present situation. The
outcome had probably been decided way back in
Tennessee, when his blundering cost Amanda her
freedom. Very likely his long journey had been for
nothing-
Or almost for nothing. It absolved him of a little of his
guilt. But only a very little.
Caught in the pessimistic mood, he gazed
westward to gentle hills blurred by the midsummer
haze. For miles on end, long prairie grass
whispered in the wind. A lifeless landscape.
Lifeless as his own hope, perhaps-
He tethered the mare and clambered down to the bank.
He knelt and cupped river water in his mouth. It
was warm; cloudy with silt. But it refreshed him.
He poured several handfuls over his head, shook off
the excess, then went back up the slope to the mare,
still a little surprised at the size of the town less
than a mile away.
He'd expected a frontier hamlet. Instead,
he saw two-story houses, church steeples and
sizable commercial buildings. How large was St.
Louis? Several thousand at least, he guessed.
Mounting up, he continued along the river bank.
Insects buzzed loudly and constantly. The mare
kept flicking her tail to drive away fat green
flies.
Presently horse and rider reached the low
limestone flat that provided a natural setting
for the buildings overlooking the river. Along the St.
Louis waterfront.
Jared counted more than forty river craft tied up:
long keelboats, flatboats, broadhorns, some
of their muscular crewmen loitering in the blistering
sun. Black men in tattered clothing unloaded
cargo into wagons and carts. Here and there, elegant
gentlemen in frock coats and beaver hats opened
snuff boxes or puffed long cigars while
overseeing the arrival of goods.
In mid-river, a ferry scow carrying six
horsemen and a small wagon floated toward the
docks. Over on the Illinois side, another
wagon was waiting, this one big and canvas-topped.
Near it, half a dozen miniature figures--a
man, a woman, four bonneted little girls-watched
the ferry's progress.
Anxious to cross the river, Jared thought somberly.
Can't wait to enter the promised land--the fools.
On the trip from Nashville, he'd passed other
families like the one on the ferry. The people carried their
worldly possessions in rickety wagons or packed
in bags on a string of horses. They usually
greeted him with enthusiasm. He was going in
their direction. The best direction; the only
direction. West.
Leaning to the left, Jared spat in the dust.
Then he gave a gentle tug to the mare's rein and
turned up into the town proper, following a
procession of three high-wheeled oxcarts.
Coughing in the dust that clouded up behind them, he listened
to the French and English curses of the sweating
drivers. He smiled at the monotonous
profanity. Unlike that family waiting over in
Illinois, the cart drivers had been around St.
Louis a while. They knew the realities. For them
there was no dream here, only a laborious job of
coaxing and whipping dumb oxen one more block-
He passed a large limestone warehouse displaying
a signboard that said Manuel Lisa. The business
of the
warehouse was apparent from the bales stacked in rows
outside. Jared wrinkled his nose at the gamy stench
of the furs.
He spent an hour jogging around the frontier town.
He had to admit he'd seldom seen a place so
sharp in contrasts, or so bursting with rowdy life.
Even the houses contrasted. There were old French
residences, identifiable by the logs being
set vertically, rather than horizontally, American
style. There were newer buildings of Spanish stucco;
even a few homes so squarely built and neatly
bricked, he would have sworn he was back in
Boston.
Many of the people in the busy streets appeared quite
well-to-do. Others had the scruffy look of
riffraff. And he was surprised to see quite a few
Indians in blankets, beaded shirts and quilled
trousers of animal skin. Many of them congregated
at an open-air market. Bartering for the various
items of trade goods on display, they offered
birchbark sacks and skins that held commodities
unknown to the boy on horseback.
Near the market, he passed a small jeweler's
shop. The proprietor blocked the doorway as if
reluctant to permit his three Indian customers
to enter. The jeweler held a tray of glass
eyes. The Indians were examining them with great
interest.
A few moments later, Jared was forced to the side of the
street by a half dozen whooping red men on
horseback. They thundered by brandishing tomahawks and
shooting arrows at a couple of mongrel dogs racing
ahead of them. Jared thought it a cruel and
disgusting exhibition-until he watched a couple of the
arrows bounce off the flank of one of the dogs. He
realized the arrows were blunt.
Though scowling, the whites on the street made no
move to interfere. Jared suspected the reasons. The
Indians came to trade with the local merchants, so
they
contributed to the town's economy. They also came
armed. He hadn't seen one savage without a
tomahawk.
Having retraced his route to the part of town nearest the
river, he rode by a crowded caf`e, a billiard
parlor in which someone shot off a pistol, then a
ramshackle building. From a second-floor
gallery, a young woman in a gaily patterned
wrapper beckoned to him. She opened the wrapper
to show him her small breasts, smiled and ran her
fingers down below her waist. She held up two
fingers, questioningly.
Jared shook his head. She closed the wrapper and
cursed him--whether in French or Spanish, he
couldn't be certain.
Everywhere he rode, he searched faces. But his
pessimism was deepening. What if Blackthorn
had only been making idle conversation in
Nashville? He could have ridden hundreds of miles
for nothing.
He consoled himself with one thought. If Blackthorn
had said nothing at all, he'd have been completely
balked--with nowhere to search; no way to temper his stinging
guilt.
A decent-looking tavern called the Green Tree
offered him a room and a stable for the sorrel. A
small black boy promised to rub her well and
feed her amply. In the crowded taproom, Jared
ate a platter of unfamiliar but tasty fried
catfish washed down with strong beer.
To pay for everything, he handed the landlord his last
dollar. The man placed the coin on a wood
block. With expert strokes of a cleaver, he
proceeded to chop the dollar into eight wedges.
Bits, the westerners called them. He took six
and returned two.
Jared ordered a second glass of beer and walked
back to his table. The taproom was jammed with all
sorts of people. Near him, several well-dressed
gentlemen rose while one introduced two new
arrivals: a beak-nosed older man identified as
a Mr. Moses Austin. The
younger man with him was his son Stephen. The
group fell to discussing the current state of lead
mining. Jared assumed the mines must be located somewhere
in the vicinity.
The olive-skinned tap boy brought his beer. After a
careful glance behind him, the boy leaned over and
whispered in broken English:
"More'sieu Fink is presenting another show at
eight tonight, Boston."
Jared's blue eyes widened. "How do you know where
I'm from?"
"You come across the river, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"It's plain you're a Yankee-was
"And my home's Boston."
"Oh! Now I see. In St. Louis, the
Spanish and my kind of people-was
"French?"
"Yes. To us, any American is a Boston.
Until now I never met one who really was from that
place. Listen, more'sieu-Fink's performance is at
Lester's barn. Anyone can tell you how to find it.
Cost you two bits for the wildest show you have ever
seen."
"I don't know this man you're talking about."
"You don know Mike Fink? Only the
meanest damn fellow on the river. And the best shot!
He puts on a splendid exhibition-was The
boy's voice dropped. "For the climax, his
woman, Mira Hodkins, she takes off every last
stitch and places a can between her legs, so-was A quick
gesture; a lewd smile. "Then Fink, he
shoots it out. Unbelievable-to "
"I'll pass," Jared said. "I've got business
to look after."
The boy shrugged, "Up to you, Boston. Not my
fault if you don" know what's good." He walked
off. Jared smiled and shook his head and gulped beer.
On his journey, he'd acquired a fondness for
strong drink. It helped ease worries about
Amanda, not to mention the assorted aches and pains at
the end of a day's riding. Though he wouldn't be
sixteen until the fall, he felt twice that
old.
The events of the past year had worked a great change.
It showed in the way Jared carried himself; in the strength
of his sunburned, insect-bitten hand curled around the
beer glass; in the wary alertness of his blue eyes
as he surveyed the patrons of the tavern and listened
to the polyglot conversations he couldn't understand.
The beer made him sleepy. He went for a
walk, still sweltering. He found a general store that
sold newspapers, returned to his steaming room
on the second floor of the tavern and latched the
shutters to minimize the glare of the sun.
Using rags and the tepid water from an ewer on a
stand, he washed. Then he flopped on the bed and
scanned the front page of the Missouri
Gazette.
His pressroom training made him critical of the
typographical errors he found. He was
contemptuous of the generally uneven inking. And much of the
paper's content was local material, not of interest.
Only a few items dealt with the war.
One article announced peace negotiations due
to open in early August in Ghent, Belgium.
Among the American delegates were Clay of
Kentucky--Jared could almost hear the ring of the
spittoon the night he'd crouched beside the
dumbwaiter shaft--and John Quincy Adams,
son of the former president. Whether the peace
commissioners would be able to come to terms with Castlereagh's
representatives was a moot question, the article said.
With a sigh, Jared folded the paper, laid it on his
belly and closed his eyes. The war seemed far
away, hardly
touching this town on the edge of civilization. And he
had other things to think about; all of them tainted by his
guilt at having failed Uncle Gilbert in so
many ways.
He slept for an hour. Then he tugged on his
shirt and checked the powder and ball in his pistol. In
the stable he asked the small black boy where he
might find the governor. He was given directions
to a farm a short way out of town.
"Gubnor Clark, he spend mos' of his time there in
the summer."
Jared's brow hooked up. "Clark? What's his first
name?"
"William. You know--the captain what went all the
way to the ocean-?"
Surprised, Jared thanked the boy and went to saddle
the mare.
Tall and slightly stooped, General William
Clark, governor of the Missouri Territory,
welcomed Jared in the sitting room of the small but
pleasant farmhouse.
Jared's horse had been taken away by a slave
who tied the animal in a walnut grove at the
rear of the property. The large open windows of the
sitting room brought a banquet of
aromas: the warm fragrance of summer grass; the
sweet odors of flowers blooming all around the
cottage. Sounds drifted in as well: slave children
laughing at play; the buzz of bees in a hive
near the house; the rustle of catalpa trees in the
late afternoon wind.
The sitting room was plainly furnished, yet
comfortable. Several things indicated the character of the man who
made it his home. A russet-colored hound
slept under a window. A rifle and game bag
stood in one corner. An Indian calumet hung
over the hearth. The windows
opened onto the west where hills and sky blended into a
hazy line below the disc of the sun.
"I knew a man named Kent many years ago,"
William Clark said. His voice still carried
gentle Virginia accents. "At Fallen
Timbers. He was from the east just as you are-was
"My father served at Fallen Timbers, General.
Abraham Kent."
"You're Abraham's son?" "Yes."
Clark's face broke into a grin. "By heaven, this
makes an occasion!"
He fetched cups and a whiskey decanter from the
mantel.
"How is your father? I've not heard of him since we
soldiered together--wait, I did see one letter.
Addressed to Merry Lewis-was
Clark's voice grew a little more somber when he
mentioned the other man. Preceding Clark as governor
at St. Louis, Meriwether Lewis had died on
the Natchez Trace under mysterious circumstances
some years earlier. There had been rumors of
suicide brought on by mental depression.
Clark poured liquor. "As I recall, your father
proposed to go with us to the Pacific. Merry and I
welcomed the idea. But we heard nothing more."
Jared fidgeted on the Philadelphia settee,
an elegant import perhaps added by Clark's wife.
"My father died unexpectedly," he lied.
"I'm exceedingly sorry to hear that, Mr. Kent."
The general passed Jared his whiskey. He had
removed his blue officer's coatee with its
horizontal herringbones of braid. He lounged
at a window in his shirtsleeves, sipping his drink.
"I must say you don't resemble Abraham very
much." "I'm told I take after my mother's
side."
"Ah." Clark wiped the back of his hand across his
sweating forehead. "You're a long way from
home. Your family's business was printing and
publishing, wasn't it?"
"Correct."
"You didn't find that to your taste?"
"The firm changed hands."
"Financial problems?"
"Something like that."
"Is it still operating as Kent's--wasn't that the
name?"
"Kent and Son. Perhaps, I don't really know. I
left Boston before the matter was settled. My
cousin and I--a young girl--started for New
Orleans-was
Clark looked startled. "By yourselves?"
"Yes."
"New Orleans is a long, long way from New
England. Many people twice your age wouldn't even think
about hazarding such a journey. Are there members of the
family down south, may I ask?"
