THE AMERICAN BICENTENNIAL SERIES
VOLUME IV
The bold glittering saga of our America-and the people
who made her great.
Spanning the young American continent... its
burgeoning east coast cities ... its warring
frontiers ... its lawless towns of the West . . .
the continuing saga of the Kent family follows the
dangerous bloodsoaked years of our Nation's
mighty expansion and thrusts a brilliant new
heroine into the foreground of its struggles. The victim
of savagery, devastated by heartbreak and
humiliation, young Amanda Kent is driven by one
burning ambition-to restore the house of
Kent to its rightful honor. Thus she begins her most
daring adventure . . .
Here are a brave new generation of Kents, moving
across American history's colorful canvas from
its wild west days to the birth of its gilded age,
and-poised unknowingly on the brink of their country's
greatest turmoil-building a glorious, but fated,
dynasty.
Cover painting by Herb Tauss.
A PYRAMID BOOKP-RINTED in U.s.a.
Without blood there is no remission of sin
The words of the Reverend Jephtha Kent were to be
prophecy. Unknowingly his cousin Amanda moved in
their shadow, propelled by the driving ambition that would
bring her to acts of rage and desperation, until the
house of Kent was finally avenged.
The raging siege of the Alamo . . . the crude
gold rush towns where men were barbaric and women used
... a mighty clipper ship and the romance it
promised ... a southern household of
Protestant respectability, divided . . .
Boston's Beacon Street and the hope it carried .
. . New York's glittering high society . .
. the voice of abolition thundering to be heard . . .
These were the scenes the Kents would come to know
-Jared searching for gold, Jephtha for piety,
Amanda for vengeance, Louis for a bright new future.
This land of greed and hope, of violence and valor, of
love-and even murder, was the America of THE
FURIES . . .
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
THE FURIES
JOHN JAKES
THE
AMERICAN BICENTENNIAL SERIES
VOLUME
IV
  PYRAMID BOOKS NEW YORK
THE FURIES
A PYRAMID BOOK
  Produced by Lyle Kenyon Engel
  Copyright [*copy] 1976 by John Jakes
and 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,
including photocopy, recording, or any information
storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher.
  Pyramid edition published January 1976
Third printing, March 1976
  ISBN: 0-515-03927-6
  Library of Congress Catalog Card
Number: 75-37270
  Printed in the United States of America
  Pyramid Books are published by Pyramid
Publications (har-court Brace Jovanovich).
Its trademarks, consisting of the word "Pyramid" and the
portrayal of a pyramid, are registered in the
United States Patent Office.
  PYRAMID PUBLICATIONS
  (harcourt Brace Jovanovich)
  757 Third Avenue, New York, N.y.

For my son John Michael
Contents
Book One
TURN LOOSE YOUR WOLF
Chapter ITHE CHAPEL15
Chapter II THE MASSACREBLEDC
Chapter III THE BARGAIN63
Chapter IV THE CAMP FOLLOWER85
Chapter V THE CORN OF SAN JACINTO

The Journal of Jephtha Kent, 1844:
BISHOP ANDREW'S SIN143
Book Two
GOLD
Chapter ICRY IN THE WILDERNESS 163
THE ARGONAUTS215
Chapter IV TO SEE THE ELEPHANT239
Chapter V THE MAN WHO GOT IN
THE WAY263
Chapter VI THE PARTING287
The Journal of Jephtha Kent, 1850:
A HIGHER LAW309
Book Three PERISH WITH THE SWORD
Chapter ITHE LEGACY$329
Chapter II OF BOOKS AND
BLOOMERS353
Chapter III THE MAN WHO THUNDERED 373
Chapter IV SUSPICION389
Chapter V THE GIRL WHO REFUSEDBLEDJC
Chapter VI OF STOCKS AND SINBLEDBC
Chapter VII THE BOXBLEDDC
Chapter VIII THE SLAVE-HUNTERBLEDFE
Chapter IX BESIEGEDBLEDHG
Chapter X DESTRUCTION505
'Mr. President, I wish to speak today, not as a
Massachusetts man, nor as a Northern man,
but as an American. . .
"It is not to be denied that we live in the midst of
strong agitations, and are surrounded by very considerable
dangers to our institutions and government. The
imprisoned winds are let loose. The East, the
North, and the stormy South combine to throw the whole
sea into commotion, to toss its billows to the sky, and
disclose its profoundest depths. I speak today for the
preservation of the Union . . .
"I hear with distress and anguish the word
'secession," especially when it falls from the lips
of those who are patriotic, and known to the country, and
known all over the world, for their political
services. Secession! Peaceable secession!
Sir, your eyes and mine are never destined to see that
miracle . . .
"I will not state what might produce the disruption
of the Union; but, Sir, I see as plainly as I
see the sun in heaven what that disruption itself must
produce; I see that it must produce war."
March 7, 1850:
Daniel Webster,
to the United States Senate,
in support of Henry Clay's
compromise bills
on slavery.
The
Furies
Book One:
Turn Loose Your
Wolf
The
Chapel
SHE AWOKE LATE IN the night. At first
she thought she was resting in her room, on the
second floor of the adobe building local custom
dignified with the name Gura's Hotel. It was a
hotel, of sorts. But the small, well-kept
establishment on Soledad Street served customers
other than those who wanted a meal, a glass of
aguardiente
or a bed to be used for sleeping-
For a few drowsy, delicious moments she believed
she was back there. Safe. Secure-
Her mind cleared. Reality shattered the comforting
illusion. Gura's Hotel might only be a few
hundred yards west of where she lay in the darkness,
one torn blanket affording poor protection from the
chill of the moonless night. But much more than distance
cut her off from all that the hotel represented.
She was cut off by the four-foot-thick walls of the
roofless chapel of the mission of San Antonio de
Valero. She was cut off by the trenches among the
cottonwoods-
los alamos
comt lined the water ditches outside. She was cut
off by the heavily guarded plank bridges over the
San Antonio River. She was cut off by an
enemy force estimated to number between four and five
thousand men.
Yet something other than the physical presence of an
army was fundamentally responsible for her separation from
the hotel. No one had forced her to come to the mission
some said was nicknamed for the cottonwoods, and others
for a garrison of soldiers from Coahuila that
had been stationed here early in the century. Her own
choice had isolated her.
In those lonely seconds just after full consciousness
returned, the woman whose name was Amanda Kent de
la Gura almost regretted her decision. She lay
on the hard-packed ground, her head against a stone-the
only kind of pillow available-and admitted to herself
that she was afraid.
She had been in difficult, even dangerous
circumstances before. She had been afraid before. But
always, there had been at least a faint hope of
survival. Only the most foolishly optimistic
of the hundred and eighty-odd men walled up in the
mission believed there was a chance of escape.
Turned on her side, her best dress of black
silk tucked between her legs for warmth, Amanda stared
into the darkness. In memory she saw the flag that had
been raised from the tower of San Fernando Church on
Bexar's main plaza. The flag was red, with no
decoration or device to signify its
origin. To the men and the handful of women who took
refuge in the mission when the enemy arrived, however,
the meaning of the flag was clear. It meant the enemy
general would give no quarter in battle.
Amanda's mood of gloom persisted. Only with a
deliberate effort of will did she turn her thoughts
elsewhere. Pessimism accomplished nothing. Since
she couldn't sleep, she ought to get up and look in
on her friend the colonel-
But she didn't move immediately. She listened. She
was disturbed by the silence. What had become of the night
noises to which she and the others had grown accustomed
during the past twelve-no, thirteen days?
She yawned. That was it, thirteen. It must be
Sunday morning by now. Sunday, the sixth of March,
1836. The first companies of enemy troops had
clattered into San Antonio de Bexar on the
twenty-third. Counting the
extra day for a leap year, today would mark the thirteenth
day of the siege-
She couldn't remember when the night had been so still.
There was no
crump-crump
of Mexican artillery pieces hammering away at
the walls. No wild, intimidating yells
from the troops slowly closing an armed ring around the
mission. No sudden, terrifying eruptions of music
as the enemy general's massed regimental bands
struck up a brassy serenade in the middle of the
night, to keep the defenders awake; strain their
nerves. The general knew that tired men were more
susceptible to fear-and less accurate with their
firearms-than rested ones-
None of those tactics had worked, though. If
anything, the resolve of the garrison had stiffened as the
days passed; stiffened even when it became apparent that
Buck Travis' appeals for help, sent by mounted
messengers who dashed out through the enemy lines after
dark, would not be answered.
Colonel Fannin supposedly had three hundred
men at Goliad, a little over ninety miles
away. Three hundred men might make the
difference. But now everyone understood that Fannin
wasn't coming. He hesitated to risk his troops
against such a huge Mexican force. That message
had been brought back by one of Travis' couriers,
the courtly southerner Jim B@onham. He had
risked his life to return alone when he could have
stayed safely at Goliad after delivering
Travis' plea to Fannin.
Oh, Buck Travis still talked of relief
columns from Brazoria. Perhaps from San
Felipe. But there really was no Texas army-nor
any organization to this rebellion as yet. All
Travis could honestly hope for-all any of them could
hope for-was to hold the mission as long as possible;
make it an example of the will of the
Anglo-Americans to resist the Mexican
tyrant. No one could get out any longer, not even
under cover of darkness. The
Mexican trenches and artillery emplacements had
been advanced too close to the walls.
But why was this night, of all nights, so silent-his
She pushed the soiled blanket away from her legs.
The quiet unnerved her. She wished Crockett
would take up his fiddle as he'd done on several
evenings when Mexican grape and canister whistled and
crashed against the walls. Crockett's lively
fiddling, counter-pointed by the wild wail of John
McGregor's bagpipes, would have been welcome.
It would have lifted her spirits as it had before-
But I'd settle for just a cup of coffee,
she thought, standing; stretching; brushing the dust from the
black silk skirt spotted with beige patches of
dried mud. She was weary of corn and beef
and peppered beans served up without coffee. She and the
dozen other women-Mexicans, mostly-cooked for the
garrison. Although the women did their best, the men
complained about the lack of a hot drink to wash down the
meals. Amanda didn't blame them.
She folded the blanket, laid it on the ground and
turned toward the east wall of the chapel. There, on
a platform reached by a long ramp of earth and timber,
she glimpsed the dun shapes of the twelve-pounders-
three of the mission's fourteen cannons. She thought
she saw coma couple of men slumped over the guns,
sleeping. Worn out. If only there'd been a little
coffee to help everyone stay awake-to 
Suddenly she wondered whether the enemy general knew
they had none. Perhaps he did, and was gambling that a
night of quiet would cause the defenders to fall
into exhausted slumber. Did that mean a surprise
attack was imminent-his
As she pondered the worrisome possibility, her right
hand strayed to her left wrist. Unconsciously,
she touched the fraying bracelet of ship's rope,
its once
bright lacquering of tar dulled by time. The bracelet
was a link to a past that now seemed wholly unreal.
But it
had
been real, hadn't it? There
was
a great house in a splendid eastern city. And
ample meals. And clean bedding. And a
tawny-haired cousin with whom she'd fled when her mother
was killed and the family printing house burned-
Her fingers closed on the bracelet. God, she
wished she were out of this place. She felt guilty
admitting that, but it was true. The probability of
death had become an inescapable reality. Too much
to bear-
With an annoyed shake of her head, she overcame
her gloom a second tune. Such feelings were not
only unworthy, they were wasteful of precious
energy. She could still see to her good friend's welfare,
even if she could do nothing about the fact that, very soon
now, she might die-
Along with every other Anglo-American walled up
within the mission that those in Bexar, Anglo and
Mexican alike, referred to as the Alamo.
ii
A huge mound of stones blocked the center of the
chapel's dirt floor. The rubble was left from last
year, when the Alamo had been occupied
by soldiers under the command of General Martin
Perfecto de Cos, the elegant brother-in-law
of the President of the Republic of Mexico.