Jared had learned to avoid the trap the question posed:
"Distant relatives. We got as far as
Nashville when we ran into trouble-was
In guarded language, he told the story of
Amanda's kidnapping. He omitted the rape,
finishing:
"The man responsible called himself Reverend
Blackthorn. When they ran him out of Nashville,
he mentioned coming to St. Louis. I assume he would
have brought my cousin along-was
"He could have sold her as a bound girl anywhere
along the route-was
"I realize. Still, I had to come looking for her.
Judge Jackson said I should ask you whether you know
Blackthorn, or have heard of him."
Clark pondered. "Blackthorn. We've the city
by that name."
Jared felt his worst fears confirmed. A few words
from Clark and his journey was reduced to a futile
exercise.
Clark saw his pain, said quickly, "He might have
taken another name. A lot of men do that on the
frontier. Describe this Blackthorn for me."
Jared had no trouble recalling the greenish eyes; the
yellow teeth; the damaged earlobe. "comand he's a
tall man. Exceptionally tall. With big hands,
and a fondness for what they call free-for-all
fighting."
"Of which we have more than enough," Clark smiled. "I
wonder if it could be the fellow who went by the name
Wilford Black."
Jared's blue eyes glinted as he sat forward.
"Does the description fit?"
"Perfectly. We had this Black in jail a few
months ago. He maimed an Osage brave
who'd come in to trade some wild honey. There were
witnesses to the fight, but afterward the Osage couldn't be
found. Between the time of the attack and Black's arrest,
there was a gap of several hours. The judge handling the
case speculated that Black had killed the
Osage in that interval and done away with the body. But
without evidence, the most the court could do was throw
Black in jail a short time for disturbing the peace.
I don't honestly know whether he's still in St.
Louis-was
Jared was on his feet. "You didn't hear anything
about a young girl with him, did you?" "Nothing."
"Do you have any idea where he was staying when he was
arrested?"
Clark thought again, his profile sharp against the
sunlight falling through the western window.
"A place called Mrs. Cato's. Down near
the river."
"A boarding house?"
Clark compressed his lips. "Not exactly. A
brothel."
Jared set the whiskey aside unfinished. "I'd
best ride back to town and inquire. I thank you for
your help, General."
Clark waved. "Black may well have left us
by now--no loss. We have too much scum in St.
Louis. A town on the edge of civilization-and a
river town at that--just normally attracts a bad
element-was
Including murderers, Jared thought. What would Clark
do if he knew he were talking to one?
As he turned to go, Clark put a hand on his arm:
"Mr. Kent-was
"Yes?"
"May I ask your plans if you fail to locate
Wilford Black?"
"I have no plans," Jared confessed.
"Will you stay in St. Louis?"
"I doubt it."
"There are a good many fur traders looking for
engages. Hired men to go up the Missouri during the
winter-was
"That's the last thing I'd do, General."
"You dislike this part of the country?"
"Intensely."
"Well-was Clark shrugged. "It's your
affair. However, I must pass along one caution.
Should you be lucky enough to find your man, remember that
we have courts. Don't take justice into your own
hands."
"General, I'll be honest with you. I couldn't make
any promise about that. Blackthorn's mean and
unpredictable -"
"So was Wilford Black, if they're one and the
same. Still-was
"I'm sorry, General. I'll have to deal with him
my own way."
"And we'll have to deal with you if it's the wrong way."
"Understood, sir."
Clark's eyes were unsmiling. "I hope so."
Jared wheeled and left.
III.
Mrs. Cato's establishment stood on a dark,
grubby street a block from the Mississippi. With
his seven-shot tucked into his belt, Jared
approached the dilapidated building shortly after the
sun set around eight o'clock.
The street sloped down toward the lights of moored
river boats. From a passage on his right, Jared
heard sounds of struggle. He glanced around, perceiving
two dim figures. One was a man on his
knees; the other was battering him with both fists.
Jared had no intention of interfering. His interest was
centered on two lanterns above a high stoop. The
sign of Mrs. Cato's, a man at the Green
Tree had told him.
His heartbeat quickened as he approached the rickety
steps. He climbed to the door, raised one hand
to knock. Suddenly there was a ferocious crash
inside. A woman screamed.
Jared tried the door. Unlocked. He stepped
into a lightless foyer.
The racket grew louder. Men were shouting, laughing,
cursing; women were shrieking; furniture broke and
glass shattered. No one was in the foyer to question his
presence.
He slipped forward until he was opposite a
large doorway on the right, the source of the noise.
In a lamp-lit parlor, half a dozen men in
fringed buckskin
and several women in gaudy gowns surrounded an
immense, greasy-haired man who seemed bent on
destroying the place. Jared gaped at the brawl from
the darkness.
One of the women, older, was struggling to get hold of the
big fellow doing all the damage. As he
weaved on his feet, he battered away anyone who
tried to grab him. Only the older woman, a
dumpy harridan with dyed red hair, seemed serious
about it. Some of the others were actually handing the man
chairs or bottles which he proceeded to hurl against
the walls, producing more squeals and laughter from the
onlookers. As the big man lurched back and forth like
a ship tossing in a sea of hands and heads, another
man brandished a rifle and whooped encouragement
The wrecker bellowed at the top of his lungs:
"comno damn snot-nosed French bastard calls me
a Kaintuck."
The dumpy woman managed to seize his shoulder.
He knocked her hand away. The woman screeched,
"Elijah Weatherby, stop It! I'll have the
military on you!"
Thoroughly drunk, the big man in buckskin
laughed louder than anyone else:
"Go ahead, Mrs. Cato, get "em! Fil
toss 'em all in the river! I'm from Tennessee-was
He let out a wild cry, half crow, half
bark. "comand calling me a Kaintuck is the worst
insult I ever--le)o my leg, you bitch!" He
lifted his knee to shake off a whore who was hugging his
calf like a tree-trunk. She fell to the
floor, giggling.
The big man accepted a small table from one of the
other men. He began to break off the table's legs:
"Yessir, I'm from Tennessee! That means I'm
half horse--half alligator-was Crack.
"coman" part snapping turtle-was
Mrs. Cato seized the leg he'd dropped. She
bashed him over the head. The Tennessean hardly
blinked.
"comthe original yella blossom of the forest! A
ring-tailed roarer, by God! Men see me comin'-was
Snap went another leg. Mrs. Cato howled
obscenities.
"comthey step outa the way! They know I can crow like a
rooster, neigh like a stallion-an' jump ten feet
in the air and bust their heads with my heels!"
Snap, snap-that was the end of the table. Men scrambled
for the pieces, holding them up as souvenirs. The
whores fought to take them away as the Tennessean kept
bellowing:
"comI can stand three bolts of lightning without a
blink! Look a panther to death! Put a rifle
ball into the moon pretty as you please-to "
Jared ducked as someone in the melee flung another
whiskey bottle. It sailed over his head
and shattered in the dark behind him. On the floor of the
parlor, he glimpsed the unconscious form of a
slight, well-dressed man with a goatee. The
Frenchman who'd set the big man on his
rampage-his
Jared's eyes had adjusted to the poor light in the
foyer. At the rear, a staircase led upward.
On the second floor, voices complained about the
noise. Jared looked speculatively at the
stairs as the Tennessean, overwhelmed by two of the
whores trying to kiss him, tumbled over backwards.
He fell on top of the Frenchman, still whooping with
laughter.
Mrs. Cato extricated herself from the crowd, rushing
straight toward Jared in the dark foyer.
"Abel? Abel, fetch the soldiers before Weatherby
puts me out of busin-was
She saw Jared and clutched her throat.
"Jesus and Mary, you scared me to death! I thought you
were my nigger boy-was Breathing hard, she looked
around. "Abel, where the hell are you?"
"Mrs. Cato-was
"Leave me be, damn you! That fool's demolishing
my parlor. I should be whipped for ever letting a
Kaintuck in the front door-was
Jared grabbed her arm as she swept by. "I want
to speak to you!"
Mrs. Cato started to curse again. She saw his
face in the light from the parlor. Something in the starkness
of his expression made her catch her breath.
"You had a man staying here a while ago. Went by the
name of Wilford Black-was
"He's still here. Second door on the right,
upstairs."
Then she was gone into the gloom. "Abel, I'll
switch your black ass if you don't answer me-was
Jared ignored the sounds of carnage in the parlor,
wiped his lips with the back of his hand and drew his
seven-barrel English pistol from his belt. He
climbed the stairs two at a time, thinking one
uneasy thought:
If there was ever a time you needed a cool head, it's
now.
IV.
The upper hallway smelled vinegarish. At the far
end, a dim candle in a tin wall sconce
provided the only illumination. Behind a doorway
on his left, he heard the steady thumping of a man and
woman making love.
As he tiptoed along, a door opened
further down. A bearded face poked out:
"Who the hell's makin' all the racket downst-?"
The man saw Jared, who had stopped in the center of the
hallway, the seven-barrel in plain sight.
Jared raised his free hand to signal silence. The
bearded fellow eyed Jared's face, the pistol--and
disappeared.
Jared stole up to the second door on his right. He
leaned his head against the wood, his breathing reedy. He
heard irregular snoring.
Good.
He crouched, examined the crack at the bottom of the
door. He detected light inside. That was good
too. He wouldn't be operating in total darkness.
He wondered why the occupant of the room had gone
to sleep with the lamp lit. And the door--it was
unlocked.
He inched it open slowly; saw the answer to both
puzzles. The tiny room had a sour odor compounded
of whiskey and sweat. Its occupant, dressed in a
filthy nightshirt, sprawled on the bed. A jug
lay on the floor near the man's dangling right hand.
He had evidently fallen asleep in a befuddled
state; left the latch off and the lamp burning-
Jared's jaw clenched. He could feel
anger starting to seethe within him. He fought it;
swallowed once; slipped through the door. At the
bedside, he bent over, lowering the seven muzzles
of the loaded pistol to within an inch of the head of Reverend
William Blackthorn.
Then he pulled back the cock--a loud sound against
the background of shouts, oaths, shattering
furniture downstairs.
"Wake up."
He repeated it, louder. The ungainly man on the
bed mumbled; fluttered his eyelids-
The lids lifted. Jared stared into black dots at
the center of greenish pupils.
The man stiffened, hands pressing the filthy sheet.
Jared leaned one knee on the edge of the bed. Next
to the head of the bed, he glimpsed his own blurred
image
in a smoke-stained pane of glass that showed a vista
of rooming-house roofs.
"Oh God in heaven-was
Blackthorn could only get that much out before Jared
pressed the seven barrels against his forehead.
"You recognize me."
"Let me get up-was
"No. Where's my cousin?"
Blackthorn's right hand closed into a fist.
"You better not do that. Where's Amanda?"
"She--she's not here," Blackthorn gulped.
"God damn you, I can see that! Answer my question
straight or I'll blow your goddamned head onto
that pillow."
"Do that," Blackthorn breathed, "you won't ever
find out."
"You bastard-to " Jared exclaimed, grabbing and
twisting Blackthorn's patched, rancid
nightshirt.
The hand's constriction shifted Jared's weight ever so
slightly as he knelt. Blackthorn felt the
change. His green eyes opened wider.
Realizing his mistake, Jared started to straighten
up. In that instant, Blackthorn jammed his right
fist upward and out. The fist struck Jared's gun
wrist, knocking his hand aside. His trigger finger
jerked. Two charges thundered at once, the balls
ripping the pillow where Blackthorn had been lying a
moment before.
Breathing loudly, Blackthorn seized Jared's
head, twisted his own head sideways and sank his
teeth into Jared's throat.
The pain was hideous and stunning.
Blackthorn let go, drove a knee into the boy's
groin. Jared staggered back from the bed, coughing.
Blackthorn's bare foot whipped up, kicked the
pistol out of his hand.
Then Blackthorn pounded him in the belly. Jared
crashed against the wall.
Blackthorn lunged again, teeth and lips bloodied
from biting Jared's throat. Jared saw the blood;
choked.
Blackthorn picked him up bodily and hurled him
across the room.
Jared shot his hands out, smacked his palms against the
wall on either side of the windowpane. His head
crashed through, his shoulders.
His hands stayed his forward motion. He pushed off from the
wall as he fell. The shards of glass in the
frame barely missed his eyes. He knocked his
head on the sill and hit the floor. A fragment of
glass cut his left cheek.
He snatched at the sill, hauled himself upright.
Without thinking, he rubbed the left side of his face.
A door closed. Bare feet thumped, receding.
Jared stared at the bright red smears on his palm and
fingertips. The old, overpowering nausea churned his
belly. He bit down on his lower lip,
lurched forward, dizzy. He fell across the bed,
fighting the sickness that turned his bones watery.
Stand up! he screamed at himself. Stand up--
Blackthorn's running-to "
He pushed up from the bed, sourness in his throat as he
saw the red handprint on the gray sheet. He
wanted to bury his head, hide from that harrowing redness.
On hands and knees on the bloody bedding, he
spoke Amanda's name aloud. He started to shake;
he screamed it:
"Amanda-was
No physical pain, no mental anguish had ever
been worse than the next few seconds. Jared
Kent literally drove himself to a standing position again;
blundered around the room until he found the pistol;
palmed it in a trembling hand-his right. Not
bloody, thank God. He couldn't bear the sight
of his left hand. He kept it by his side as he
stumbled down the hall toward the staircase.
He shoved past a man and a girl, both naked.
How much time had passed? Half a minute? More-his
From the head of the stairs, he saw Blackthorn
making for the front entrance. Only Mrs. Cato and
her slave boy stood between the man in the nightshirt
and escape.
"Stop him!" Jared shouted.
The smash of another bottle testified to a situation
still out of control in the parlor. Almost faster than
Jared could comprehend, men and women appeared at the
parlor entrance. One was the man Jared had seen
brandishing the rifle.
The black boy was in Blackthorn's path. The
running man seized the boy's shoulders, flung him
aside-and lost his balance when the boy screeched and
hung onto his arm.
Jared was halfway down the stairs. Blackthorn
glanced wildly over his shoulder, regained his
balance, shot out both hands and ripped the rifle
away from the astonished onlooker.
Blackthorn whirled and pointed the rifle at Jared
on the stairway.
Already twisting the multiple barrel to its next
position, Jared locked it in place in the seconds
Blackthorn's finger squeezed the trigger. Jared's
pistol exploded first.
William Blackthorn shrieked and slapped a hand
to his stomach. A black hole marked his
nightshirt just above his waist.
He dropped the rifle, tottered forward and slammed
on his face, his nightshirt tangled around
his buttocks. Mrs. Cato took one look at
him and fled for the front door. As Jared stumbled the
rest of the way down the stairs, he heard her yelling
on the stoop:
"Get the soldiers! A man's been shot-was
If I've killed him--Jared thought. Oh, God,
if I've killed him.
Both hands were bloodied now; how, he didn't know.
He knelt over Blackthorn; rolled him onto
his spine. The man's lips flecked with spittle.
He had difficulty focusing his eyes on Jared's
face.
The noise in the parlor had stopped. Even the
Tenessean's voice was stilled as all the people from the
parlor crowded the doorway.
"What did you do with Amanda?" Jared said to the dying
man.
Blackthorn pressed his hands against his bleeding
belly; grimaced.
"Sold her, you son of a bitch."
"Sold her! To who?"
Blackthorn's tongue licked at the corner of his
mouth.
"Trappers heading-up the Missouri. Told them
she was-my indentured girl-was
Hearing that, Jared almost wept.
"commade-a sweet profit, too-was The green eyes
were vicious with hate and pain. "comenough to keep me
half a year, until you-was
Blackthorn arched his back, shutting his eyes.
"Oh Jesus, you hurt me. I think you killed
me-was
The eyes opened again, deranged:
"They'll fuck her bloody till they trade her.
The better she's used, the better the savages will like
her. Up in -Sioux country-plenty of young bucks
and old chiefs take to-a white girl. She'll
bring plenty of pelts-was
Jared seized Blackthorn's cheeks, marking them with
blood:
"Tell me the name of the men who bought her!"
Blackthorn's eyes streamed tears as he arched his
back again. When the spasm passed, he worked his
lips.
And spat in Jared's face.
The warm, sticky stuff trickled down the boy's
chin. Blackthorn said through clenched teeth:
"You find out who-bought her-was
Like a madman, Jared struck Blackthorn's
jaw, smearing the blood already there.
"Oh God, it hurts me!" Blackthorn cried,
rolling from side to side, lifting one shoulder, then the
other in an effort to lessen his pain. The tears
coursed down his cheeks, mingling with the blood, a pink
wetness. "It hurts me, it hurts me something
awful-was
Yellow hair hanging over his forehead, Jared
watched Blackthorn die. A squad of mounted men
clattered up in front of the bordello in
response to Mrs. Cato's alarms. The tall
Tennessean who had destroyed the parlor belched and
draped an arm over one of the wide-eyed whores.
"Dunno who that boy is," the man said in a thick
voice. "But bless his heart for takin' the heat off
me. Mrs. Cato won't worry so much about her
furniture if there's a man lyin' murdered in her
hallway-was
Jared was numb. Numb and beaten. On his knees
beside Blackthorn's corpse, he pressed his
bloody palms against his thighs and stared at the
rifles of the soldiers rushing through the front door.
The Windigo
GENERAL WILLIAM CLARK personally took
Jared's deposition next morning. The boy
repeated the story of Amanda's abduction,
and what Blackthorn had told him about selling her
to white traders heading for the country of the Sioux
tribes. In the afternoon, he was summoned to the
governor's presence again.
"I can find no witnesses to corroborate the
alleged sale of your cousin," Clark told him.
Jared simply looked at the general across the
latter's desk.
Clark seemed disturbed by the young man's lackluster
stare:
"See here, Kent! I should think you'd show some
interest in this inquiry-was
"I heard what you said, General," Jared answered
in a dull voice.
Still ruffled, dark said, "I'm trying to establish the
facts in the case. You did shoot a man dead."
"He was going to shoot me. And he deserved it."
"That doesn't condone it. I remind you, the rifle
Black or Blackthorn aimed was empty."
"I had no way of knowing that. I'm just sorry he
died before he told me the names of the men who bought
Amanda."
"If anyone really did. I've had
investigators at the fur houses of Manuel
Lisa and the Chouteaus all morning. Those
gentlemen know virtually everything that happens
in the local trade. They've heard nothing about a
girl, or a transaction, such as you describe.
However-was
"I doubt if Blackthorn would have advertised the
transaction, General."
"That's true. You didn't permit me to finish."
"I'm sorry," Jared said, without feeling.
"I was about to say I do have evidence that a girl
resembling your cousin was in St. Louis."
Jared's head lifted abruptly. "What
evidence?"
"The statement of Mrs. Cato. She said Black
had a girl with him for a short time after his arrival.
A quite well developed and handsome young girl. She was
poorly dressed, and showed signs of having been
injured or abused--bruises, that sort of thing.
She seemed to obey the dead man without question. Mrs.
Cato got the impression she was mortally afraid
of him."
"Did you find out whether the girl was wearing a
cordage bracelet?"
"She was. Mrs. Cato noticed it because tarred
rope is hardly what any woman would consider
fashionable."
"Didn't Mrs. Cato wonder about Blackthorn
having a young girl with him?"
"In her--ah--profession, the lady is not greatly
concerned about the history or the morals of her
guests. She accepted the man's story that the girl
was a relative, and she thought no more about it when the
girl disappeared in a few days. So Mrs.
Cato's deposition does give credence to yours-was
Again Jared said nothing. He stared at his hands. So
much had been destroyed so quickly-
The firm in Boston belonged to the Stovalls--if
they'd kept it. Perhaps Kent and Son already had
another name; another owner. The objects from the
mantel--the tea bottle, the French sword, the
Kentucky rifle--had probably been sold for
junk. He thanked God his Uncle
Gilbert was in his grave, and couldn't see the
straits into which the family had fallen.
Because of me.
The destruction he'd brought down on the Kents
only confirmed the feelings about himself that he'd had for
so many years. Aunt Harriet always said he was
made of the same flawed clay as his mother and father. He
believed it today more than he ever had before.
He'd come into the west just as his father had, and the
land had defeated him-and that, too, held no
surprise.
Now there was the news about Amanda. It should have cheered
him. It didn't. He suspected she was dead.
Either at someone else's hand, or by her own.
He could hardly bear to think of her alive in the
circumstances Blackthorn had described. He
wished she were with him, if only for a moment, so he could
tell her how sorry he was for what he had done
to her-
"Kent?"
He glanced up. "Forgive me, General. My
mind wanders. You were saying-?"
"I was saying that Black is no loss to the
community. But if the law takes that posture, there's
no reason to have law. Nor can I permit you to go
scot free, regardless of how much provocation you had
in attacking the man you killed."
In a tired voice, Jared began, "It was self
defense-was
"The magistrate who hears your case will certainly
take that into account. After you've served your sentence for
disturbing the peace, I'll grant you an extra ten
days' grace. In that time, you're to remove yourself from
St. Louis. Don't come back."
"How long will I be in prison?"
"A minimum of ninety days--you find something
amusing, Mr. Kent?"
Jared's mouth lost its bitter curl. "No, sir.
I was just thinking it might as well be ninety years."
Clark was thrown off guard; moderated his tone:
"Come, you act as if your life's over-was "Yes,
sir. That's exactly how it feels."
II.
The stifling summer dragged on. Jared grew to hate
the small, gloomy cell in which he was confined. The
jailer allowed him the Bible Mrs. Jackson had
given him, but he never opened it. His only reading
matter was an occasional copy of the Missouri
Gazette, which usually contained dismal news from the
east.
A United States naval victory on Lake
Champlain and the resulting British retreat
into Canada were more than offset by the devastating
success of another enemy probe into the Potomac
district. In late August, the British marched
on Washington virtually unopposed. The
president and his cabinet had already fled when the enemy
arrived, but the capitol was torched. So were the new
White House and all of the departmental
buildings save the patent office. Several
private homes went up in flames along with the
Navy Yard, which was deliberately destroyed
to prevent it from falling into British hands.
A violent storm and the mustering of fresh American
troops combined to push the enemy out of the city by the first of
September. But the secretary of war was forced
to resign because of the debacle. He was replaced
by Monroe, who also held the post of secretary of
state.
In mid-September, a British thrust at
Baltimore was repulsed. Fort McHenry withstood
an all-night pounding by the cannons of an enemy
flotilla. Witnessing the bombardment from one of the
British vessels on which he was being held
prisoner, a young lawyer and sometime poet, a Mr.
Key, had been moved by the sight of
fire in the heavens: the British employed the
spectacular but relatively harmless Congreve
rockets during the bombardment. Key wrote a
patriotic poem about the successful resistance by the
Americans in the fort. Jared read the poem's opening
lines. "O say can you see, by the dawn's early
light-was with the same interest he'd have had if he'd
been perusing a description of events on
another planet.
The conflict was dragging on too long for both
sides. Britain was occupied with a renewed
Napoleonic threat in Europe. The Americans
were realizing that the war had perhaps been ill-advised in
the first place. Even western papers such as the
Missouri Gazette were expressing hope that the
commissioners at Ghent might reach a peace accord
by year's end.
It didn't matter; nothing mattered. Jared was
consumed by his sense of failure-
Failure to deal with Stovall.
Failure to protect Amanda.
Failure to make Blackthorn reveal the names of the
men to whom he'd sold the girl.
Worst of all--the cause, the wellspring of all the
other failures-was his own seeming failure to be
something other than what his father had been; to find the
strength to overcome the taint he carried.
For one brief moment at Mrs. Cato's, he
thought he might have mastered some of his own weakness. When
he'd slashed his cheek on the broken window, and seen
blood, and felt the familiar sickness, he'd still
been able to function. He had willed himself
to function.