Cos and his men had been driven out by Texns-and the
President himself had mustered a new army, marching
north from Saltillo to punish those who had dared
to fight his troops and resist his repressive
laws.
A short twelve years earlier, a newly
independent Mexico had welcomed American
immigrants to its Texas territory. Under
special legislation of 1824 and '25,
empresarios
such as the Austins, father and son, were encouraged
to purchase land at favorable prices; to recruit
settlers and bring them to the new Mexican state.
The Americans all promised to become
Catholics, but the government seldom bothered
to enforce the vow once it was made. One of the most
popular men in all Texas was a genial padre
named Muldoon, who frankly didn't care whether
the immigrants ever set foot in his church. To be
a "Muldoon Catholic" was perfectly
satisfactory to the Mexican government-
Indeed, the government's generosity
to foreigners had very little to do with winning souls to the Mother
Church. It had a great deal to do with the general
feistiness for which Americans-particularly those on the
western frontiers of the nation-were famous. The
Anglos were intended to serve as a buffer between the
marauding Texas Indian tribes and the more heavily
settled Mexican states below the Rio Grande.
The Americans who came with the
empresarios
were hardy people. They defended their land, cultivated it,
and thrived under the easy benevolence of the republican
government. More and more Anglos arrived every year-
Until a series of political upheavals brought
Mexico's current President to power.
Fearful of Andrew Jackson's well-known hunger
for territory, and aware that the number of Americans
in Texas was growing daily, the new President
had instituted a series of harsh laws, including one
in 1830 that prohibited further immigration.
Another struck at the heart of the state's
agricultural system, abolishing the sale and use
of black slaves.
Friction resulted; then outright hostility. When
Stephen Austin visited Mexico City in
1834, intending to press Texan claims
about infringement of liberties, the President jailed
him. From that time on, relations
between the capital and its northern province worsened-
Erupting at last into open warfare.
The preceding June, a little army of Texans had
swooped down on the port of Anahuac and driven
out the officer responsible for enforcing newly imposed
customs duties that made exporting of crops and
importing of essential commodities all but
impossible for the settlers. Anahuac marked the start
of the armed struggle led by the Texas War Party, of which
Buck Travis was a leading member. Now most of the
Americans in Texas comab thirty thousand in
all-were openly talking about, or waging, a
rebellion-just as their forebears had done sixty
years earlier, to protest the taxes and repressive
policies of the English king who had ruled the
continent's eastern seaboard.
When the Texans had driven General Cos from the
Alamo in December, he had retreated back
across the Rio Grande. Not a Mexican soldier was
left in the entire state-until the President
himself, stripped of his last pretense of friendliness, had
led his new army and its horde of camp followers
north to Bexar.
The President's arrival split families, as
their members took sides. His presence sent a good
portion of Bexar's population into frantic flight,
their belongings piled in carts. The President
secured the half-deserted town that had formerly held
about four thousand people. He raised the red flag on the
church. Those Texans determined to resist had already
retreated to the Alamo. So began the siege, the
President steadily advancing his fortifications at
night, his goal to ultimately storm the mission on
the east side of the winding San Antonio River-
All of the resulting turmoil and uncertainty
seemed summed up for Amanda in the rubble pile she
now circled with quick, precise steps. Moving
briskly required effort. She was tired. She
felt unclean. She wished she had a brush for her
lusterless hair.
I
And coffee.
But somehow, as she walked on, a hardness that had been
forged within her by years of risk-filled living
reasserted itself. She wanted to survive this siege.
But failing that, she could at least end her life in a
way she could be proud of-
"I
don't want to die here,
she said to herself.
I've come so close to death so many times, I thought
I'd earned a reprieve for a few years. But if
this is the end, I ought to face it the way my own
grandfather did when he fought against the British king
-
Her grandfather had survived the American
rebellion and died of natural causes in
1801, two years before her own birth. Yet because
her father, Gilbert, had told her so much about grandfather
Philip-whose rather stern portrait she remembered from
the library of the house in the east-he remained a very
real presence. So real that she often thought of him as
if he still lived and breathed:
"I
wouldn't want him to be ashamed of how I die. I
would never want him to be ashamed that I belong to the
Kent family.
That she was probably the family's last surviving
member was perhaps the saddest part.
III
The Alamo chapel dated from the 1750's.
Franciscan friars from Spain had built it, as
part of a doomed effort to win Christian
converts among the predatory Indian tribes.
Unfortunately, the tribe the fathers chose as their
chief target was notorious for a lack of belief in
higher powers. Of all the Indians Amanda was
familiar with, the Comanches came the closest
to uniform atheism.
The chapel was located on the southeast corner of the
sprawling complex of stone and adobe buildings that
had grown to cover almost three acres. Invisible beyond
the chapel's stout doors was the two-story long
barracks, which ran roughly northeast to southwest. The
barracks formed one wall of the great open rectangle
known as the Alamo main plaza.
On the plaza's ramparts and in the rooms below, the
defenders were awaiting the inevitable final assault
by several thousand Mexican foot and cavalry. Some
said there were a hundred and eighty-two men in the
mission. Others put the number at one more than that.
It included thirty-two who had ridden in from
Gonzales knowing there was almost no chance of escape.
On Friday, Lieutenant Colonel William
Barret Travis had called them all together in the
main plaza and given permission for any man who
wished to leave to do so. Only one had accepted the
offer.
Strangely, hardly anyone called the man a
coward. Perhaps it was because gnarled little Louis Rose was
a friend of Colonel Bowie's. Or perhaps it was because
he had long ago proved himself in combat. Rose had
fought with Napoleon in Russia before taking ship to the
Americas. He was no longer young, he explained,
and he'd faced death too often. Once more would be
pushing his luck too far.
Clearly the little soldier had no innate loyalty
to the cause that held the rest of them together. Travis
told him to collect his belongings and go over the wall
while there was still time. By first light, Rose had
vanished.
Amanda paused to glance into the sacristy, one of the few
rooms adjoining the chapel that still had a roof. The
sacristy, where most of the women and children slept, was
dark and still.
She moved on, her expression pensive. How would
the President treat the wives and youngsters after the
battle? That the rebels would lose the battle
hardly seemed in doubt any longer. Almost
miraculously, not a man had been seriously
injured during the thirteen-day
siege. But things would be entirely different when the
enemy launched a direct attack on the
walls. The Mexicans had rifles with bayonets
and, presumably, ample ammunition. The
personal armament of the Americans consisted of
squirrel guns, pistols, tomahawks and
knives. And powder and shot were running low inside the
mission. Some of the Alamo cannons had fired
rocks and hacked-up horseshoes in the past couple
of days-
Given all that, the Americans remained in
reasonably good spirits. They managed to act
contemptuous of Santa Anna's nightly
artillery bombardment, and made bawdy jests about the
midnight band music. It struck her that, with Louis
Rose gone, there wasn't one man who could truly
be called a professional soldier.
She knew of four lawyers among the hundred and
eighty. There was a physician-Dr. Pollard,
who attended Bowie. Bill Garnett, only
twenty-four, was an ordained Baptist minister.
Micajah Autry, one of the Tennessians whom
Crockett had brought in, wrote passable
poetry. There were several men from England and Ireland;
even another Rose-first name James-who claimed
he was ex-President Madison's nephew.
Most had been lured to the southwest by the
promise of new land; a second chance. In the
border states, it was said, many a man simply shut
his cabin door, carved or chalked G.t.t.-
Gone to Texas-on it, and walked away.
Some of the more recent arrivals, though, had come in
direct response to appeals by the Texans for
help in resisting the Mexican dictator.
Crockett was one of those. He'd marched into Bexar
in February, with a dozen sharpshooters tramping
along behind him. There was not only the promise of a
fight here, he said, but maybe a new start afterward-and
that he needed. His anti-Jacksonian politics
had caused his defeat in his most recent run for
Congress. In a fury, Crockett had told his
constituents, "You can go to hell-I'm going to
Texas." In the Alamo, he joked about getting the
worst end of the bargain.
She saw him now as she approached the entrance to the
baptistry at the chapel's southwest corner. A
lean man, Crockett was seated on a stool beside the
cot where Bowie lay, his pneumonia-wasted face
lit by a lantern on the floor. The tail of
Crockett's coon cap hung down over the back
of his sweat-blackened hide shirt. His shoulders
moved, but Amanda couldn't see what he was
doing.
Bowie didn't hear her approach. His bleary
eyes were fixed on Crockett's hands, which finally
became visible to Amanda from the doorway. The
Tennessean was ramming a charge into one of the
relatively new percussion-cap pistols.
Another, matching pistol lay in Bowie's lap,
alongside the nine-inch hilted knife that had given
the big, sandy-haired Colonel of Volunteers the
reputation as a dangerous man, a killer. Jim
Bowie hardly fitted that description now, she thought
sadly.
Crockett turned. So did Bowie's black
slave, Sam, who squatted in a corner, his young
face showing strain. In a moment Crockett stood
up. Like Bowie, he was exceptionally tall. Not
bad-looking, in a raw-boned way. He pretended
to be a rustic, but Amanda had talked to him often enough
to know that he was widely read, and had constantly worked
at educating himself during most of his fifty years.
The tales about his prowess as a frontiersman
comspread throughout the United States in campaign
biographies-had been craftily designed, often
by Crockett himself, to help him win his races for
Congress.
Now Crockett touched the muzzle of the pistol
to his cap. "Miz de la Gura. You're up
early."
She stepped into the light, the once-elegant black
silk dress rustling. "I seem to have gotten used
to going to sleep to band music, Colonel," she
smiled.
"Know what you mean." Crockett smiled too, but
uneasily.
The lantern light revealed Amanda as a fairly
tall woman, five feet seven, with a full,
well-proportioned figure. She'd lost about ten
pounds in the preceding two weeks, and it showed in
hollows in her cheeks, and half-circles beneath her
large, dark eyes. Her nose was a trifle too
prominent for perfect beauty. But men still found her
immensely attractive. She knew it, and in the
past she'd occasionally capitalized on the fact.
Outside, in the chapel, a child began to fret, as
though caught in a nightmare. Amanda identified the
voice as belonging to Angelina Dickinson,
eighteen
months. The child's mother, Susannah, was married to
Captain Almeron Dickinson, in charge of the
garrison's artillery. Almeron was
undoubtedly up with the chapel cannon. His
eighteen-year-old wife was the only other Anglo
woman in the mission. The rest were wives or
sweethearts of the Mexicans such as gunner
Gregorio Esparza who had sided with the
Americans against Santa Anna.
Bowie's big fingers shook as he tried to pick up
the pistol Crockett had laid beside its mate and the
knife. He acknowledged Amanda's presence with a
blink of his eyes, then a labored question:
"How are you, Mandy?"
"Well enough, Jim. You?"
"Passable."
"Has Dr. Pollard looked at him tonight?"
Amanda asked Crockett.
The Tennessean shook his head. "I think he's
catching a few winks like the rest of the boys."
Sam, the black, said in a tense voice,
"Santy Anny- he pretty quiet this evening."
Amanda nodded. Crockett said, "Too blasted
quiet."
The Dickinson girl's fretful crying faded.
No doubt Angelina was sleeping wrapped in rags
and her father's
Masonic apron-the warmest covering
available. Bowie's sunken eyes remained fixed
on Amanda as she spoke to Crockett again:
"There must be a reason for the silence, Colonel. Do
you think the troops are moving closer to the walls?"
"Can't be certain with those clouds hiding the moon."