Hardly conscious of that small victory at the time,
he had thought of it occasionally since. But he found it
laughably, pathetically insignificant in the light
of everything else that had happened.
Night after night, he lay awake on the pallet
in his cell, condemning himself and praying to a God with
whom he wasn't on very familiar terms. A
conviction that his cousin was dead never left him-because he
saw no way that she could survive. But if by some
perverse chance he was wrong, and she had indeed been
bartered to an Indian, he prayed she'd find a
means for suicide. She had already suffered more than
many women did in a lifetime.
He thought about suicide for himself, too. Somehow he
lacked the courage. Count that one more failure.
Other than the Bible, the only personal belonging he
kept with him in his cell was the worn green ribbon and
medal; the fob given him by Uncle Gilbert. He
often stared at the Latin inscription and the
tea-bottle design, alternately cursing himself
for the way he'd besmirched the statement of his grandfather's
purpose, and pondering whether the medal might
unlock some answer about what he must do next. It
didn't.
Toward the end of his term, his jailer
announced a visitor.
Jared glanced toward the wooden door and his mouth
dropped open. Huge and formidable-looking in
buckskin leggings and a fringed blouse decorated with
beads and quillwork, there stood the Tennessean who had
all but destroyed Mrs. Cato's parlor. A
long white feather stuck up from the back of the man's
head.
From outside the cell, he said, "Mr. Kent,
ain't it?" He sounded far less truculent than
when Jared had first seen him.
Jared laid the fob on his pallet, stood up.
"Yes."
"I'll trouble you for the musket," the jailer said.
"Christ, you think I'm gonna shoot him?" the
Tennessean grumbled.
"Hand it over or stay out."
Reluctantly the man surrendered his
short-barreled gun. It was decorated with a curious
piece of metalwork: a fork-tongued sea serpent with
curling tail, all
done in bronze
the lock. The big man shook a cautionary finger:
"That's a genuine North West trade musket.
I've had it nine years. Handle it real
gingerly or I'll handle you so's you won't get
over it."
The Tennessean ducked his head and entered the cell. The
jailer, noticeably pale, closed the door.
Jared guessed his visitor to be thirty-five or
forty years old. He had high cheekbones; tanned
skin heavily marked with lines; eyes whose dark
color and deep sockets lent him an air of
melancholy now that he was sober.
He acted ill-at-ease. When he spoke again, his
tone was surprisingly gentle:
"I come to pay some overdue thanks, Mr. Kent.
I owe you a hell of a lot."
Jared shrugged. "I don't recall you owe me a
thing."
"Oh yes I do. The night you shot that man, I was
crazy drunk. I didn't mean to harm nobody,
mind you-I was just havin' a frolic-but Mrs.
Cato, that old whore comshe'd have hauled me up before
the law for certain if you hadn't been around. You kind
of took her mind off me. Not completely, o'
course. To cover the damage I done, she made
me pay half my profit from winterin' last year.
That put me way behind in makin' up my
assortment."
"Your what?"
"Assortment."
"You've lost me. Mr.-was
"Weatherby. Elijah Weatherby."
Unconsciously, he stroked his shoulder-length
gray hair before extending his hand. The hair glistened
with some kind of grease. Jared shook reluctantly.
Weatherby's palm was slick. But his grip was
strong.
"An assortment's what you take to trade when
you're spendin' the winter amongst the Injuns."
Weatherby
perched on the stool Jared had vacated, all but
hiding it with his huge frame. "Red men'll trade
prime pelts for the damnedest trifles. Don't
sound sensible, but it's so. They don't have any
trifles, you'see, but they can get hold of a heap of
furs. Supply "n demand is what the Choueaus
call it. I used to work for them, but now I'm a
free trader--got my license from the governor
an" all--and I still sell my bales to the
Chouteaus every spring-was He massaged his jawbone,
leaving a greasy residue. "I'm puttin' my
assortment together right now. Spendin' every last penny
I got, too. Only thing I won't
take along is the trade whiskey they make up
special at th@edistilleries here in town."
Jared started to insert a question about why he was being told
all this, but Weatherby simply kept talking, perhaps
out of nervousness:
"I ain't a man of outstandin' morals, Mr.
Kent. But I don't hold with poisoning people.
Trade whiskey's noth-in' more than river water
with some plugs of tobacco and pieces of soap thrown
in. Oh, and some red pepper an' dead leaves
to darken it up proper. A whole barrel of that slop
gets cut with just two gallons of alcohol an'
two gallons of strychnine-was
"Strychnine's a poison!"
"That's what I said, ain't it? The strychnine
makes up for the scant amount of alcohol. The
braves want to get drunk on somethin'. Also, they
don't consider it good whiskey "less they have a
healthy puke after drinkin" some. The tobacco
takes care of the puke."
Weatherby noticed Jared's puzzled stare. He
grinned in a shamefaced way. "I guess I'm
ramblin'-was
"It's pleasant to have a visitor after being cooped
up alone for a couple of months, Mr.
Weatherby. But I can't see that what you're saying
has anything to do with me."
"Well, yes it does. How much longer you gonna
be in here?"
"Another couple of weeks. Why?"
"Mm. That'd work out just fine."
"What are you talking about?"
Weatherby reached to the back of his head, plucked the
white bird feather from his hair and began to twirl it
in his fingers. Jared thought the feather was an affectation,
like the man's flamboyantly beaded shirt. He
learned later it was the fur trade's universal
symbol of wintering. Less hardy men only
ventured into the Indian lands from the spring to the
autumn. The feather thus became a badge of
stamina and status.
"Roundabout," Weatherby resumed, "I heard the
story of what that man called Black done with your
little cousin-was
"Sold her to some trappers going up to the Sioux
tribes, he said. I almost don't believe it."
"I believe it. There's nothin' a Mandan chief
prizes so much as a woman with white skin. Same
goes for the dog soldiers out amongst the Tetons."
"What in God's name are dog
soldiers?"
"A special bunch of young braves picked to take
charge of a buffla hunt. They're mean as sin-an'
when you consider that the Teton Sioux are already about the
wickedest of all the Dakota Injuns, you got a
fair idea of what a dog soldier's like. Compared
to one o' them, a Mandan Sioux's an old
woman."
"So you're telling me there's a ready market for my
cousin."
"Afraid so. That ain't what fetched me here,
though. I--well, what I wondered-you'see, it's
like this," he said with an explosion of breath. "I lost
my last partner this past February. A Frenchman,
Marcel was his name. He got all messed up with a
buffla dance. That's where a
whole lot of Injuns and mebbe some real
important visitors sit in a circle in a
lodge. The old men make big drum medicine.
Then their young wives come up behind the circle
bare-ass naked except for a buffla robe. Each
wife picks a man--not her own, y'understand--and
goes outside with him, an' right there in the snow they
make the two-backed beast--with everybody's one
hunnerd percent approval."
"That's incredible."
"The truth! I been in the snow myself. Seen a
dozen, two dozen couples humpin' away not six
feet apart. It's part of the religion. "Sposed
to attract the herds in winter time. Get 'em to come
close enough to the village so the braves can ride out
an" lay in some meat. Well, the point is, my
partner Marcel, he took a fancy to the squaw that
picked him out. So he's livin' with the Man-dans
now, sort of a second husband to this young woman. I
ain't found anybody but rum-sots to replace
him-was
Weatherby raised a hand quickly. "Don't get me
wrong. I drink some myself."
Jared almost smiled. "I know."
"But I only do it when I'm in town and havin' a
frolic. To get right to it-was
Jared fervently wished he would.
"comI need a partner for this winter. I'm goin' back
up toward the Sioux villages. You look like a
sober, steady sort, and you ain't yella, that's
plain from what happened at Mrs. Cato's. If
you was of a mind to go with me, mebbe we could hunt for your
cousin-was
He left the last words hanging, his tone
punctuating them as a question.
"I expect my cousin's dead."
Weatherby frowned. "Well, by God. You mean you
give up on her?"
"Don't you think I should?"
"I dunno about should. I didn't "spect you
would."
He rubbed his chin. The melancholy cast of his
expression started resentment simmering in Jared.
Weatherby clucked his tongue. "Yeh, I had you
pegged for a different sort. I mean, you stepped up
to the mark pretty smart at Mrs. Cato's.
Plugged that bastard cool an" clean right while he
was aimin' square at you." The trapper slitted his
eyes. "How old are you, boy?"
"Sixteen."
"Plenty old enough for me to teach you the trade. Where you
hail from?"
"Boston. Look, Mr. Weatherby-was
"Boston! Ain't that way up by the Atlantic
Ocean someplace?"
"Yes, it is. I-was
"An' you come all the way out here with that little girl?"
"Actually she was stolen in Tennessee. We were heading
south."
"Godamighty! You musta rode a thousand miles or
more."
"I guess. We walked a good part of it." "I
sure wouldn't have any doubts about takin' on a
youngster who could do that," Weatherby declared. "Thanks,
but I'm not interested." "I sort o' got that
idea. Appears I made a mistake-was The big
man rose, jamming the feather in his hair. "You
goin' back east when you get out?" "I can't go
back east." "Why not?"
"Because--because the law wants me." "Thievin'?"
"Something else." "Murder?" Jared didn't
answer.
Weatherby's reaction was unexpected and puzzling.
First he shrugged. Then, with a remote look, he
said:
"Hell, I done a lot worse than that."
"I didn't say I'd-was
"Yes you did-by not sayin' anything."
"And you've done worse?"
"I sure have."
"For instance?"
"Well, for one thing, I left a woman and four
young "uns in Tennessee. I come out here eleven
years ago. I couldn't stand farmin"
fifty acres month in, month out. Got so bad
I couldn't sleep nights, thinkin' how I had
to escape. It was like hands on my neck, stranglin'
hands, that feeling. I was locked up on fifty
acres and I'd see the same sights all my days
--well, I begged my wife to come along. She said
no. So one night I-just left. I ain't proud of
it. But I had to do it or I would have died."
Strangely moved by the hoarseness of Weatherby's
voice, Jared found his own softening:
"That's still not as bad as killing a man. And I've
botched up a whole lot of other-was
"I ain't finished." Weatherby stared at him. "You
know what a windigo is, boy?"
"No."
"Big medicine with the Injuns. Scares hell out of
"em. I'm carryin" that name now."
Some remembered agony shone in his eyes. Suddenly
he glanced away.
"What I'm sayin' to you is, the country west of here
forgives just about anything a man wants or needs to have
forgiven. I heard a preacher say once that God
forgives His wayward children, so maybe God's part
of the prairies an' rivers, because a man can sure
find a mighty lot of forgiveness-was
"Mr. Weatherby, I'm leaving St. Louis-was
"I know that! It's no secret Clark ordered you
to hightail."
"I expect to head south, where I was going when
Blackthorn stole my cousin. New Orleans-was
"Down where it's soft an' easy, huh?"
"Listen, I'm not asking advice from you or
anyone!" He was angered by the Tennessean's
contemptuous stare. "My mother was butchered by Indians
in Ohio. My father failed when he farmed there-was
Weatherby shrugged:
"So?"
"What the hell do you mean--so?"
"So what's your point, is what I'd like to know."
Jared flushed. "If it's any of your business."
Weatherby blinked, then said in the mildest of
voices, "Well, fuck you for a snotty pup," and
started out.
Ashamed, Jared exclaimed, "Weatherby-was
The tall trapper turned back.
"Yeh?"
"Look, I--I'm sorry for that remark. I do
appreciate your asking me to throw in with you. But there
are- quite a few reasons why I can't."
Weatherby studied the boy. Crooked an
index finger and scratched his upper lip. Finally said
quietly:
"You want to talk about any of "em?"
Jared was stunned. "Why should you be interested?"
"Oh, I dunno-was The man's deep-hued cheeks
actually turned darker, the equivalent of a blush.
"Mebbe because I never quite got used to being" without
sons an' daughters. I don't feel natural
"less I'm worryin" about young "uns. Told
you I had four in Tennessee--an" I must have sired
me three times that many off all the squaws I hung
out with over the years. Seems to me like we're kind
of a pair, Kent. You got nobody real close
an' neither have I-was He searched Jared's eyes a
moment. Then:
"I ain't so good with fancy phrases, but I got
a feelin' soon after I come in here that you're
hurtin' pretty bad over somethin'. It's a lot
better to speak it out than to drown it with whiskey like
I'm in the habit of doin'."
Oddly touched, Jared said, "You read me pretty
well, Mr. Weatherby." He lifted a hand toward
the stool. "I'd be pleased if you kept me company
a while longer."
III.
The trapper bobbed his head and resumed his seat:
"All righty, get it off your chest."
Jared looked at the wall as he started to talk:
"The plain truth is, I'm scared of this country."
"Scared! Why on earth-?"
"I told you. My father tried farming, Indians
killed my mother--the west destroyed both of them.
I-was
He turned and gazed straight at the older man,
pent-up tension draining away. It was a relief just
to be able to share the torment with someone:
"comI've made a lot of the mistakes my parents
did. My father and mother weren't tough enough to beat this
country, and I don't think I am either."
Weatherby digested that for a moment. Then he inclined his
head very slightly to one side and puckered his lips
to express his doubt.
"I'd say you're crazy."
"What?"
"You heard. Crazy. I don't know what your pa
was like, but I know this. There ain't one man in fifty
in St. Louis-no, nor west of here, neither-that could
travel a thousand miles haulin' a little girl like you
done an' live to tell of it. "Specially at
sixteen. Most of 'em would have quit 'fore
they got halfway."
Perplexed, Jared shook his head. "I didn't
think it was anything special. We had to do it-was
"You just take my word, boy. Unless your pa was a
hell of a lot bigger an" better man than it
sounds like, you got him beat a mile."
Jared scrutinized Weatherby, trying to decide
whether the trapper was flattering him. He saw nothing
in the man's demeanor to indicate that was the case.
Yet he couldn't quite believe what Weatherby said-
The older man sensed the boy's doubt:
"You think I'm funnin' you. Tell you what. When
you get out, you haul yourself down to Manuel Lisa's
warehouse, or the one the Chouteaus run. You tell
any trapper you bump into that you walked all the way
from the Atlantic to St. Lou' by way of Tennessee.
Tell "em you tracked the man who stole your
cousin, an" killed him instead o' lettin' him
kill you. You'll see how fast you get work. Why,
you'll have so many offers, your head'll whirl!"
"But it wasn't that big a thing-was
"You ain't got much pride in yourself, have you, boy?"
Jared glanced up suddenly. Started to speak;
hesitated; then said:
"No, I guess I don't."
"Well, it's time to start havin' some! I'd be
proud to call you my partner."
That was when Jared recalled something Judge
Jackson had said. Something about the accomplishment of
reaching Nashville on his own. At the time, he
hadn't paid much attention. But he remembered it
vividly now.
He remembered Governor Clark expressing
astonishment over the journey, too. He began
to feel a little heartened-
Do you suppose we never know we've fought some
battles until they're over? he asked himself.
Maybe I do have some reason to hold my head up-
The thought pleased him. True or not, it lent him a
touch of courage he'd lacked for a long time.
Weatherby said, "Tell me something."
"Sure."
"Your cousin--did she make the whole trip, like you
say?"
"To Tennessee? Yes. Then she obviously came this
far with Blackthorn-was
"How'd she get along?"
"When she was with me, not too well-at first. By the time
we left Louisville, though, she'd toughened up a
lot. She-was
He stopped, sensing the trapper's intent. Weatherby
said:
"What you're saying is, she's got the stuff too.
That oughta give you some hope that she's still alive.
Hell, I bet you taught her plenty about how
to get along-and did it without even knowin' it."
Jared would have liked to believe that, too. But
skepticism brought a bitter laugh:
"You're just softening me up so I'll throw in with you.
I haven't got a cent."
"The money was to be my part. I was only askin' for a
strong back an' a strong belly. I think you got
both of "em--only somebody or something has
whipped you so bad, you talked yourself into believin" the
belly part ain't there. You think it over. I mean
really think about what it took to get all the way out
here. Think about that little girl, too. Whether you really
want to act like she's dead when there's a chance she
ain't. If you change your mind, I'll probably
still be roomin' at Ungerleider's Hotel when they
let you out."
"Do you honestly think we could find her, Mr.
Weatherby?"
"I know we could have a damn good shot at it."
Jared stared down at the fob on the
pallet, confused, his emotions churning-
Weatherby put a hand on his arm.
"Listen here. I can hire me a dozen no-goods.
But I don't come across ones like old Marcel-or
you-very often. I ain't never kissed any man's
boots to make him feel good. When I say
somethin', I mean it. Life's too goddamn
short to have it any other way."
Weatherby turned and hammered on the cell door.
When the jailer let him out, he snatched back his
trade musket and disappeared, calling over his
shoulder:
"That's Ungerleider's Hotel. Anybody can
tell you how to find it."
IV.
Jared Kent sat cross-legged on his pallet a
long while afterward, running his finger across the surface
of the fob medallion and scrutinizing the Latin
inscription. The ball of his thumb began to work back
and forth over the raised letters.
He did want to believe what Weatherby had told
him. He wanted to believe that he had passed through a
testing fire without even being aware of it. Making
mistakes, yes; dreadful ones.
But surviving.
And what had the trapper said about the country where he
traded? That it forgave almost anything a man wanted
or needed to have forgiven-his Perhaps that was one reason why
people sought the land by the hundreds and the thousands-
Jared's thumb stopped, resting on the tea bottle
again. Was it possible Amanda could be alive? His
thoughts raced; back to Tennessee just before
Blackthorn's appearance. He recalled the night
beside the fire when he'd been struck by the new strength
in her.
But God above, she'd been raped! And who knew
how many times since then Blackthorn--and others--had
abused her?
Still, he had to admit in the privacy of his conscience
that he was guilty of inventing reasons for going south and
abandoning the search--which was another way of saying he was
guilty of giving in to his fear.
Maybe he didn't need to give in any longer.
Maybe on the long, arduous journey from Boston,
step by step and mile by mile, he'd trampled an
enemy underfoot and never known it-
If he didn't quite believe it yet, he had the
desire to believe, and the desire lifted his spirits in
a way that had been foreign to him for months.
He stared at the medal.
Assuming Amanda was dead--or that he couldn't find
her, which was just as likely--he was the only Kent
left. What was he to do with his life?
Weatherby offered him a chance to learn the fur trade.
He'd find no similar opportunity ready-made
in New Orleans. If he could go with the trapper and
not be afraid of the land--not be afraid because he had
already won one battle against it--
Then wouldn't he be a fool not to accept Weatherby's
offer of a new start? He could provide for himself.
Perhaps even prosper-
His thumb began moving on the medal again.
He was the last of the Kents.
Not Abraham Kent.
Jared.
Not a poor creature tormented to failure, but one
who had walked a thousand miles.
Before he was sixteen years old.
He had always believed everything Harriet Kent said
about him. But he knew she had hated him. Perhaps
some of the things she'd said were born of her hate; not
altogether true-
Desperately, he sought for proofs of the
possibility in the past. Once more he thought of his
father.
After Abraham Kent had failed, he had gone
home. To despair. To ruin and, presumably,
death.
But he, Jared, failing in Tennessee, had kept
on-
Perhaps he wasn't doomed to repeat the past. Perhaps
he needn't be its lifelong prisoner. As
Weatherby said, that was one of the promises of the western
land: it forgave, and let a man begin again-
He was not Abraham.
He was Jared-
Unless he ran away.
He looked at the medal.
Take a stand and make a mark.
Who was right? Weatherby? Or Harriet-and the voice
of self-doubt that had been his companion for as long as
he could remember-his
Was there a possibility Amanda was alive?
And had he made too many terrible mistakes, and
put himself beyond all chance of self-forgiveness?
Weatherby claimed he had sinned great sins. How
could they possibly be worse than Jared's own-his
Alternating between bursting hope and cynical
despair, he paced and fretted for nearly an
hour. He still did not know clearly what he
should do-or whether he was capable of anything except
helpless retreat.
Evening deepened outside the bars of the cell. From the
riverfront he heard the sounds of the town's lusty
life: horses drumming; men singing; a gun going
off.
Weary of self-examination, he sought diversion. The
only thing that offered it was a newspaper. He shouted
through the small grille in the cell door-
No answer. The jailer had gone off to supper.
Frustrated, he ran a hand through his yellow hair.
His eye fell on Rachel Jackson's Bible.
He picked it up. Turned pages aimlessly.
Came at last to the ribbon that marked a place in the
Old Testament. He supposed the marker had been
inserted randomly, and he was just about to flip to the next
page when something caught his attention.
Someone--the judge's wife, evidently--had inked
brackets around a passage in-
He tilted the Bible so he could make out the page
heading in the dying light of sunset. Ezekiel. The
thirty-fourth book.
The brackets marked the sixteenth verse. He read
it and realized the position of the ribbon marker was no
accident. He read the verse a second
time:
I will seek that which was lost, and bring again that which was
driven away, and will bind up that which was broken, and will
strengthen that which was sick-
With a shiver, he sat down on the stool and began
reading at the head of the chapter.
When he reached the sixteenth verse, he closed the
Bible and held it on his knees. Jackson's
wife must have suspected he would falter, hesitate
and question along the way. And so she had carefully marked
those few words. In the Lord's promise to His people,
Jared saw, at last, a clear sign of what he
himself must do.
"I will seek that which was lost-
Bring again that which was driven away-
Failure to carry out that command would forever break the vow
he'd given Uncle Gilbert. Failure would
make the precious medal a mockery-
Only one question remained, then. But it was of such
magnitude that it wracked him all through the sleepless
night:
Could he do what must be done?
Was he strong enough?
Was he Jared Kent-his Or Abraham's helpless,
doomed son--and-twin? Even in the ruddy
light of a new morning, there was no sure answer.
When Jared was released, he reclaimed his few
belongings and put the Bible and the fob with them in his
small canvas bag. In a deserted street near
the jail, he squatted down in the shadows. He
drew a long breath, then did something which two
Indians wandering by watched with amazement.
Using the Spanish knife, Jared pricked the ball
of his left thumb.
He sheathed the knife and squeezed his thumb until
the blood ran freely, bright red-
The nausea churned up from his belly, horribly
sour in his throat. He gripped his left wrist with
his right hand and forced himself to stare at the small wound--
at the blood--his teeth locked together, his forehead
sweaty, for some five minutes.
During that time, he felt faint. Felt the urge
to hide his hand behind his back; shut out the sight of that
awful redness.
But he watched the tiny wound until his trembling
stopped and the nausea receded.
The prick in his thumb clotted. He stood up,
pale but satisfied on one score.
This strange, debilitating enemy might be with him
to the end of his days. But at least he saw the
affliction in a truer perspective. Not so much a
curse--punishment for unworthiness, real or
imagined--as a burden whose origins, though they might
be rational, would be forever hidden.
That, he could endure. Walking with long, swift
strides, he started for the fur warehouse of Manuel
Lisa.
VI.
The clerk checking through the bales outside the
warehouse looked at Jared as if he were a
lunatic. With an annoyed shake of his head, the
clerk turned his attention back to his ledger:
"I haven't got time to answer fool questions about
Indian fairy stories-was
Jared stepped around in front of the clerk. The
clerk's head lifted. He met Jared's blue
eyes and almost dropped the ledger.
"You'll tell me where I can get an answer,
then," Jared said.
Nervous, the clerk glanced past the boy, pointed his
quill:
"Maybe--maybe old Jeanette. See her over
there?"
Jared followed the direction of the pen; saw what he
hadn't before: beyond two gaudily quilled and
beaded trappers cutting the bindings on bales of
summer pelts, a figure hunched against the
warehouse wall, seated in the shadows and almost lost
within them.
"She's half Osage, half French. She
speaks pretty fair English. But she's-was
The clerk tapped his temple with the quill.
"She's waiting for her husband. A free trader."
The clerk went "Huh!" softly, either in pity or
derision. "He disappeared up the Mizou ten years
ago and never came back."