Crockett dug a nail against an upper gum, then
spat out a bit of meat. "I'd expect so,
however." He inclined his head toward the man on the
cot. "I reckon Jim feels the same way.
He sent Sam to find me, so I could load his
pistols."
"You-was Her voice shook now. "comy think it may be
tonight-?"
Crockett shrugged. Gone was the ready grin that had
buoyed the spirits of the defenders so often. He said:
"There's a good chance. If I was Santy Anny,
I'd expect everybody to catch up on their rest
when it was quiet-which is exactly what's happened.
Even Colonel Travis is asleep."
"Tha's right," Sam nodded. "I seen Joe a
while ago. He told me the colonel was
sleepin' like the dead."
Amanda looked at Bowie again, not certain that he was
recognizing her any longer. She thought about the
strange partnerships that fate often arranged.
No two men could be more dissimilar than James
Bowie and William Barret Travis-
Amanda was a long-time friend of the massive,
forty-year-old Bowie. He was a Catholic, with a
checkered history of dueling, slave-running and land
speculation. Grief had brought him to Gura's
Hotel often these past couple of years.
Bowie had originally shared command at the Alamo with
Travis. Suffering the first symptoms of
pneumonia, he'd kept on working-until his ribs
were crushed in an accident that happened while he was
helping to raise a cannon to the plaza wall.
Since then he'd been lying
here in the chapel, with command of the garrison completely
in Travis' hands.
Neither man liked the other very much. They had height in
common, and sandy hair, but little else. Travis was
nominally a colonel of the lately formed Texas
cavalry. Bowie led the volunteers. Most of the
men at the garrison preferred him to the ambitious
Baptist lawyer from San Felipe de Austin-
It was said that Travis had come to Texas after
murdering a man in Alabama for trifling with his
wife. Perhaps his wife hadn't been altogether unwilling,
since Travis had left her behind and had
lately been courting another young woman. He was
envious of Bowie's popularity with the rank and file,
and scornful of his rival's fondness for alcohol.
Yet a common love of Texas, and a common
plight, had finally destroyed the barriers between them.
When the accident put Bowie out of action, he
ordered the men under his direct command to follow the
twenty-seven-year-old Travis without question.
Crockett started out. "I expect I'd better
get back to the wall and see to loading Old
Betsy." He touched Amanda's sleeve. The
sleeve's puffy leg-of-mutton shoulder was a
tatter now.
Looking at her, he added, "You know, Miz de la
Gura, you're to be admired for staying here. But you
should have gotten out while there was a chance. Or
never come in."
She shook her head. "I've heard that from Jim
too. But he needed someone to look after him-Dr.
Pollard has a gun to handle. Jim and I are
friends. His father-in-law helped me straighten out some
deed problems when I opened the hotel with the money my
husband left."
The father-in-law she referred to was Juan Martin
Veramendi, who had been vice-governor of
Texas and one of Bexar's leading citizens.
Bowie had wed Veramendi's lovely
yellow-haired daughter Ursula.
She, her father, her mother and the two children of her marriage
had all perished in 1833 while Bowie was off in
Mississippi, attending to some business. The
family had been stricken at the Veramendi
resort home down in Monclova by one of the
tendrils of the cholera epidemic that had been
spreading worldwide out of Asia for the past ten years.
The same disease had carried off Amanda's husband a
year earlier.
Bowie had never recovered from the loss of his loved
ones. Even the physical charms of Henriette,
one of the three girls who inhabited second-floor
rooms at Gura's Hotel, failed to comfort him for
long. More and more frequently during recent months,
Bowie had taken to dropping by Gura's solely
to drink and talk with Amanda. But he downed four
glasses of
aguardiente,
the powerful cane-based liquor, for every sip she
took. There weren't enough women, enough words or enough
alcohol in the world to mitigate his pain-
Amanda's three girls were gone now. She'd
urged them to leave Bexar when the Mexican army was
reported on its way. Two of the girls,
mixed-blood MexianComanche wenches, had
probably returned to their tribes. Henriette
had headed for Nacogdoches under the protection of a
middle-aged customer who sold Bibles.
The Tennessee frontiersman clucked his tongue:
"Well, I guess there's nothing any of us can do
about escaping now. I do sort of wish old Santy
Anny would hurry up and come on. I'm tired of
being hemmed in by walls. Never liked the feeling.
I'd sure like to get a look at him, too. He
sounds like a pompous little piece of shit comoh, I
beg your pardon-was
Amanda smiled. "No need to apologize,
Colonel. I've heard every cussword in the book,
and then some. And you're right about the President. They
say he is pompous. But clever, too."
"Just can't believe that," Crockett returned.
"A man
can't have his head on straight if he goes around
calling himself the Napoleon of the West."
"Perhaps with justification. He's managed to stay on
the winning side through all those changes of government,
remember. People are afraid of him. For one
thing, they say he's tall-several inches taller
than I am, which is unusual for a Mexican. He
cuts a commanding figure-was
"That may be. But I think Senor Napoleon's
going to get more than he bargained for when he tries
to take this place. What's so damn-so blasted
infuriating is that we could hold out for months if we
had supplies and a thousand men!"
Bowie's hoarse voice rasped from the cot:
"We'll give "em a run with what we've got,
we-was
He started coughing, his face convulsed with pain.
Amanda darted to the stool Crockett had vacated.
Sam crawled forward on his knees, likewise
alarmed by his master's coughing. From the doorway,
Crockett said:
"Yes, we sure will. There's only one thing I'm
really sorry about. I wish I'd got here soon enough
to grab me a piece of ground and farm it a while.
I'm about old enough to settle down, and I'd like to see
if this land's as almighty fertile as you people say-was
Amanda laid her palm on Bowie's sweaty left
hand. The coughing stopped. The lines in his face
smoothed. His blue-gray eyes sought her face, as
if hunting relief from his pain. Under his
plain linsey shirt, he was wrapped in bandages,
Dr. Pollard's only means of repairing the
damage done to his ribs when the cannon fell from
its tackle.
A moment later Bowie glanced at Crockett:
"You can bet it is. Mandy, tell him what your
husband
used to say about the soil in Texas-was
Half-turning to Crockett, she forced a smile:
"He said it was supposed to be so rich, you could
plant a crowbar at night and by morning the ground would
sprout ten-penny nails."
The words were heavy, humorless. Bowie's illness had
made him forget that Amanda's husband had usually
repeated the remark with great cynicism.
Crockett, though, knew almost nothing about her
history. He laughed.
"My kind of country," he said, re-settling his
cap. "Pity it doesn't belong to the United
States. I heard once in Washington that
President Jefferson thought he bought Texas as
part of the Purchase. But Spain said no. Well,
I guess that doesn't make much difference now-was
"No," Bowie breathed, "all we can do is follow
your advice, Davy." He paraphrased a
frequent remark of Crockett's: "Be sure
we're right, then go ahead."
That widened Crockett's smile all the more.
"Yep," he said. Then he touched his coon cap.
"Miz de la Gura comgd morning to you."
Silently, the tall frontiersman melted into the
shadows of the chapel. Out there, two of the Mexican
women had wakened and were talking softly. One was
Senora Esparza. Ironically, her husband
Gregorio, the gunner, had a brother, a
sergeant, in the besieging army.
"Davy's correct about one thing," Bowie said.
"I think an attack's due most any time."
"That scares me, Jim."
"And me," he admitted. His left arm lifted,
fingertips brushing against the sun-browned, work-toughened
flesh of her hand. "You've been a good friend, Mandy.
The best anyone could want-was
It almost broke her heart to hear how weak his voice
had become; to see his huge, muscular body so
feeble and wasted. She clasped his hand in both of
hers:
"I only wish I'd been able to bring Ursula
back to you. And the children. They were good people. So was your
father-in-law. He was kind and friendly even
though most of the
respectable
citizens of Bexar wouldn't deign to walk on the
same side of Main Plaza with me."
"Well, you weren't-was Bowie realized he was
speaking in past tense; corrected with a pained
smile: "com aren't in the most respectable of
professions."
That roused her wrath:
"I made sure the hotel was never a public
nuisance! That the girls were honest-and examined by a
doctor once a month. I ran a straighter
place than the owners of the cantina! Their liquor was
watered, their cards were marked-was
"Yes, Mandy, I know that and you know that. But to most
other people, Gura's was still a whorehouse. Period."
She looked crestfallen. "I don't claim
I've lived a perfect life. Sometimes, just
to survive, I've done things I'm not proud of.
But at least I've never concealed them. Which is more
than you can say for a man like
el pr@esidente.
Santa Anna twists whichever way the wind
blows-was
A little more animation showed on Bowie's
face. "Here we are jabbering like a couple of old
folks. Looking back. As if everything's over."
"It is, Jim." She fingered one of his pistols.
"Isn't that why you asked Colonel Crockett
to load your guns?"
Bowie didn't reply. She thought he'd fallen
asleep. Then, with a little wrench of his shoulders, he
stirred. He asked her to help prop him against the
wall at the head of the cot. As she did, she
caught a glimpse of Sam staring at his master. The
black saw death in Bowie's face. Death for all
of them, perhaps. But the tears in Sam's eyes were not for
himself.
"Forty-was Bowie yawned. "Forty's plenty long enough
for a man to live. But you're young, Mandy."
"Thanks for the compliment, but it's not true.
Thirty-three is getting on. Like Colonel
Crockett, I really
have only one regret. I wish one of my children had
survived."
"I forget how many there were-was
"Two."
"Ah, that's right. I don't know why I can never
remember."
"Probably because they were both born before
Jaimie and I ever met you." She stared at the
lantern's flame, seeing the past. "The boy was
stillborn. The girl lived six weeks. When she
died, it broke Jaimie's spirit. He didn't
want to work the farm any more. It was almost as if our
failure to have children put a curse on everything else
he was doing. Blighted it-made it unbearable-was She
smiled in a melancholy way. "I knew it was
partly an excuse but I never said anything. It was
time we tried something else. Jaimie and I weren't
good farmers-was
She realized Bowie had closed his eyes.
Alarmed, Sam said:
"Is he all right?"
"He's just dozing, Sam. You rest too. I'll
watch him."
In the ensuing silence, her mind began to drift.
Away from the chapel. Away from the trap that had
closed around them all. Even though much of the past had
been sad, remembering it soothed her now; drained
away some of her tension. She thought fondly of her
husband, Jaimie de la Gura, and of her weary
thankfulness when he had decided to abandon the thirty
acres near the Brazos that the two of them had worked
for several years, to provide a
livelihood for the family that never became a
reality-
They had worked that land to exhaustion. But Jaimie
lacked the instinctive kinship with the earth that seemed
to be a requirement for raising cash crops at a
profit. Jaimie's neighbors could produce forty
to eighty bushels of corn for every acre they owned.
He was fortunate if his fields yielded twenty.
In their last two years on the farm, the life had
become hateful to both of them; the two-room,
dog-run cabin more and more disagreeable. Even now
Amanda grew queasy when she recalled the smell
of the swine Jaimie tried to raise and fatten for
market. Her idea of hell was a limbo without
purposeful sight or sound- with nothing to torture the
lost soul but the smell of pigs.
A year before the birth and death of their daughter, they
had discussed trying to plant the prime cash crop,
cotton. But working cotton fields required
plenty of laborers. Jaimie might have been able
to negotiate a loan to buy a few slaves. But
he was against the system in principle. As a boy hi
New Orleans, he'd sided with his mother when conscience
drove her to complain about the original source of the de
la Gura money-West Indian blacks
brought illegally through the bayous in defiance of the law
of 1807 banning the importation of slaves from
Africa.
Jaimie's mother had been a devout Catholic.