Nodding, Jared pivoted away.
He walked by the trappers to the deep shadow along the
wall. Though it was full daylight, and the October
sun was warm, a chill settled over him as he
inspected
the old woman sitting cross-legged, her clothing
layered on her frail body in filthy pieces,
no two of which matched.
The old woman's face was like a finely detailed
map, crosshatched with dozens of delicate lines.
Her hair was almost pure white. The hands resting in
her lap were emaciated. She smelled of dirt and
human waste and tobacco.
Jared crouched down in front of her. The
old woman's eyes were closed. But in her lap.
one hand moved; fumbled with the flap of a worn pouch;
reached in for a small, moist gob of tobacco.
Without opening her eyes, the woman slipped the
tobacco between her lips and up against one of her diseased,
toothless gums.
He said softly, "Jeanette?"
The ancient, leathery jaws began to work the tobacco.
Her closed eyelids seemed lifeless.
He repeated her name.
She looked at him. Jared caught his breath.
The old woman's eyes were brown and clear. He
saw no hint of madness in them, but neither did they
hold any emotion. They seemed like natural
objects--great stones; a river; the earth itself--that
had no need of human feeling.
"Jeanette," he said a third time, "my name is
Kent. The clerk said you might tell me something I
need to know."
Slowly, so slowly, the lined jaws worked the tobacco
and the old eyes remained fixed on his, unblinking.
The wrinkled lips opened, no more than a slit:
"Ask."
"I met a man. He used a word--he said it
meant something very bad-was
Her voice was thin, a thread of sound, and raspy:
"What word?"
"Windigo."
She uttered a strange, chant-like syllable, and
swayed from side to side. Her eyes seemed a little
more animated.
"The devil. The great devil who walks in the
dark. Accursed. A monster. Not fit to look
upon."
"Not a real person?"
"Some men--a few--whom the Father-spirit chooses
to hate--they become like the great windigo."
"But what is it that makes them so terrible? Do they
kill-?"
"The great windigo Mils. He kills out of pain
and anger that the Father-spirit has made him what he
is."
"Have you ever seen him?"
She was silent almost half a minute, the brown
eyes opaque again; unreadable.
"The great windigo? No. I have seen two men in
my life--maybe three--who became as he is.
Accursed."
"Why are they accursed?" Jared persisted, feeling
he was drawing close to something he might be
better off avoiding. The old woman was
undoubtedly senile. Yet somehow, he feared her-
"Because they have done what the great windigo does," she
said. "They have eaten the flesh of a human being."
VII.
Jared's throat felt thick. He fought for a breath
of air in the foul-smelling shadows. The old
half-breed woman looked at him, and he thought that
she saw him for the first time:
"The Father-spirit in heaven made the windigo so man would
be humble and thankful. When the great windigo walks,
higher than a house, with fire burning here-was
One hand touched an eyelid. "coms bright it lights the
night, an ordinary man knows the Father-spirit has
showered him with love. An ordinary man is humble and
thankful even if he is weak and evil, because no
matter how terrible a man's lot, he will bless it
forever if he meets the windigo."
In a whisper, Jared said, "Thank you."
Her right hand lifted from her lap, her palm a
cross-work of lines.
"Do you have a little snuff for me?"
"I don't, I'm sorry. I wish I did."
She became agitated:
"Have you seen Langlois?"
"Lang-?"
Jared stopped. Did she mean her husband?
"He will be back by sunset, they say. I told
him I would be waiting here."
Jared stood up. Grasped her open hand and pressed
it gently:
"Yes, I heard he was coming back."
She relaxed, and seemed to smile.
"You have heard that? I am glad. That means he is
truly coming. I will go on waiting."
Jared turned away, shaken and full of pity for the
old Osage woman. But he understood why
Weatherby had revealed his shameful secret.
Jared stayed at the Lisa warehouse the better part
of an hour, speaking to several men. Then he asked
directions to Ungerleider's Hotel. He set
off at a run, hoping he was not too late.
"I Will Seek That Which Was Lost"
ON THE FIRST of November, 1814, Elijah
Weatherby and Jared Adam Kent boarded a
keelboat that would take them several hundred miles
up the Missouri River with Weatherby's
assortment.
In the assortment were the standard twenty-five-yard
bolts of coarse woolen cloth called
strouding. The Indians fashioned it into clothing. There
were several bolts each of calico, melton and
cotton cloth; two dozen three-point Mackinac
blankets, prized by the Indians for their warmth; and a
collection of carefully packed kettles,
needles, threads, axes, awls, hand mirrors,
animal traps, shot and powder.
The assortment also included less utilitarian
items which the Indians favored for personal
adornment: cheap combs; a rainbow of ribbons;
falconry bells; and white, red, gray, black
and purple shells polished and strung to make
wampum.
Weatherby had used the last of his funds to buy three
dozen silver trinkets. There were gorgets and
half-moons, some bracelets, and fifteen pairs
of enormous silver earrings, which Weatherby said the
vainer braves wore with great pride. Weatherby had
also bought two horses and enough food for three months.
The keelboat pushed up the Missouri under a
favoring wind. Jared stood at the bow on the
twelfth day of November, 1814. His new
buckskins were stiff; sweat and exertion had yet
to lend them the desired pliability.
The early evening was warm; unusually warm and
dry for this far north and this late in the season,
Elijah Weatherby said. But the sun was darkening
rapidly, Jared noticed. Huge black clouds
spilled out of the northwest. In the clouds, lightning
flickered.
He gazed at the fast-flowing, muddy Missouri for
several minutes. He was struck by the way his own
fate and his father's had been so closely linked with
rivers.
A river had taken the older brother or sister
he'd never known.
Another had flowed by the place where he was born, and
where his mother died.
A third had meandered past the dreadful patch of
ground where he and Amanda met Blackthorn.
He'd followed a fourth to St. Louis.
And still one more was bearing him toward an unuessable
future.
The west was growing chiefly because of the rivers. The
seekers of escape and the seekers of dreams poured
forth from the east, and the rivers in their silent, eternal
power carried them; changing the nation; changing the lives
of its people, including the Kents-
He lifted his gaze from the river to the land. He was
spellbound by the vista. The prairie
seemed to stretch away endlessly on both sides of the
Missouri, broken only here and there by small
groves of trees. On the starboard side, he
saw bison--for the first time-two or three thousand, a
great mass of hide and hair and horn moving slowly
along the bank.
The majestic motion of the herd, the wind-lashed water
and prairie grass, the turbulent, white-lit
clouds folding in upon themselves as the storm advanced
made him feel as he had long ago, times when
he'd clambered to a Boston roof or dashed to the end
of a pier and beheld sea and sky together, immense and
breathtaking-
My God, he thought. How beautiful it is.
The wind blew harder now, flattening his hair against
the top and sides of his head. He strained to keep the
distant horizon in focus, no longer despairing,
but thrilled; expectant.
In searching for Amanda, maybe he could find a
place where he belonged-
A place where I can be happy.
I see what Weatherby meant. Out here, there is
room for hope to begin again-
His fear of the land had begun to wane when he had ceased
to fear himself so much. He no longer felt
contempt for the family he'd glimpsed at the ferry
on the Illinois side of the Mississippi. He
no longer pitied the men and women and tiny children huddled
in wagons or riding on mules or horses-or
walking-he'd passed on the trails up from
Nashville. He understood them.
He was one of them.
The clouds had darkened the sky overhead. The
keel-boatmen hauled down the sail and pitched the
anchor overside, preparing to ride out the storm.
Thunder blasted. Lightning hit the river about a mile
ahead. Open-mouthed, Jared watched as the forked
whiteness licked down a second time, striking the
earth in front of the plodding buffalo. In moments,
fire ignited.
It spread quickly, fanned by the wind until a
monumental wall of scarlet rose toward the
heavens. Even on the keelboat, Jared felt the
heat.
The silhouettes of the frightened buffalo passed
before the scarlet wall, stampeding. The earth shook.
The sky turned black and so did the surrounding land.
Only that towering rampart of flame lit the stygian
gloom-
Marveling at the sight, Jared was
unprepared for the slash of the rain. With a yelp, he
headed below. He was soaked by the time he got there.
The rain lasted a quarter of an hour, then slacked
off abruptly. In five more minutes it was over.
He returned to the deck, the wind cool against his
cheeks.
The clouds cleared. A gold sunset burnished the
river and the wet prairie. To starboard billows of
smoke marked the site of the drenched fire. The
distant reverberation of the stampeding buffalo blew
along the wind.
He felt a presence at his elbow.
"What you lookin' at?" Weatherby asked.
In a hushed voice, Jared answered, "Everything."
"Makes a man feel right clean again, don't it?"
Weatherby had that sad, remote look in his eyes,
Jared noticed. It brought something to mind; something that
had needed saying for a couple of weeks.
"Elijah-was
"Uh?"
"You know one of the reasons I decided to come with you?"
Weatherby shook his head.
"I talked to some other fur men before we left St.
Louis."
"Did you tell "em where you come from?"
Jared smiled. "I did. I said I'd come on
foot and on horseback and by wagon and keelboat
all the way from Boston. I had three solid
offers to hire on."
"Knew you would."
No longer smiling, Jared went on, "I also asked
about the windigo."
The words seemed to crush Weatherby like a blow.
But after a moment, he straightened up and faced his
younger companion:
"So you know the story I spun about my Frenchie
partner was a lie."
"I found out you had a partner who was French-was
"But he didn't disappear because of no buffla dance.
We was in the mountains last winter-was
"You don't have to tell me."
"I want to. It was snowin" to beat hell. We
lost the pack horses with all the food. Then my
partner, old Marcel, he--"
For a moment it seemed as if Weatherby couldn't
continue.
"comwell, there was a rock fall, and Marcel, he was
broke up pretty bad under it. There was no way
he could live, an' no way I could carry him out.
It was all I could do to keep myself alive.
I had to make the filthiest, meanest choice a man
could be asked to make. I'll say this. Old
Marcel, he helped me make it. I was ready
to die with him but he wouldn't have no part of that. He
comfinished himself with his own gun. Then I was able to walk
out of those mountains seventeen days later. Alive
because I had flesh to eat."
III
Even now, Jared experienced the horror that had
gripped him outside Lisa's warehouse.
Presently the trapper said, "There ain't much
worse a man can carry on his soul, Jared."
"I'd guess not."
"Sometimes I can't carry it all, so I frolic,
like I did at Mrs. Cato's. Now you see why
I told you what I did? That any mistakes you
made ain't nothin' compared to mine? But I swear-there
is somethin' of God in this
land. I know it, dumb as I am. I can't read
nor write, but I know that much. A man's born like
a cracked jar, and livin' don't improve the
condition. There's never a way to repair the jar so
it's perfect. But somehow, it's so clean and blessed
beautiful out here, you're-was "Forgiven."
"Yes. Maybe it's because there ain't many
souls in these parts yet to see the crack in the jar.
Maybe it's because you're so busy keepin' alive,
the crack ain't very important. Even after last
winter, I can stand up and start over."
"You showed me how I could do that, Elijah."
Weatherby managed a smile. "Then I'm good for
somethin', I reckon."
"Listen, I'm counting on you to show me a lot more.
I intend to make some money in this fur business."
"Fair enough. I don't guarantee it, but we'll
give "er a Tennessee try. I do promise you
one thing, though. A year or so out here, and there'll be
a fire in your soul like you never felt before. A fire
to make that burnin" prairie look like sparks in
brushwood."
Jared smiled back. "You've a poetic turn of
mind, you know that?"
"Wouldn't go quite that far. But a fur man spends a
lot o' hours inside his own head. Most times,
there's nobody else for company-was
"And what kind of fire is it that's going to burn me
up?"
"Why, the one that made me commit a great sin an'
leave my woman and my youngsters. You keep
hankerin' to see past the next hill, then
the next, and one day it gets so bad, you can't stay
in the same place more'n a week without goin'
crazy."
"I had a curiosity about new things once upon a
time. Somewhere along the way, I lost it." "Well,
you wait. The fire'll stoke up hot and you
won't be satisfied till you've set eyes on the
mountains--then the ocean-was
"You've seen the Pacific?"
""Course I have. I've et and smoked with the
Haidas on the very shore of it. I've been a
while in the earth lodges of the Pawnee and I've
worked trap lines in the country of the horse tribes,
too-the Cheyenne, the Blackfeet, the Crow.
You'll see wondrous sights out where we're
goin", Jared-was
There was silence broken by the whisper of the wind and the lap
of the Missouri against the hull.
"Y'know," Weatherby continued, "I really did mean
what I said in jail. I think you got the stuff."
"Kind of soon to tell, isn't it?"
"Oh, no. I've had three partners and I
reckoned their good points and bad points mighty
quick. Old Marcel, he was the best of the lot, God
keep him. But I'd be proud to call you
my kin."
Moved, Jared couldn't reply immediately. Finally, very
softly, he said:
"The feeling's mutual, Elijah."
Weatherby clapped his hands. "By damn, I think we
will make some money! You may even find an Injun
girl you fancy. A lot of "em are right
pleasing."
And start the Kents growing again? It was an
unexpected idea, but a warming one.
Rain-washed hills gleamed amber as the last clouds
passed. A single shimmering star lit the pale blue
far overhead. In his mind, he saw the passage from
Ezekiel.
"I will seek that which was lost, and bring again that which was
driven away, and will bind up that which was broken-
He had it in his power to begin the family anew. He
must do it as best he could. Whether a hope of
locating Amanda was justified was another matter-
Once again Weatherby exhibited his uncanny
faculty
for sensing what was in Jared's mind; perhaps because Jared's
eyes were focused on the remotest point on the
river.
"I think we'll find her, Jared."
"Sometimes I think so too. Other times, I
wonder."
"From all you told me about her, I'd say she's
got too much life in her just to lie down an"
die. I got a powerful feelin' she's still alive
somewhere out yonder."
"I've almost come to believe that myself."
"Even if we don't find her, you got to remember
it's the tryin' that counts most. It's the tryin' that
makes a man worthy of the name."
Jared nodded slowly. His hand moved to his belt and
touched the fob tied there by the raveling ribbon.
But his eye remained fixed on the horizon.
Epilogue In the Tepee of the Dog Soldier
AMANDA KENT OPENED her eyes.
In the first seconds of wakefulness, she noted
details of her surroundings without recognizing their
significance. She floated in a pleasant state
of lassitude, fascinated by the colorful
geometric designs daubed on the skin lining of the
tepee. The lining stretched from the ground to perhaps a
height of five feet.
Amanda was lying on one of three beds arranged around
the tepee wall. Hers was positioned to one side of the
oval entrance, which was closed. The entrance
faced east, away from the prevailing winds.
On the other side of the entrance were the two beds for the
tepee's regular occupants. The head of one
abutted the foot of the other. All three beds were
similar in most respects: two poles had been
staked parallel on the ground, and the space between
filled with dried prairie grass, then covered with
hides. But only one of the beds had an angled
backrest of closely spaced willow sticks. The
top of the backrest's frame was connected by a thong
to a tripod directly behind it.
Perhaps twenty poles, most of them toward the rear,
formed the skeleton of the tepee, which was reasonably
large, and filled with a delicious warmth that prolonged
Amanda's sense of euphoria. Three very long
poles, again in a tripod arrangement, shaped the
tepee's basic structure. Additional poles
spaced around the perimeter, plus a cluster at the
back, stretched and braced the hide
covering. Outside thongs staked into the ground helped
keep the tepee standing in high winds.
Slightly behind the center of the dirt floor, a
small fire burned--buffalo dung, though Amanda
did not know that. She was only conscious of a peculiar
aroma she had never smelled before. From the
various poles hung items that obviously belonged
to the tepee's owner:
A large, ornately painted parfleche. A
shield of bull buffalo skin decorated with a
crude representation of a bird with a great curving
beak and immense wings. A willow bow reinforced with
sinew. A quiver of arrows. A medicine bag.
A long thong hanging from the smoke hole suspended
a bundle of saplings above the fire. The smoke,
rising straight upward, cured the saplings that would
become iron-headed arrows-
Awareness was returning slowly. Amanda recalled that
it was fall, and the evening was chilly. Hence the fire.
Overhead, she saw that the smoke wings had been
opened about halfway to permit air to circulate.
Where the smoke drifted into the darkness, she glimpsed
a few faint stars. She heard, then recognized,
sounds-
Heavy thumping, as of hide drums beaten.
Stamping; rhythmic clapping; the chant of many
voices.
Occasionally a man or woman shouted something in an
unfamiliar language. Or a child squalled. Or
one of the dozens of dogs she had seen in the encampment
barked-
Encampment-
She remembered where she was, and why.
With a low cry, she lunged upward to a sitting
position, all at once feeling the thongs that bound
her dirty wrists and ankles. As her angle of
vision changed, she saw an object previously
hidden by the willow backrest.
A huge horned skull, the bone yellowed, the eye
sockets black and terrifying-
She almost screamed aloud as it all came back.
The traders had brought her here. On a keelboat
much like the one she remembered from another, almost unreal
period in her life.
After the boat, the traders used horses. There were
four of the white men, led by an immense,
reddish-bearded fellow with a veined nose. His name was
Maas. She had slept at the foot of his bed on
the boat, and whenever he had wanted her beside him, he
had dragged her up by the hair.
The scream gathered in her dry throat. She fought
it. She was sickened by the filthy feel of her skin.
Something crawled beneath her arm on her left side,
under the greasy buckskin dress that had replaced her
other clothing.
She ached from the days of traveling across the
empty grassland, sometimes permitted to ride behind
Maas when he was in a good mood, but most of the time
walking, connected to his saddle by a halter looped
around her neck. Gazing down at her unwashed
feet, she saw half a dozen healed cuts.
When the traders had finally reached the encampment
earlier in the day, they had met with the Indians in the
open. Amanda was relegated to a position some yards
from the large group surrounding the whites, and from there
watched Maas communicate with the ferocious-looking
brown men in a combination of their tongue and hand-signs.
There was much display of, and haggling over, the contents
of the bales the white men had brought with them.
One moment was unforgettable: when the crowd parted
abruptly, and she saw a tall, well-built but
cruel-looking Indian gazing at her.
The Indian, in his twenties, made more hand-signs
at Maas. The final sign was a finger jabbed in her
direction.
Maas grinned, nodded-and she knew without being told
that she now belonged to the Indian, who wore a
bonnet of eagle feathers.
The bonnet was a kind of cap with thongs hanging
down. Some of the feathers projected from the back of the
cap. Others were attached to the thongs. Each
feather had an ornamental tip of white weasel
fur. What struck her was the absence of such
bonnets on most of the other young men.
She saw several bonnets on older Indians.
Some of those bonnets had trains of feathers that reached
all the way to the ground. Instinct told her the
Indian who had pointed to her was very powerful and much
respected--thus the honor of the bonnet--but because he
was younger, his bonnet was not yet as impressive as
those worn by his elders.
Tonight there was a celebration in progress outside the
tepee. At dusk, Amanda had seen chunks of the
carcass of some kind of animal being dragged toward
blazing cook fires. She remembered an Indian
carrying a hairy hump, its underside gory.
Another proudly displayed what appeared to be a
tongue.
Then Maas had come to her, and officially informed her that
she had been sold to the young man in return for
buffalo hides gathered in the hunt two days ago.
The young man was the son of one of the tribal elders,
Maas said. He had counted coup many more times than
any other young man of the tribe. The number of
feathers in his bonnet attested to that. At birth, the
young man's father had christened him with a name that
anticipated this prowess.
Here Maas reeled off guttural syllables, then
gave them an approximate English translation:
Plenty Coups.
The trader said Plenty Coups was further distinguished
by belonging to the dog soldiers, the elite group that
controlled and directed the all-important buffalo
hunts. In cynical fashion, Maas wished her
well with her new owner.
Amanda was not permitted to take part in the feasting and
celebration. She was led away by several young women,
one of whom carried a sapling, and struck her in the
face several times before supervising the tying of the thongs
in the tepee. Amanda was deposited on the
hide-covered bed. Miserable and exhausted, she
fell asleep-
Now she was awake. Remembering.
Very little spare flesh remained on her rapidly
maturing body. She had trouble recalling her last
solid meal.
But that was of trifling importance. What mattered was
the man who had bought her. He would surely come to her
before the night was over. No doubt he'd do what she
dreaded--strip her dress away, lower his body on
top of hers, and heave back and forth until
he had satisfied himself.
A sharp memory of the first time it had happened set
her to shivering. She remembered faces--one of them
fondly. She remembered blue eyes, tawny
hair, kind and gentle hands that had helped her when
she faltered-
Tears came to her eyes at the thought of her cousin
Jared. Where was he now? New Orleans, she
hoped.
She gazed at the bracelet of tarred rope,
partially hidden by the thongs around her wrists. The
bracelet was her last tangible link with the past-and
Jared. As she looked at the blackened cordage,
she knew she'd never see him again. But she'd keep
the bracelet until she died.
She blinked the tears away as her mind conjured the
other face. The man who called himself a preacher.
The
man who had inflicted the horrifying, unexpected
hurt on her body ages ago, in Tennessee-
The day Blackthorn carried her off to his cabin,
she wanted to die. She wanted to close her eyes
and never wake again--especially after he raped her a
second time, on the floor of his squalid shanty.
She'd screamed; tried to flee from him. But
he was too big and quick, even with his trousers fallen
around his ankles. She remembered the bite of
splinters against her bare buttocks, and the immense,
ravaging feel of him jamming up inside her,
filling her with a hateful, slimy wetness-
When they left the cabin, she was tied hand and foot.
She lay on her belly behind his saddle, praying for
death.
For days, jolted and bruised as Blackthorn rode
toward St. Louis, that was her only wish: to die.
To end the shame and pain that had become her lot.
Virtually every evening on the long, nightmarish trek,
he had undressed her and thrust into her. She fought
him each time, shrieking and scratching and crying out
to God to let her die and escape the torture. The
harder she resisted Blackthorn, the harder he
ravaged her-and he usually beat her afterward as well.
Then one night, in the stuffy little boardinghouse room
in St. Louis, she was feeling so ill and so hurt that
she vowed she'd throw herself out the window if
Blackthorn touched her again. But she didn't, because
a peculiar insight came to her.
What triggered the insight was another memory: the
memory of a man's sly eyes in a Pittsburgh
store. And words her cousin had spoken.
Words about how men fancied her prettiness. The
memory was tangled with the comforting feel of her cousin's
hand, and the taste of licorice -
Thus when she saw the preacher's eyes looming over
in them that reminded her of the eyes of the man in
Pittsburgh-
That night, she didn't struggle so much. She let
Blackthorn have his way without quarrel. Though he was
startled and suspicious, he seemed to enjoy himself a
bit more.
From that hour, she didn't even protest when the
bogus preacher fondled her growing breasts, or
spread her legs with his huge hands and lowered himself
between. She pretended submissiveness--total fear
of him--which wasn't hard to do. As a result, he
beat her less often.
When Blackthorn sold her to Maas, she began
to realize the real value of her new insight. She
never resisted when Maas wanted her in his bed. And
if he wasn't kind to her, neither did he abuse
her excessively.
Slowly, a little of her confidence came back. Even
if she was relatively helpless, trapped among
strangers, she had a weapon; a way to mitigate
her suffering-
Now another man had bought her. A man totally
unlike the preacher or the trader. This one was young,
arrogant. His fierce eyes frightened her. And she
couldn't even speak his language-
She heard a sound. Rolled her head sideways,
alarmed.
The oval door-cover of the tepee, located about a
foot above the ground and hinged by a thong at the top,
had been lifted aside. She glimpsed figures
against the firelight. Then a silhouette blotted the
glow-
It was not Plenty Coups who stepped through the
three-foot opening. It was the young woman who had
struck Amanda with the sapling.