Slavery violated Christianity as she understood and
practiced it. She had filled her son's mind with
her beliefs-and he carried some of that youthful
indoctrination with him until he died.
Whenever he and his Brazos neighbors discussed the
slavery question, Jaimie liked to remind them that
President Jefferson, though a slave-holder
himself, had prophesied a "revolution of the wheel of
fortune" for blacks. He could quote a couple of
lines from the President's
Notes on the State of Virginia
comlines that reflected Jefferson's mortal fear
of a coming apocalypse-
"Indeed I tremble for my country when I reflect
that God is just: that His justice cannot sleep forever."
So cotton was out of the question for the de la Guras.
The whole miserable enterprise came to an end when
they buried their daughter. With the money they got from the
sale of their land, they had negotiated for a house in
the growing riverside settlement of Bexar.
Soon after, Jaimie had set out for New
Orleans to buy some needed furnishings, to visit the
cemetery where his parents were buried and to order
merchandise for a store he intended to open. But in New
Orleans, cholera had struck him down-and his diseased
body had been hastily dumped into a grave there, so
it wouldn't infect anyone else. Amanda learned of the
death by means of a letter from a public official.
What grieved her almost as much as the loss of her
husband was the guilt she felt about that journey
to New Orleans. Jaimie didn't want to live
in Bexar, let alone operate a mercantile
establishment. He had been driven to it by his need
to escape from all the bad memories the farm
represented. He had chosen Bexar for her-knowing
full well that the confinement of a town didn't suit
him and never would. He had lived outdoors-hunted and
trapped in the north along the Missouri river-for
much of his adult life, and he knew he'd be no
better selling calico than he had been at
raising corn.
After Jaimie's death, Amanda wanted nothing to do with
storekeeping. But she had to find some way to earn a
living. She knew she had some skill in the
domestic areas that were the assigned provinces of
women, and she decided that the natural
place to apply that skill was in managing a decent
hotel-which Bexar lacked.
So, late in 1832, she had sold her house,
bought an available adobe building on Soledad
Street, borrowed heavily from a wealthy Mexican
friend of the Veramenis to buy some beds and chairs and
washstands and have the place refurbished-and by early in
1833, the first, rather spartan version of Gura's
Hotel was open. She had barely been able to meet
expenses during the early months.
The young sons of the town's better Mexican
families began frequenting her public bar in
preference to the cantina. She poured an honest
drink. But the young gentlemen complained about Bexar's
lack of feminine
companionship. The two overweight prostitutes
who occupied a filthy crib behind the cantina weren't
fit to touch, let alone kiss. The young gentlemen
didn't mind stains on their reputations from visiting
such women, but they didn't want pox sores in the
bargain.
Listening to that sort of thing night after night, Amanda
had an inspiration. She soon added the desired
service-with appropriate decorum and
discipline-to the back rooms of her
second floor. After that, her ledger showed a
substantial profit every thirty days. She paid off
the loan by year's end, and began purchasing some
better items of furniture.
She saw nothing overwhelmingly immoral in converting
part of Gura's Hotel into a brothel. She had
spent her adolescence and young womanhood among the
Te-ton Sioux, and had come to regard sexual
activity not as a great many white people
did-unavoidable but somehow unclean-but as the
Indians saw it: of almost inestimable importance because
of its connection with the creation of life. Anything so
important could only be engaged in one
way-joyously.
The Sioux were not a promiscuous people. Quite the
opposite. Adultery, though never formally punished,
was frowned upon. The virtue of young women was
protected with elaborate rituals of
courtship-though Amanda had never been so protected.
When she had been sold to a young man of the tribe,
she had already lost her virginity. Because of that-and because of
her white skin-the rules didn't apply.
Gradually, she came to understand and share the happy
duality of the Sioux attitude toward sex. The
physical act of love was regarded with
mystical reverence-and this produced an earthy
appreciation of the act itself. Sex was not a sin but a
celebration; a wondrous and necessary part of a fulfilled
life.
What a far cry from the views of those white women
who whispered about the subject with revulsion. Amanda
felt sorry for such warped creatures. The Sioux,
both male and female, had a much healthier
attitude.
To the Indian philosophy of love she had added
her own: a man and woman taking comfort from each other
was not half so immoral as the casual taking of
human life, a common occurrence on the
frontier-and one with precious little moral stigma
attached. Witness her friend Bowie's
respectability.
She did recognize that charging for the services of her
girls injected a certain commercial taint. But which
was more reprehensible? Selling a man a jug of
popskull that dulled his senses and, over the long
run, could ruin his health? Or selling him an
hour's pleasure and peace in the arms of a woman?
Perhaps the pious would declare than an honest
brothel
was an impossible concept. But an honest
brothel was what she had tried to run.
The puritanical segments of Bexar's population
couldn't approve, let alone understand, such an
attitude, of course. Although she prospered, she was
only tolerated, never accepted, by the best
families. Until his death, Veramendi remained
one of her few influential friends. Another,
surprisingly enough, was the parish priest, a thoughtful,
tolerant man named Don Refugio, who had
considerable respect for the religious convictions of
most Indians-Comanches excepted-and found them in
some ways more "Christian" than many of his flock.
But the ostracism she'd suffered seemed trivial in
the light of what she was facing now. Her gaze was
almost unconsciously drawn to the symbols of the coming
struggle: the pistols in the drowsing Bowie's lap.
The pistols and the infamous knife-
Copies of Bowie's knife were in demand all across
Texas. Even in the States, people said. The inch-and-a
half wide blade had a wickedly honed false
edge that permitted a backstroke during a duel.
There was also a
concave scoop where the back curved to meet the edge
at the point.
The prototype had been given Jim
Bowie by his brother Rezin in 1827. Bowie had
often laughed about the various legends that had sprung
up concerning the original knife and its successors-
That each had been forged with a piece of meteorite
thrown into the cauldron of molten metal.
That he was in league with the Devil, who had provided
the knife's inspired, lethal design in return
for a claim against Bowie's soul. There was almost no
limit to the wild stories that were circulated.
Bowie had once remarked to Amanda that it was the man
more than the weapon that determined the outcome of a
fight. But he also admitted he was flattered when
others assigned supernatural properties to the
knife-
Abruptly, Bowie's eyes fluttered open. He
blinked; brushed at the stubble sprouting on his chin.
When he spoke, it was evident that he had no
awareness of having slept for a short time:
"Still say, Mandy-was He coughed "comwhat Crockett
said. You should have stayed outside. Maybe the
Mexican's would have left you alone."
"What do you think I am, Colonel?" she teased.
"A turncoat? I may run a whorehouse, but that
doesn't mean I lack principles!"
Bowie laughed. Amanda smiled too, then
continued more seriously:
"I knew what I had to do when Buck Travis
gave his little speech at the fandango on George
Washington's birthday. He said Americans down
here had to stand up for liberty. My grandfather did just that
back in Boston, sixty years ago."
"Travis is wrong."
"What do you mean, wrong?"
"Wrong about the issue. It's dictatorship."
"You're not making sense. What's the difference?"
"We're fighting because Santa Anna centralized
all the power of the government in Mexico City.
Overturned the constitution of 1824. Dissolved the
state legislatures-was
"That's tyranny, Jim-and the other side of the coin
is liberty."
"Depends on what you mean by the word. I mean the
rights we were guaranteed in twenty-four. I don't
mean independence from Mexico."
Finally she understood. "Well, Sam Houston and the
others at Washington-was She meant
Washington-onheBrazos, the provincial
capital that had been established after the outbreak of
hostilities "commay have different ideas by the time
they've finished their deliberations. Santa
Anna will never give in to demands that the constitution of
twenty-four be put back into effect. Coming here with his
army is proof of that. So maybe it
is
time for another declaration of independence."
"So we can join the United States?"
"Or become an independent republic."
"Well-was Bowie sighed, closing his eyes a
moment. "comhowever it works out, we won't know."
Behind her, Amanda heard Sam's sudden intake of
breath. Occasionally during the thirteen days of the
siege she had witnessed similar reactions from others
at the Alamo, as the possible finality of their
position struck home.
"We had to make the stand, Jim," she said. "It was
that or surrender. Or run."
"I know. But sometimes it seems downright idiotic
to die in a broken-down church. This place is of
damn little military importance and everyone knows it."
"Yes, but as Colonel Travis says, it's how
we fight, not where, that counts most. If General
Santa Anna pays highly for a victory,
he'll think twice before he tries to win another."
A moan from the chapel made her start. Only
Angelina
Dickinson, she realized. She knotted her hands
in her lap. The lantern light glinted on her
darkly as she gazed at Bowie.
"I'm sounding a lot braver than I really am,
Jim."
"But you still came into the mission."
"Because of you. Your illness. And-well, there's no
getting around it, and I don't mean to sound overly
sentimental. But I
am
an American, just like most of the settlers in this part
of the country. I've kept track of what's
happened these past couple of years. I happen
to think the settlers are right, asking for reinstatement
of the constitution they lived under when they first came out
here. If it comes to fighting, and I have to choose
sides, why would I choose any side but my own?"
A moment's silence. Bowie closed his weak hand
around hers:
"You're a strong woman, Mandy. Some would just give
up and let it go at that."
She smiled. "The people in my family may get
scared to death, but one thing they
don't
do is give up easily-was
She heard the slave Sam, mumbling fearfully
to himself. She tried to offer some words for his benefit:
"But I really think that red flag must be a bluff."
"Wouldn't count on it."
"Aren't there any rules in warfare? I mean about
sparing non-combatants? The nigras? The children-?"
was 'Course there are. Santa Anna knows the
military customs. But he won't offer terms.
There's been an open rebellion. His country stands
to lose all of Texas. He means to prevent that-
and
punish us. Hard. If some innocent people are hurt,
he'll shrug and look the other way. That's the kind
of unprincipled son of a bitch he is-was
A series of loud sounds brought Bowie's drowsy
eyes fully open. Sam yelped in alarm. Amanda
jumped up, ran to the door of the baptistry-
Out in the darkened chapel, a woman was wailing.
Boots hammered on the ramp leading up to the
cannon platform. She heard Almeron
Dickinson shout:
"They're coming! From all quarters. The foot-the
cavalry too.
They're coming
-!"
IV
At last Amanda heard it for herself: the low,
tumultuous drumming of men-a great many men-running
over hard ground beyond the walls. The noise flooded
into the roofless chapel from all directions.
On the gun platform, Captain Dickinson was
cursing someone; demanding that he wake up, pronto.
Amanda realized her original guess had been
correct-silence to allow the defenders to doze off
must have been part of Santa Anna's strategy.
Dickinson's oaths and yells proved the Texans
were less than ready for the assault-
A squirrel gun banged from the other side of the
closed chapel doors. Then, above the steadily
increasing pound of running feet, a bugle pierced the
night. It was joined by another, then by all the brass
in the Mexican regimental bands.
The bugles and the fast-cadenced drums were playing an
unfamiliar tune. Yet the wild, almost savage
music started Amanda trembling as she stood in the
baptistry door.
Abruptly, the sky over the chapel burst alight.
By the reddish glow of the Mexican rockets, Amanda
watched men scurrying into position along the cannon
rampart. The wild, pealing music grew
louder. Behind her, Bowie said:
"I know that call they're playing. It's the
deguello"
Struck by the rawness of his voice, Amanda spun.
Bowie's emaciated hands closed around the butts of
his pistols.
"Comes from an old Spanish word,
degollar
-" He
licked his lips. "It means to slit the throat.
There'll be no terms. No mercy-was
Grimacing, he wrenched his shoulders higher against the
wall, then gestured with the pistol in his right hand:
"Go back to the other women and the children, Man-dy.
Maybe you'll have a chance that way."