The young woman let the oval door-cover fall
back into place. Outside, the hide drums
pounded, and rattles kept the rhythm. Men yipped
and barked, stamping in
some ritual dance to celebrate the successful
buffalo hunt. She heard one of the trappers bawl
a few lines of a song in English, then discharge a
gun-
The young Indian woman gazed at Amanda with
unconcealed hatred. Though on the plump side,
she wasn't unattractive. Her
plaited black hair was clean and glossy. She
wore moccasins and leggings beneath a dress of elkskin
that reached below her knees. Across her shoulders and
bosom, a separate yoke with long fringe gleamed and
winked as she approached the younger girl. The yoke was
decorated with tiny glass and porcelain beads worked
into an intricate pattern. Maas had brought a
bale that contained several large packages of such
beads.
On the grass and hide bed, Amanda watched the
Indian woman bend down beside her. The woman
took Amanda's chin between her fingers. Then, with a
syllable of contempt, she reached for Amanda's breasts
and felt them one by one. It hurt. The woman meant
that it should.
Next the woman explored Amanda's legs and
genitals, as a white woman might handle a
purchase of doubtful worth. Somehow, Amanda
understood what the woman was thinking about her:
That she was little more than a child.
That it was humiliating for Plenty Coups to want her
comand barter for her.
Amanda knew instinctively that the Indian woman
belonged to the young man in the bonnet.
The girl's fear sharpened as the other woman
rose and shuffled to the fire. There she reached up,
pulled down one of the saplings from the drying bundle.
It was relatively thick. She tested it against her
palm; it was stiff.
She lowered the end into the fire. Looking over her
shoulder, she smiled.
White-lipped, Amanda watched the Indian woman
heat the end of the stick until it shot off wisps of
smoke and turned a cherry color. Flame
spurted from the stick's end. Hastily, the woman
pulled it from the fire. The flame died but the cherry
color remained.
The woman walked back to the bed and thrust the stick
at Amanda's right eye.
She screamed, twisted her head away, felt the
heat of the stick as it plunged into her tangled hair.
She smelled her hair burning.
The Indian woman seized her jaw again. Forced her
head around. Amanda kept her eyes closed, writhing
and struggling. The Indian woman knelt on her
stomach. Heat bathed her face as the woman jabbed
the stick toward her right eyelid.
Abruptly, the weight was gone. She heard
scuffling. A series of heavy oaths, then the crack
of a palm against flesh. The Indian woman
cried out. Amanda opened her eyes-
She saw Plenty Coups, half-crouched and
furious. The woman lay at his feet, the print of
his hand still vivid on her cheek.
The young man drew back one of his moccasined feet,
kicked the woman in the stomach. She wailed and
seized her middle. Then she raised one hand and,
to Amanda's astonishment, showed no anger--she wept,
and pleaded.
Plenty Coups kicked her again.
And again.
With swift, fluid motions, he signed her toward
the oval door-cover. The shamed, sobbing woman
crawled to it and dragged herself through. The door-cover
fell back in place. Plenty Coups uttered a
grunt of satisfaction.
He walked to within a pace of Amanda and stood gazing
down, faint amusement leavening the harshness of his mouth.
But he was still an imposing figure, and a
forbidding one, clad only in his moccasins, his
ceremonial bonnet and a peculiar clout
decorated with an ornate feather bustle. Amanda
had seen similar bustles worn by a few of the
hardiest-looking young men in the encampment, and had
assumed the bustles were symbols of some
position of honor.
Plenty Coups' body was coated with sweat, as if
he had been dancing with the other celebrants. He
unfastened the knot that held the bustle in place.
After a lingering glance at Amanda's body, he
circled the fire and hung the bustle on the pole
next to the one bearing his decorated shield.
From the opposite side of the tepee, Amanda stared
at the bright, hard musculature of the Indian's
body; at the shining black strands of his shoulder-length
hair revealed when he removed the bonnet and
carefully suspended it by a thong on another pole.
Then Plenty Coups unfastened his clout. He
turned back toward her. She saw his maleness standing
out in a clump of black hair. His prideful
smile grew, just as he was growing.
Deep within herself, she felt the old urge to close
her eyes and escape this endlessly repeated
nightmare. But just as quickly as the desire seized
her, she resisted. Life was precious. That was what
she had come to realize in the dreadful days after the
preacher had stolen her. Life was precious, and she
would not give it up easily, no matter what else
she might be forced to surrender--Yet the panic and
terror persisted.
To fight it, she summoned another memory as
Plenty Coups walked slowly back to the grass
bed. Dimly, she perceived a glittering length of
metal jutting from his hand. A knife-with which he
slashed the thongs binding her wrists and ankles. The
point of the knife just missed the cordage
bracelet.
But she saw that through a haze overlaid with a
picture of a comfortable, shadowed room where a fire
burned in a hearth, and a sword hung above a
mantelpiece; a sword and a long gun like Maas
and the trappers carried. On the mantel proper
stood a small green bottle. Just in front of it
and slightly to one side, a gaunt man--her father--
spoke with great seriousness.
She didn't know what he was saying, except for one
sentence-
You are a Kent.
It was said to Jared, who hovered wraith-like at the
periphery of the vision. But she knew it applied to her
as well. She was not a lump of clay, nor a
person without a name or identity-
You are a Kent.
She clung to those words, and to the compelling impression
she had of the objects on the mantel. They
were important to her father; immensely important.
Therefore they were important to her-
She knew their location. Boston. Where papa had
died. And mama.
Boston was the city from which she'd fled with her cousin
Jared, beginning the long journey that had ended in such
totally unexpected fashion here, in the middle of a
vast prairie, far from the sheltered and comfortable
existence that had once been hers-
You are a Kent.
She must never forget that. When she wanted to die, she
must remember.
As she did now.
The blind panic lessened a little.
Plenty Coups knelt beside her, slipping his knife
out of sight beneath the hides on the bed. She kept
concentrating on the images in her mind. She knew,
without quite knowing how or why, that the precious objects
glimpsed in her imagination were the tangible symbols
of the reality of her earlier life, and must be sought one
day, and reclaimed, if it were possible-
How would it be possible? she thought, despairing again.
She was a prisoner. Bedraggled; hungry; not even
certain of her exact age any longer.
Even as the young Indian reached for her, the
image of her father seemed to burn within her mind.
You are a Kent.
She must live; must struggle against the hopelessness,
the-
Plenty Coups seized her arm. He was scowling as
he dragged her upright, pressed his other hand to her
buckskin dress and began fondling her breast
roughly.
She bent over his forearm and bit him.
Astonished, he yelped. She shoved. He toppled
over backwards, almost singeing his hair in the fire.
He came scrambling up, dark eyes murderous.
His right hand shot under the hides, seeking the knife.
Amanda clambered to her knees, watching the sharp
blade swing upward, then down toward her shoulder-
She shot up her left hand, caught the powerful
wrist.
That in itself would never have stopped him from cutting her.
What stopped him was the way her expression changed.
Though she still felt terror, she willed herself
to smile.
Baffled, he wrenched free of her grip. He
shook the knife at her several times, plainly
unfamiliar with this sort of behavior from a member
of the female sex.
She grasped his left hand, placed it carefully on
her breast.
Then, still holding his hand, she moved it back and forth.
Gently.
And smiled.
She thought she saw comprehension in his eyes.
Comprehension--and outrage that stunned him to inaction.
To capitalize on the momentary advantage she
sensed, she let go of him, seized her left arm with
her
right hand, shook her arm-then scowled and shook her
head. The young Indian looked thunderstruck.
Once again she guided his left hand to her breast,
letting it rest easily.
There was a moment in which she thought she'd failed; thought
that the gap between his world and hers was too wide, and he
could not understand what Maas and the preacher had come
to understand-and that even if he could, he would refuse
to accept her terms. But slowly, the mouth of Plenty
Coups lifted at the corners. His eyes filled with
hard, grudging admiration. He laughed loudly. So
did she.
He was handsome when he laughed, she thought. She was
capable of admiring him even though her heart was beating
fast and her breathing was strident.
The young Indian's eyes moved to her mouth, then down
her throat to her breasts. He laughed again, this time in
almost childlike pleasure. He recognized her
willingness to fight--something his mate probably never
did. It delighted him. She experienced a moment
of joy as she realized again that, young as she was, she
could protect herself with her wits, and her body.
The Indian's erection, shriveled during the
byplay with the knife, quickly reasserted itself. He
picked Amanda up in his arms. His face was quite
close to hers, his eyes mirthful. But the cruelty
she had seen in them before was gone.
He bore her to the bed with the willow backrest,
putting her down with great care. Then he touched her
buckskin dress.
She nodded, and reached for the hem.
The drumming outside grew louder, the laughter and
the chanting more shrill. Naked, she reclined on the
hides with her shoulders braced against the backrest.
Plenty Coups slipped his arms around her waist and
kissed her breasts one by one. Though she was still frightened
and a little repelled by what was about to happen, it no
longer held the terror it once had. She was able
to stroke the side of the young Indian's face.
He crouched above her for a moment, then lowered
his hips toward hers. As he pushed himself against her,
firmly, yet not so hard as to hurt her, she closed
her eyes.
She blanked her mind as he penetrated her, thinking
two connected thoughts.
Thoughts which gave her hope for a certainty that, one
day, she would escape from the snare in which fate had
trapped her:
I will live.
I have found a way.
I will live.
The house of Kent lies pillaged by the Stovalls.
To recapture and rebuild it, only two remain:
a man of God and a woman of
the gutter. Civil war looms
to destroy them, their dream
and the Union
in
The Furies
Volume IV
of
The American Bicentennial Series
Afterword
Old-fashioned kindness and courtesy sometimes seem
sadly absent from our world. Yet I
discovered those qualities in abundance among a
group of people often accused of lacking them.
I speak of the ladies and gentlemen of the broadcast
media with whom I came in contact on a promotion
tour to launch the American Bicentennial
Series. I would like to thank all of them for their
interest in the series, and for making the author feel very
much at home in front of their respective mikes
and cameras:
In Philadelphia, Edie Muggins and Stu
Crowner; Abbott Barkley; Bill Jones;
Connie Roussin and Bob McLean; Bob
Perkins; and Ralph Collier.
In Cleveland, Eric Braun; Alan De
Perro and John Slowey; Marcia Corsaro; and
Merle Pollis.
In Detroit, Vic Caputo and Beverly
Payne; Jan Gor-ham; Jerry Whitman; and
J. P. McCarthy.
In Minneapolis and St. Paul, Jere Smith;
Glen Olson; Nancy Nelson and Warren
Miller; Jerry Wasley and Marcia Fleur; and
Bill Carlson and Dave Higgins.
In Chicago, Bob Hale and Joe Turner;
Jorie Lueloff and Phil Walters;
Bob and Betty Sanders; Ralph Howard;
Chicago Ed Schwartz; Karen Agrest; Mike
Edwards; and Jim Conway and Steve Stein.
In Dayton, Ted Ryan and Toula Stamm; Gil
Whitney; and my good friend Ken Hardin.
Special thanks go to Priscilla Russo of
Pyramid Publications and Randie Levine of
Accent on Broadcasting, the two charming ladies
whose hard work and careful planning made it possible for
me to meet all the good people mentioned above.
JOHN JAKES
About the Author
JOHN JAKES was born in Chicago. He is
a graduate of DePauw University, and took
his M.a. in literature at Ohio State. He
sold his first short story during his second year of
college, and his first book twelve months later.
Since then, he has published more than 200 short
stories and over 50 books-chiefly suspense,
nonfiction for young people and, most recently, science
fiction. He has also authored six popular
historical novels under his Jay Scotland
pseudonym. His books have appeared in translation
from Europe to Japan. Originally intending to become
an actor, Mr. Jakes' continuing
interest in the theatre has manifested itself in four
plays and the books and lyrics for five musicals,
all of which are currently in print and being performed
by stock and amateur groups around the U.s. The
author is married, the father of four children, and lists
among his organizations the Authors Guild, the
Dramatists Guild and Science Fiction
Writers of America.