"Jim, I won't leave-was
The cocks of his pistols rasped as he thumbed them
back.
"Yes, you will. I'm one of those they want most."
He waved a gun, a furious arc in the air:
"You
get out
comy hear me?"
"Better do what he say, Miz Mandy," Sam
told her. "I look after the colonel from
here on-was
Amanda whispered to Bowie, "God keep you,
Jim."
"And you. Now
get!"
She whirled and rushed into the darkness of the chapel. The
rockets sprayed fire across the heavens. Long
matches were glowing on the gun rampart. The night
resounded with the sudden blast of cannons, the howls of the
Mexican foot rushing toward the walls- and the
drums and bugles blaring that melody which meant no
quarter.
The Massacre
AMANDA HAD SELDOM BEEN dissatisfied with the
sex conferred on her by the accident of birth.
Occasionally, she'd even found her femininity to be a
decided advantage. But she didn't feel that
way as she huddled in the sacristy, surrounded
by frightened women and children. This morning, she wished she were
aman.
The dimness of the room seemed to heighten her sense of
helplessness. She would have preferred to be in the main
plaza, where the fighting was taking place. But a few
moments after she'd left Bowie, Travis had sent
a man to the chapel with explicit orders.
The women and children were to stay hidden.
The noise of the battle had already become an
uninterrupted, unnerving din. Beyond the door of the
sacristy, men ran back and forth between the cannon
ramp and the powder magazine, a room in the north
wall. On the gun platform, Susannah
Dickinson's husband bawled, "Fire in the
hole!" every minute or so, and one of the
twelve-pounders roared, filling the chapel with a
brief glare of ruddy light. From the main plaza,
there was a continual crash of musketry, screams and
curses in English and Spanish-and the boom of
Mexican artillery bombarding the walls.
Surrounded by her four children-three boys and a
girl-Senora Esparza prayed aloud in her own
tongue. Most of the other women were quiet, too
terrified to speak or move.
All at once little Angelina Dickinson began
to straggle in Susannah's arms. Amanda stopped
her pacing, held out her hands to the child's mother:
"Let me take her a while."
Her face pale and streaked with dirt, Susannah
Dickinson lifted the little girl. Amanda bent from the
waist, picking Angelina up and closing her in a
soothing embrace. The roofless chapel glared
red again. Seated on a stone, Susannah began
to sway, twisting her hands in her lap as she fought
hysteria.
The child pushed against Amanda's shoulder, whimpering.
Amanda said softly:
"Be still, Angelina. Put your head down.
Close your eyes."
But the words had small effect. Only the strength of
Amanda's arms kept the little girl from wrenching away.
Amanda concentrated on holding Angelina, and
murmuring to her. Somehow that relieved her own
anxiety and frustration. The yelling and the gunfire
grew steadily louder-
How long had it been going on? Half an hour?
An hour? She was losing track. The sacristy had
grown stifling. The odor of human sweat mingled with the
reek of burned powder.
Angelina finally realized Amanda wouldn't release
her. Her body went limp against Amanda's breast.
Amanda squeezed the child's waist reassuringly,
felt the small head droop to rest on her shoulder.
The sound of firing lessened suddenly.
A lean shadow loped past the doorway.
Susannah jumped up, ran forward:
"Almeron-?"
"Don't come out!" Dickinson warned. "I'm going
to the barracks to see what's happening-was
A moment later, Amanda and the others heard the squeak
of hinges. The great chapel doors had not yet been
barred from within.
Susannah Dickinson turned back to Amanda.
She ran a hand over her daughter's hair, her
voice panicky:
"We've lost everything. Even if the men can hold
out, we've lost our homes, our-was
"Don't talk like that!" Amanda exclaimed.
"We're still alive. Nothing else matters."
She wished she believed it. She was falling prey
to the same despair that made Susannah tremble.
Everything
was
gone. Her reasonably settled life in Bexar was
over. God alone knew what would become of them-
Renewed firing, more shouts brought Amanda's head
up. One of the Mexican women cried out as someone
lurched through the door. Amanda recognized the Fuua
boy, one of those who had ridden in from Gonzales.
He was only sixteen. He'd been hit in the
face by a musket ball.
The left side of the boy's jaw was a
glistening ruin of blood and bone. Weaving on his
feet, he tried to speak to Susannah. His mouth
produced only grotesque gurgling noises.
The harder the boy tried to speak, the more pathetic his
attempts became. His lips kept moving, blood
oozing from one corner-
"Galba, what is it?" Susannah Dickinson
pleaded. "What are you trying to say?"
The boy's jaws worked frantically. He grunted
like an animal. Blood ran down to the point of his
chin. All at once his eyes filled with tears.
"I can't understand you!" Susannah cried.
Obviously in great pain, Galba Fuqua
clamped hands on his lower jaw, as if he hoped
to force the ruined bones to articulate properly. The
result was the same as before-gibberish. With a sob and
an angry shake of his head, he fled back into the
smoke that now filled the chapel.
Amanda and Dickinson's wife exchanged glances,
both stricken silent by the boy's suffering. Then
Amanda looked out at the sky above the chapel
walls. Light was brightening behind the smoke. Dawn-
The Mexican cannon rambled again. Shrieks and
shots and throaty Spanish yells came from every
direction. How many assault columns had
the Mexicans hurled against the mission? From the sound
of it, many more than one.
Haggard and out of breath, Almeron Dickinson
appeared. He swiped the back of his hand across his
powder-blackened face as his wife ran to his
side.
"Great God, Sue-was he panted. "The comthe
Mexicans are inside the hills!" Senora
Esparza covered her face.
"Travis is dead on the north rampart,"
Dickinson went on. "They're coming over with
ladders-climbing over their own dead-hundreds of
them-my God, there's no stopping them, Sue-
get back inside and stay there!"
He shoved her, hard. Then he spun and vanished in
the smoke. Moments later, one of the twelve-pounders
thundered.
Several Mexican women besides Senora Esparza
had understood Dickinson's-English. Two of them
were on their knees, hands clasped in prayer.
Susannah walked slowly back to Amanda, took
her daughter from the other woman. Silent tears shone
on Susannah's face. Susannah was clearly
ashamed of her inability to contain her fear. Amanda
glanced away, staring down at her own
filthy, work-toughened hands. No matter how she
struggled to fix her mind on something else, one thought
asserted itself-
The Mexicans were
inside the walls.
The shouts and gunfire in the main plaza seemed
closer than ever. Bugles blared. Amanda closed
her eyes, recognizing the notes of the
deguello
-
No quarter.
II
The Alamo plaza fell first, then the individual
rooms of the long barracks where some of the remaining
defenders had barricaded themselves. The chapel
doors, barred at last, shook and splintered under
heavy cannon fire. Finally they crashed open.
The smoky chapel filled with Mexican infantry.
The soldiers wore blue cotton jackets with
shoulder-knots of blue and green, dirt-stained
white trousers and white cross-belts. Their
headgear-tall felt shakos with pompoms comshowed their
commander's preoccupation with things Napoleonic.
Daylight had come, though the thick smoke weakened and
diffused the brilliant sun. Some of the
running infantrymen were little more than blurs. But
Amanda could still see the bayonets jutting from their
muskets-
Hunched over, a man hurled himself into the sacristy.
Weeping, Sam hunted a familiar face. He
stumbled forward, clutching Amanda's arm:
"The colonel's dead, Miz Mandy-was
"Oh, God, Sam, no!"
"A whole bunch come after him soon's they busted the
doors. He killed about half a dozen 'fore they
grabbed his knife away. I begged 'em to kill me
too but they jus" laughed-was
The crying slave grew incoherent. On the verge of
tears herself, Amanda ran a hand back and forth over
Sam's black hair. She felt him trembling
against her arm. She spoke as calmly as she could:
"Sam? Sam, you must answer me. Do y.know
what's happened in the plaza and the barracks?"
"Dead, they-all dead. Colonel Crockett
wen' down with ten, maybe twenty on top of him.
Santy Anny's soldiers, they gone crazy.
After our boys fall, the soldiers
jus' stand there shootin' at the bodies. Shootin'
dead men an' cuttin' them with the bayonets-I swear
I never seen anything like-like-oh, Jesus,
Miz Mandy, Jesus-was
He flung his arms around Amanda's neck and buried
his wet face against her shoulder.
At Amanda's side, Susannah whispered.
"Almeron's dead. I know he's dead."
"Stop that! We can't be sure about-was
"But there's no more cannonfire. Don't you hear?
The cannons haven't fired for at least a minute.
Almeron's dead
-!"
Screaming it, she flung herself toward the door.
Amanda wrenched away from the grieving slave, dashed
after the younger woman, caught her and pulled her back
from the entrance. As she did, she glimpsed a ghastly
sight. Above the milling Mexican infantrymen,
bodies were sprawled across the silent
twelve-pounders on the rampart. She thought she
recognized Jim Bon-ham. And Senora
Esparza's husband. She didn't see
Dickinson.
She pushed the half-hysterical Susannah back
into the center of the sacristy, then glanced outside again.
A man came lurching down the ramp from the platform,
his clothing tattered, his skin blackened by powder. In
his right fist Major Evans clutched a
flaring torch.
Amanda put a hand to her throat. She knew what
Evans intended to do with the torch.
lignite the remaining powder. Blow them all up-
He never had a chance. Before he reached the bottom
of the ramp, kneeling Mexican infantrymen fired
a volley. Evans literally flew upward,
smashed by balls that pierced his forehead, blew out one
eye, opened bloody holes in his belly before he
fell.
Several soldiers charged the corpse. A moment
later, Evans' body was being tossed in the air,
jabbed and kept
aloft by dozens of bayonets. The Mexicans
cried one word over and over:
"Diablo! Diablo!"
Devil was one of their favorite epithets for
Texans. Now they were yelling it as a joke. But
Evans wasn't the only victim of the barbarity.
A quick glance toward the baptistry showed Amanda
another group engaged in the same sport. She
pressed her knuckles against her mouth; averted her
head.
The body being lifted and stabbed was Jim Bowie's-
Wild with grief, Susannah Dickinson
tried to rush by. Amanda grabbed her:
"You mustn't, Susannah! Stay here. Don't
let them see you-was
What a pathetic plea, she thought then. As she
manhandled the younger woman back into the sacristy for a
second time, she knew discovery was inevitable.
III
The musket-fire boomed and echoed in the dim,
cramped room. A fatalistic calm had settled
over the women and children. Senora Esparza stared
into space. The eldest of her three sons, a handsome
twelve-year-old named Enrique, gazed fiercely
at the ceiling, his lips forming words no one could hear.
Amanda understood the meaning, though. Very few times in
her life had she seen such hatred on a human
face.
Unbelievably, the soldiers were still riddling the
corpses on the gun platform. Through rifts in the
smoke, Amanda saw bodies jump and jerk as the
balls struck. The crazed behavior of the
Mexicans told her a good deal about the fury of the
battle in the plaza. Only incredible losses could
explain the savagery of the attackers.
Another bent figure came darting out of the smoke.
How Jake Walker, a gunner from
Tennessee, had thus far escaped death Amanda
couldn't imagine. Then she saw that he had been
hit. He seemed to be looking for someone.
Suddenly, he rushed forward:
"Miz Dickinson-if they let you live, you got
to get a message to my wife. You got to tell
her-was
"Jake, not so loud!" Amanda warned.
Too late, Walker whipped his head around. He
realized his shout had attracted attention.
Soldiers converged on the sacristy door,
muskets raised.
Amanda flung herself at Susannah and Walker,
hoping to thrust them out of the way. Walker took a
step backward. Amanda drove Susannah to the
ground, tumbling on top of her.
Walker gaped at the hostile faces in the
doorway. He yelled something, raised his hands in
front of his face-
The muskets exploded. Walker shrieked as a
ball struck him in the throat. He fell, blood
gushing down over his chest.
On hands and knees beside the gasping Susannah,
Amanda watched a boy belonging to one of the Mexican
women clamber to his feet. Tugging a
blanket around his shoulders as if he were cold, the
boy started to speak. A soldier aimed and shot the
boy through the stomach.
The mother moaned and fainted as the boy struck the
ground. Enraged, Amanda jumped up, running at the
soldiers, shouting at them in the Spanish she knew
so well:
"God damn you for a pack of animals
-!"
Muskets were leveled again. She ducked as two
went off. Susannah cried out-and Angelina too.
The little girl clutched her right leg where the ball had
hit.
A soldier slammed the butt of his musket against
Amanda's forehead. She sprawled, hitting hard.
As she struggled to take a breath, half a dozen
soldiers crowded into the sacristy and surrounded
Jake Walker. As they'd
done with Evans and Bowie, they lifted the body on
their bayonets and tossed it. Amanda gagged, averting
her head. She felt warm blood from the corpse
spatter her face-
Then, abruptly, she heard a new voice, loud
and deep. Something whacked against skin. A soldier
squealed.
Amanda pushed up from the ground, gained her feet.
She was still short of breath; blinking from the thick
smoke beginning to fill the room. Her head ached
suddenly. She expected a bayonet stroke any
instant-
It never came. A man she couldn't immediately
identify was flailing the soldiers with the flat of his
saber. They fell back, muskets raised to parry
the blows.
Her vision cleared a little. The man using his sword
to drive the infantrymen into the chapel was a hatless
officer in a red-faced blue coat stained with blood
and dirt.
"His Excellency gave no orders for
slaughtering women, you whoresons!" he shouted.
"Get out! Leave these people alone!"
The officer's fury sent the soldiers milling into the
smoke. When they were all gone, he touched Jake
Walker's corpse with the toe of one boot, getting
blood on the leather. His mouth twisted in disgust.
Amanda stood panting and rubbing her watering eyes.
Finally she got a clear look at the officer. He
was in his thirties; stout. His skin was swarthy, his
hair black and wavy. His glance shifted from
Walker to the dead boy tangled in the
blanket. Looking pained, he tapped the flat of
his sword against his trousers and turned his attention to the
surviving women and children:
"I assume that most of you speak Spanish? I am
here to help you-was
Still sickened by the brutality she'd witnessed, Amanda
stepped forward. The officer pivoted. His round face
might have been a merry face in different
circumstances. Now it showed surprise as Amanda
bent her head and spat on the officer's boots.
One of the women groaned, obviously afraid that
Amanda's defiance would produce more violence. The
officer's jaw whitened. But he didn't raise his
sword.
He glanced down at the spittle glistening on his
reddened boot. Then back at Amanda:
"I will overlook your disrespect, senorita-was
He'd glanced at Amanda's left hand and seen no
ring; she had put it away permanently after
Jaunie died. "combecause I understand how you were driven
to it by the excesses of our men. Sequestered in here,
you undoubtedly have no idea of what they have been through.
Indeed-was
A bitter amusement shone in his dark eyes. He
had an almost boyish countenance, Amanda
decided. But the essentially benign features had
been hardened by weather, and by war. The officer was
clearly no coward, but neither did he seem to be
cruel. She began to hope she and the others might
survive.
The officer shrugged in a tired way, continuing, "com
indeed I doubt whether the army can withstand another such
victory." The last word was tainted with sarcasm.
"I am Major Cordoba," he went on. "I
must inform you that you are the prisoners of His
Excellency General Antonio Lopez de
Santa Anna, President of the Republic of
Mexico." He pointed his saber at Angelina
Dickinson. The little girl was leaning against her
kneeling mother, crying and clutching her bloodied
skirt to her wounded leg. "I shall attempt
to secure a litter for the child-was
Still with a bitter edge to her voice, Amanda said,
"Don't trick us, Major. If we're going
to be taken somewhere and shot, I for one would just as soon
get it over with right here."
Cordoba's lips compressed. He was angry.
"Senorita -"
"My name is de la Gura. Senora de la
Gura."
Amanda's insolent tone made Cordoba color
even more:
"Senora, then! You are foolish if you refuse
to entrust yourself to me. I have been sent
specifically-was
"How can we trust men who shoot children?" Amanda
retorted, pointing at the fallen boy.
"The boy's death is regrettable, but-was
"Regrettable?
It's inhuman!"
Wilting under her glare, Cordoba muttered,
"Yes, granted-granted!" Louder then: "But it
is impossible to control men who have just concluded an
engagement such as this. I repeat-you have no idea of
what our troops suffered at the hands of your people."
There was grudging respect in Cordoba's last
statement. Amanda's anger cooled a little. The man
did seem intelligent-decent, even. That couldn't
be said of most of the soldiers.
"Major?" Susannah Dickinson said in
English. "My husband was on the gun platform.
I-I assume he's dead, but-was
"Please," Cordoba interrupted in Spanish.
"It would be easier if you would speak in my
language."
"I don't know it very well," Susannah
replied, her voice shaky. Amanda hurried to her
side and cradled an arm around her shoulder. Clinging
to her mother and crying softly, little Angelina looked
ready to swoon with pain.
"Ask your question," Amanda said to Susannah.
"I'll translate for him."
"Will I have a chance to look for my husband's body?
I'd like to see him decently buried."
Cordoba glanced at Amanda. She put the query
into Spanish. When she concluded, Cordoba shook
his head:
"His Excellency has instructed that only our
soldiers are to be buried. Unfortunately, the
Senora's husband is considered a traitor to the
republic. Therefore-was
"For God's sake spare us your lectures,
Major!"
"I was only attempting to explain why the
Senora's husband would be denied burial. I am
afraid it will also be denied to yours."
"My husband died four years ago."
"I see."
Cordoba eyed her speculatively while she
told Susannah what he had said.
Almeron Dickinson's wife closed her eyes and
shook her head, looking more defeated than ever.
Cordoba tried to be conciliatory: "For your own
safety, I beg you all to remain here while I
see about the litter. We will escort you out of the
mission and back to Bexar as soon as possible. I
suggest that as we depart, you do not look too
closely at the sights in the main plaza. For the
sake of your own sensibilities-was
The sentence trailed off into awkward silence. All
at once Amanda felt completely drained of
anger. She was exhausted, and desperate to get out of
this death-choked place-
Cordoba started to leave. It was Senora Esparza
who stopped him this time:
"We will look our fill. Butcher."
"Please, senora!-you and I are not enemies. We
are people of the same nation-was
"No. I am a Texan, like my husband
Gregorio. I hate your Santa Anna just as
he did. When my children and I go out, we will see what
your dictator has done-
:
and remember it until another time. Then we will
repay you."
Cordoba smiled in a humorless way. "I
don't doubt His Excellency worries about that very
thing. That's why he is in such desperate haste
to put an end to the rebellion."
The major vanished into the sunlit smoke. A few
seconds later, Amanda heard him summoning
men-cursing in the process.
Cordoba's command of obscenities made her
wonder
about him. Was his apparent concern for the welfare of the
non-combatants only a pretense? Or was the
bluster, the cursing, the false part? She supposed
it didn't really make much difference so long as
Angelina received prompt attention, and no one
else was hurt.
Another burst of musket-fire drew her attention
to the chapel. The Mexicans were still mutilating the
dead. Laughing, even singing, in celebration of the
slaughter-
Amanda's face hardened. As Senora Esparza had
said, it would be a long time before the people of Texas forgot
the dreadful dawn just past.
IV
In the final assault on the Alamo, Santa
Anna's army had pounded the walls with
cannons, then scaled them with ladders and pushed the
defenders back in hand-to-hand combat to last-ditch
positions in rooms in the long barracks. But even
Major Cordoba's warning hadn't adequately
prepared Amanda for what she saw as armed soldiers
escorted the survivors into the main plaza.
The plaza was literally a field of corpses;
hundreds of them. For every American, there seemed
to be ten of the enemy. There was a stench of blood and
powder that the morning sun couldn't burn out of the air.
The faces and limbs of the dead were black with flies.
Several of the women began crying again. One of the
Esparza children vomited. Amanda dug her nails
into her palms and swallowed sourness in her throat.
It was apparent that the Texans had given ground a
foot at a time. The soldiers who had reached the
chapel had done so over small mountains of
bodies.
Amanda recognized almost all of the Texan dead.
She had cooked for the men, joked with them-and now she
saw them lying in grotesque postures, lifeless
hands
clenched around pistols and knives. She fought to keep
from weeping herself.
By the time the captives and their guards were a
quarter of the way to the open gate, Amanda's shoes
gave off a squishing sound. She glanced down,
sickened. So much blood had been spilled, the hard
ground couldn't absorb it all. She had stepped in
a sticky red pool of it.
Mexican soldiers searched for souvenirs among the
heaped bodies. But near the wall, she noted an
unusually large mound of corpses that the human
scavengers seemed to be avoiding. Most of the dead
appeared to be Mexicans, but she recognized one
American among them. He lay on his back, his
face a patchwork of bayonet-cuts. At least
two dozen other wounds had torn his hunting shirt and
trousers.
Pacing at her side as he had since they left the
chapel, Cordoba noticed her stare:
"That man in the fur cap-is he the one called
Crockett?"
"Yes."
"I'm told it took a score or more to bring him
down."
"That doesn't surprise me."
"You can see the soldiers fear to go near him even
now-was
The sight of Crockett's stabbed body
unleashed new rage within her. It found a ready
target in Cordoba's continuing presence:
"I don't need your personal attention, Major.
In fact I resent it."
"Understandably," Cordoba nodded. His brown eyes
kept moving back and forth from one group of soldiers
to another. Some of the soldiers watched the prisoners
with sullen fury. "However, you must accept it until
we are safely outside. I want no
incidents-was
"What sort of incidents?"
"Non-combatants are to be spared-that was His
Excellency's order. But it won't be obeyed
voluntarily. I really think you still fail to understand the
importance of this engagement, Senora."
"What do you mean?"
"Just this. Your General Houston has boasted too
often that, with five hundred men, the province of
Texas could be liberated from Mexico. His
Excellency had to win this battle-at any price.
To do so, he inflamed the passions of his men-was
Cordoba inclined his head toward a pair of
soldiers busily plying knives. One soldier was
sawing through the bone of a Texan's ring finger in order
to claim an emerald signet. His
sweaty-faced companion had a different purpose.
While Amanda watched, the soldier whacked off the
ear of a dead man she recognized as one of
Crockett's twelve from Tennessee. With a gruff
shout, the soldier displayed the souvenir to other
Mexicans nearby. They laughed and applauded.
Grinning, the soldier tucked the ear into his
pocket.
"comindeed, Senora, the very spirit with which your people resisted
only heightened the desire for revenge. That's why
looting must be permitted. And why the faces are being
cleaned-was
He pointed to other soldiers using rags to wipe the
dirt from the fallen, Mexican and American
alike.
Amanda shook her head, not understanding. Cordoba
explained in a somber voice:
"His Excellency wishes no mistakes made
about the identity of each body. As I informed you, our
soldiers will be buried. Your people will be burned."
"Scum," she breathed. "Murdering scum, that's
all you are-was
"Alas, Senora, war is seldom an ethical
business."
"There could have been terms! Honorable
surrender -"
"No. An example was needed. Besides, would your people
have accepted terms?"
She pushed back a stray lock of dirty hair from
her forehead, unable to reply. Thank God the gate
was only a sort distance away. Susannah
Dickinson, accompanying the litter on which her
daughter rested, had already reached the body-strewn
ground between the mission and the river. Two black men were
just following her out the gate. One was Sam, who had
come from the sacristy. The other was Travis' slave,
Joe, captured in the long barracks. Both men were
crying.
"Well, Senora?" Cordoba prodded.
"Would
the Texns have accepted terms of any kind?"
She turned her head, gazing at the disheveled
major. He was still something of an enigma. He had the
erect bearing and outward flintiness of a
professional. Yet there was a certain softness in his
eyes that suggested another, more elusive man behind the
fa@cade. For the first time she noticed his tunic. It
bulged noticeably; his belly was growing fat. And
he looked tired.
Less angry, she answered:
"I doubt it. When Anglos get pushed too far,
they usually fight back. There's a saying they use
when someone threatens them-was
"A saying? What is it?"
"Turn loose your wolf."
"In other words-do what you will?"
"Do what you will-but you'll regret it."
Cordoba sighed. "That was obviously the case here.
However-was
Stumbling, Amanda uttered a little cry. The major
caught her arm. One of the enlisted men walking with the
captives noticed Cordoba's quick reaction, and
smirked.
Cordoba glared. The soldier blinked and
swallowed, intimidated by the fury of the major's
eyes.
Amanda carefully disengaged her arm from Cordoba's
hand. He refused to look at her, staring instead at
her cordage bracelet. His round face was still
flushed.
By all rights she ought to hate him. Yet she couldn't
bring herself to it.
"Where are you taking us?" she asked finally.
"You and the Senora Dickinson are going to His
Excellency. The Mexican women and children
will be set free."
A ripple of dread chased along Amanda's spine.
"And Susannah and I won't be?"
"I can't say. His Excellency received reports
of noncombatants in the mission, and I was
instructed to bring them to him for his personal
disposition."
"Where is he?"
"I am not certain of that either."
"Maybe I'll be lucky. Maybe he got
killed."
"General Santa Anna? Never. Do you imagine
he would lead an assault in person-?" Was there
faint contempt in his voice? If so, it was quickly
hidden: "You may find yourself reasonably well
treated, however. His Excellency has a certain
fondness for attractive women."
Amanda realized he meant it as a compliment. But this
hardly seemed a suitable time or place. She
didn't bother to respond. Cordoba then said:
"You do know His Excellency took a wife in
Bexar-?"
Startled, Amanda shook her head.
"It was the night we bridged the river. One of the
general's aides discovered a most charming young
woman comand her mother-living just over there."
Amanda's eyes followed his pointing hand. She
recognized the house he was indicating.
"Would the young woman's name be Senorita
Armendariz?"
"That's it, I believe. Quite a beauty."
"I have a different word for her." The Armendariz
girl and her mother were two of those who had refused
to speak to Amanda on the streets of Bexar. Senora
Armendariz had even urged the
alcalde
to close Gura's
Hotel. "I'm not surprised that little bitch
advanced herself with the general-was
Cordoba almost smiled: "Alas, I don't
believe he had marriage in mind. But the
senorita's mother insisted."
"Who married them? Don Refugio?"
"The parish priest? No, I'm afraid he would have
considered such a ceremony-shall we say-irregular?
The "priest" was actually one of Colonel
Minion's aides. A lad who's quite an actor.
His Excellency is already blessed with a wife in
Mexico City."
"You mean Santa Anna deceived the girl?"
"And
her mother. Evidently his desire got the better of
him."
"You don't sound as if you approve."
Expressionless suddenly, Cordoba shrugged.
"Whatever my personal feelings concerning His
Excellency, I am a soldier. I serve him
without question."
"Is that right?" Amanda studied him as they approached
the gate. "Would you have served him without question if you'd
been assigned another kind of duty? If you'd
been required to kill Texans?"
"I would have obeyed orders."
"If they included wholesale brutality?"
"I see no purpose to such a discussion,"
Cordoba said quickly. "It's purely
theoretical."
But Amanda realized she'd touched a sensitive
spot. Her earlier suspicion was confirmed. It was
Cordoba's curse to be afflicted with a conscience.
"Then answer a question that isn't. What do you honestly
think Santa Anna will do with Susannah and me?"
"Senora, it is impossible for me to guess. He
might be in an expansive mood as a result of the
victory. He might parole you at
once."
Amanda halted in the gateway, turning to gaze
back at the dead in the plaza.
"Major, how many men did you lose this morning?"
"Ten for every one of yours-at minimum. By the end of the
third charge against the walls, for example, the
Tolucca battalion under General Morales had
little more than a hundred men remaining. Its original
strength was almost eight hundred and fifty."
"I doubt His Excellency will be in a mood
to forgive that kind of loss."
As if to confirm her fear, Cordoba didn't
answer.
The stench of the dead and wounded was even worse outside
the Alamo than it had been within. Bodies of
Mexican soldiers lay along the base of the
wall. Here and there the wreckage of scaling ladders
testified to the difficulty of breaching the mission
defenses.
Details of men were already moving across the
shell-scarred ground, dragging corpses toward the
bank of the San Antonio. Overhead, buzzards
were gathering.
As she walked, Amanda was conscious of Major
Cordoba dropping behind. She didn't see
the frankly admiring way he continued to watch her.
She was pondering what might befall her in the next
few hours. Surely it couldn't be any worse
than the horror just concluded. Surely-
Something about the light interrupted the thought. She
studied the angle of the sun and realized it couldn't be
much later than eight o'clock. The day had hardly
begun. Sunday. God's day. And so many had died-
But His Excellency was wrong if he believed
cruelty would destroy the Texans' will to resist.
As Senora Esparza had promised, it would
probably have the opposite effect. It did on
her.
She turned again, gazing past Cordoba to the
mission's shot-pitted walls. The tricolor and
eagle of
Centralist Mexico had been raised above the long
barracks. Hate welled within Amanda at the sight
of the flag flapping in the sun.
Tired as she was, the hate would give her strength;
sustain her through whatever might come before this day ended.
She wouldn't grovel in front of the self-styled
Napoleon of the West, that much she promised herself.
Shoulders lifting a little, she trudged on toward the
river. Her shoes left faint red traces
on the hard ground.
The
Bargain
AMANDA CROSSED THE San Antonio on one
of the plank bridges erected by the Mexicans. It
seemed to her that she was returning not to a familiar
town, but to one that was alien . . . alien and not a little
frightening.
Northward, the low hills were covered with tents and
wagon parks. Units of cavalry and infantry were
reassembling noisily, raising huge clouds of
dust.
Cordoba's men soon encountered difficulty moving
ahead toward the Main Plaza. The narrow streets
of Bexar, so drowsy and pleasant only a few
months ago, swarmed with soldiers and poorly
dressed Mexican women. Many of the women were
dragging children whose clothing was equally dirty and ragged.
The women were hurrying in the opposite direction,
toward the mission. Band music drifted from the river
now-music celebrating the victory. The women
jeered at the captives. Amanda was glad
Susannah couldn't understand Spanish.
Some stones were flung. One struck Senora
Esparza. Cordoba drew his sword and
ordered his men to close up around the prisoners. After
that, the
soldaderas
comthe camp followers-had to content themselves with verbal
attacks.
Despite her determination not to succumb to despair,
Amanda found her spirits sinking with every step. Her mouth
felt parched. Her head hurt. Her arms and legs
ached. She wished for the peace and privacy of the tiny
walled garden behind the hotel. There, whenever she was
lonely or depressed, she had always found solace
in simple physical labor. She yearned for the
garden now. She imagined the sight of her tomato
vines bursting with heavy red fruit in the mellow
Texas sunlight. She savored the remembered
aroma of strings of onions and yellow and red peppers
drying in the shadow of the wall-
Gone. It was all gone. The sense of defeat
swept through her like a poison. It seemed that every time
she put her life back onto a stable course,
something disrupted it. That had been the case for almost as
long as she could remember-
She thought of her mother, dying in the street outside the
Kent house in Boston. She thought of the terrible
morning in Tennessee, when the man who
claimed to be a preacher had beaten her cousin Jared,
then raped her and carried her off to St. Louis, where
he sold her to trappers traveling up the
Missouri. She thought of her first night in the tepee
of the young Sioux warrior who had bought her from the
trappers-
She had endured all of it, calling on an inner
strength bequeathed to her in some mystical chemistry of
birth by her frail father, Gilbert Kent. She had
endured hunger and pain and near-paralyzing fear,
buoyed by her will to survive. In an hour, a month,
or a year, she told herself, she would find an end
to the suffering. And so she had-
But there always seemed to be more waiting.
Grief had nearly destroyed her after Jaimie's
death. She had fought with it like an enemy who wanted
her life. She had fought, and she'd won another
reprieve. Opened the hotel. Fussed over the
three girls. Taken comfort from the feel of the garden
earth against her hands whenever doubt and sadness threatened
her-
And now, because she'd decided she had no choice but
to go into the mission, she was forced to begin still
one more time-as a stranger in a town of enemies. She
wondered whether she could do it.
She noticed a party of officers approaching on
foot. Among them was a stout, mustachioed
civilian wearing flared trousers, a tight-fitting
velvet jacket and a sombrero. The
alcalde,
Don Francisco Ruiz.
Though never her close friend, Don Francisco had
always been cordial. He realized that Gura's
Hotel fulfilled a need in Bexar, and he had
resisted pressure from the Armendariz family and
others when they wanted it closed. Don
Francisco glanced at Amanda as he passed.
One of the officers said something to him and he looked
away quickly, without so much as a nod of greeting.
There had been shame in his eyes, Amanda thought. But
the shame wasn't powerful enough to make him speak to her.
The
alcalde
understood very well who controlled Bexar now.
Later, she learned that he had been sent to the mission
by Santa Anna himself. He was to search through the
bodies of the Texans and confirm to His
Excellency that Wilh'am Travis, David
Crockett and James Bowie were indeed dead.
Don Francisco's rebuff brought tears
to Amanda's eyes. She was ashamed of herself, yet she
couldn't hold the tears back. A
soldadera
coma young, coarse-faced woman with immense breasts
and a large mole near the point of her chin-saw her
crying, snatched up a stone and lobbed it between two
soldiers.
The stone struck Amanda's forehead. The pain jolted
her from her self-pity. Eyes flashing, she closed
her hands into fists and started after the Mexican girl.
Cordoba was quicker. He brandished his sword and
cursed. The young woman laughed and hurried on as
soldiers kept Amanda from pursuing her.
The major reached for Amanda's arm. "Are you all
right, Senora?"
She avoided his hand. "Yes. And I told you before-
I don't need any help from you,"
Cordoba stared at her for a moment. "Don't be
too
sure."
Furious, she gathered her skirt in both hands and
walked on. In an instant, her eyes were dry.
She'd show him how strong she was. She'd show them
all.
II
The prisoners were taken to the spacious, airy house
of Bexar's second-ranking political
official,
jefe
Don Ramon Musquiz. Servants carried
Angelina Dickinson to a bedroom while the
others-Amanda, Susannah and the two blacks-were
led to the don's comfortable office overlooking an
ornamental garden.
Susannah grew distraught when she wasn't
permitted to accompany her daughter. But Cordoba
assured her the child was not seriously hurt. After
absenting himself briefly, he returned to say that
Santa Anna's personal doctor had already been
summoned to dress the little girl's wound.
Susannah's dirty, bedraggled appearance showed
Amanda what she herself must look like. She sank into a
chair, her attention caught by the paper-littered
desk. She had been in Musquiz's office before.
She recognized a number of articles that didn't
belong there: an ornate silver tea service; a
liquor decanter with a fat silver stopper; a
silver spittoon.
A sandaled servant, an elderly Mexican,
entered with a tray. On the tray were cups, a
wine bottle and a plate of hardtack. The servant
knew Amanda. But, like Don Francisco, he
thought it prudent not to acknowledge the fact. He
concentrated on putting the tray on the desk without
disturbing the papers.
Avoiding Amanda's eyes, the old man addressed
Cordoba:
"His Excellency is inspecting the mission. He
will return shortly. He ordered that the prisoners
were to be given refreshments."
"How kind of him," Susannah said in a bitter
voice. "Is it our last meal?"
"Very good, thank you," Cordoba said to the servant.
As the old man left quietly, Amanda rose and
walked to the younger woman.
"A little wine might make you feel better,
Susannah."
"Nothing will make me feel better." Almeron
Dickinson's widow clenched her hands. "Nothing.
Nothing."
Major Cordoba acted embarrassed. The four
soldiers who had accompanied him into the office
appeared to be engrossed by
el jefe's
fig tree just outside.
Amanda realized she was incredibly hungry. She
saw no reason to refrain from eating the enemy's
food. She picked up the plate and walked to the
two blacks to serve them.
Sam took a piece of hardtack. Joe shook his
head, still looking utterly miserable. Amanda
returned to the desk. She poured half a cup of
wine, drank it, then picked up two pieces of
hardtack and sat down again.
The office was cool and still. With an annoyed
expression, Cordoba began wiping the buttons of
his uniform with his cuff. He polished off some of the
dirt, but not enough, apparently, to satisfy himself.
He kept frowning.
Amanda finished the first piece of hardtack. She was
raising the second to her lips when she remembered
something. Cordoba saw her wry, sad smile;
gave her a quizzical look.
She held up the hardtack, explaining:
"Jim Bowie said there'd be an attack sooner
than we expected. He heard that the bakeries in the
border towns were working Night and day, making this. He
said only an army would require that much hardtack."
"If you had that kind of advance warning, Senora, why
were there not more men in the mission?"
"Travis thought Jim was crazy. He said your army
would never march in the winter. Not until the grass
grew and the horses could forage. Jim told him we
were fighting Mexicans, not Comanches. Travis
laughed it off. If he'd listened to Jim, he
might have sent for reinforcements sooner-was
She stopped, following Cordoba's tense glance
toward the corridor. Boots clicked out there. She
heard men speaking. Then one of the soldiers in the
office pointed toward the garden wall:
"They've started burning them."
Amanda looked. A black plume of smoke was
climbing into the sky. Her hand closed, crumbling the
hardtack -
A party of several officers and one civilian
appeared at the far end of the hall. One of the men was
noticeably taller than the others. He was perhaps
forty years old, and not bad looking. His uniform
overflowed with silver frogging, buttons,
epaulettes.
Moving briskly, the man led the others toward the
office doorway. Just as he entered, he touched his
middle, belched, then winced. Amanda's last question about
the man's identity vanished. Santa Anna was
known to suffer perpetual dysentery.
Cordoba snapped to attention; saluted:
"These are the prisoners, Excellency."
General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna
nodded. "Very good. Take your ease, Major."
But Cordoba remained rigid. The general turned
to the civilian member of the group, a willowy
fellow carrying a sheet of foolscap.
"Read me the first line again, Ramon."
The secretary cleared his throat. was "Victory
belongs to the army, which at this very moment, eight o'clock
a.m.,
achieved a complete triumph that will render its
memory imperishable-" his
Santa Anna touched the paper. "Amend that. A
complete and glorious triumph." The secretary's
head bobbed. "Have it inscribed and return it to me for
signature. I want it dispatched to the minister of
war in Mexico City by noon, understand?"
"Perfectly, Excellency." The secretary bowed
and hurried out.
Santa Anna turned next to a suave officer
who was appraising Amanda's figure with insolent
directness.
"Colonel Almonte!"
The officer jerked to attention.
"Excellency?"
"I believe we should arrange a victory review
in the plaza before the day's over. I will give a
short oration. See to it, please. Make certain
all the town officials are present."
Almonte saluted, pivoted smartly and left the
room.
The general returned his attention to his captives,
studying them with an affable expression. The past few
seconds had already confirmed what Amanda had heard
about the dictator's enormous vanity. And she
knew too much about his rapid shifts in allegiance
on his climb to power to be lulled by his smile.
in
Santa Anna slipped into the chair behind the desk.
He opened a drawer and took out a gold snuff
box. A charnel stench drifted in from the garden. The
Texan dead, burning-
From the box Santa Anna removed a pinch of
white powder. He placed the powder in one nostril
and inhaled. Then he handed the box to another of the
officers:
"Ask Doctor Reyes to refill that for me." As
the
officer hurried out, Santa Anna smiled
even more broadly at the two women and the blacks.
"It has been an eventful twenty-four hours. A
bit of opium powder is marvelous for relieving
tiredness, I find."
None of the prisoners offered a comment. Frowning,
Santa Anna said to Cordoba:
"You will identify these people, please."
One by one, Cordoba supplied the names of the four,
beginning with the blacks and ending with Susannah:
"Senora Dickinson is not fluent in our
language, Excellency. But Senora de la
Gura can translate."
"De la Gura," Santa Anna repeated. "That
isn't an Anglo name."
"My husband was Spanish."
"Spanish-
Excellency"
one of the officers said, taking a step forward. Santa
Anna waved him back, trying to soften Amanda's
frostiness with another smile:
"Spanish-do you mean Mexican?"
"I mean what I said. My husband was born in
New Orleans."
"He was an American citizen, then?"
"After the Purchase, yes."
Santa Anna frowned at the obvious pride in
Amanda's voice. He tented his fingers;
scrutinized her in silence; finally said:
"It's unfortunate for you that I chose not to divide
the survivors simply by consulting a list. With that
name, you might have been lost and forgotten among the
Mexican women Major Cordoba found in the
mission."
His eyes were much less friendly now. But Amanda
refused to turn away from the intimidating stare. The
general abruptly switched back to cordiality:
"There is an excellent establishment in Bexar
bearing the name Gura, I recall."
"The hotel I own," Amanda said.
"The hotel you
formerly
owned. It has been taken over as a billet for my
senior staff. That should not be a
great loss, however. You could have lost your life. So
I presume you will be suitably thankful when I
permit you comall of you-to leave Bexar unharmed."
Sam gasped loudly. Susannah looked at
Amanda, who told her:
"He says we aren't to be killed."
"Angelina too?"
"I presume so." She repeated the question for Santa
Anna.
"Of course, of course! I looked in on the child just
before I stepped in here. A delightful creature.
Lovely! Reyes, my personal physician,
assured me she would be fit to travel within a day or
two."
Again Amanda translated. Susannah looked
blank:
"Travel? Travel where?"
"She wants to know where we're supposed to go,"
Amanda said.
"Why, back to your own people!" Santa Anna said,
speaking to Susannah in Spanish. "I thought
briefly of sending you to Mexico City, as proof of
our victory. But I've concluded it would be more
useful for you to go to Gonzales. Til send an
escort-my own orderly, Benjamin. He was an
Anglo-although a slave-before he joined my service.
When you're once again among your own-was
"What do you mean, her own?" Amanda fumed. "Her
husband died at the mission. Murdered by your men!"
Santa Anna sat forward suddenly, losing his
relaxed manner. "Murder is a very ugly word,
Senora."
"But it fits."
"No. Those who died were casualties of war. By their
traitorous behavior, they arranged their own
executions. It was no doing of mine."
Amanda laughed then, so loudly and contemptuously that
the officer who had reproved her before drew his
sword.
Standing by Susannah's chair, Cordoba tried
to warn Amanda with his eyes. She ignored it:
"No doing of yours? Who raised the no quarter
flag from the church, may I ask? Who gave the
command for the playing of the
deguello?"
"God, what hypocrites you Anglos are!"
Santa Anna snarled. "You cavil at the harshness
of war while your white brethren in the United
States-and here in Texas until I put a stop
to it!-trade in human flesh without a qualm of
conscience. Blood of Jesus, woman, don't
prattle to me about inhumanity!"
Santa Anna's slashing gesture stunned Amanda
to silence. Before she could accuse him of taking refuge
behind an issue entirely unrelated to the battle,
he barked at Cordoba:
"You will please assume the duties of
translator, Major. I dislike this woman's
contentious attitude. Especially since I have
generously decided to permit the noncombatants to go
free."
Seething, Amanda exclaimed, "You'll forgive me,
Your Excellency, but I'm suspicious of this
sudden outpouring of compassion-was
"Excellency-was The officer who had drawn his
sword stormed around the desk. "I suggest that
kindness is wasted on this American slut."
"Kindness
and
rational argument, it seems."
"Then let my dragoons have her."
Santa Anna pursed his lips. "A
possibility. A distinct possibility-was
"If you're going to kill me, do it and be done!"
Amanda raged. "I've had enough of Mexican mercy
for one morn-was
"Amanda!"
Susannah Dickinson cried. "For God's
sake be civil to him! I don't know what you're
saying, but you're going to make everything worse.
Almeron's dead, Angelina's hurt-was Suddenly
she began to weep.
"I want to live. I want to get out of this
place.
I want to live-was
Amanda held back an angry remark. She had
no right to endanger Almeron Dickinson's widow
or the blacks because of her own hostility.
Presently the color that had rushed to Santa
Anna's cheeks faded. He rose, moving out from
behind the desk:
"What did she say, Major? I caught a little
of it, but not everything."
Cordoba repeated the sense of Susannah's
plea. Santa Anna nodded; said to Susannah:
"I am glad you show some appreciation of the
realities of the situation, senora-was He paused,
allowing Cordoba time to translate. "Your people were
foolish to oppose the Centralist regime. I
trust that when you leave Bexar-supplied with food,
blankets and money-you will lose no time in
communicating to your fellow Texns that resistance is
futile. I am more determined than ever to see the
rebellion crushed now that the so-called Council
at Washington has taken its ill-advised
step-Cordoba cleared his throat. "I don't
believe any of those in the mission knew about
the declaration, Excellency."
"Ah, yes, you're probably right." He turned
toward the blacks, his tone caustic:
"You are now citizens of the independent Republic
of Texas. Not free citizens, of course. I'm
sure freedom will be reserved for those with white
skins."
The slaves gaped. Amanda asked, "When did it
happen?"
"The declaration? Just four days ago. Senor
Burnet has been named president, and Senor
Houston is general of the army-if there is one."
Amanda was speechless again. The news was both sad and
surprising. The sadness came from realizing that
none of the men who had died at the Alamo had known
they were fighting for a newly independent country.
"I find Houston's appointment particularly
amusing,"
Santa Anna said. "The poor sot the Indians
call Big Drunk commanding a few farmers and
storekeepers as ill-trained as he is-was
Amanda managed to speak: "Sixty years ago,
another army just like that won a war for independence-was
"True, Senora. But I shall not make the same
mistakes the British king did-nor be so
gentlemanly to those I oppose." He stalked
toward the blacks. "When you rejoin your people, tell
them their so-called republic will be gone in three
months. Tell them what you saw here. Tell them
what they can expect if they continue to fight-was The
deep voice grew louder. "That is the only
price I'll extract for your freedom-that you
spread my message. Resistance will be crushed without
pity. The sensible course is immediate surrender."
Cordoba finished translating for Susannah.
She stared at Santa Anna, then slowly bowed her
head. The general glanced to the blacks again. Their
uneasy eyes showed him they understood what he
wanted- and, like Susannah, agreed to it. Santa
Anna smiled with genuine pleasure. The word of his
military might would be spread through the little Texas
settlements, to demoralize the government that had
emerged at last from the wrangling and factionalism
prevalent for months at Washington-ontheBrazos.
Santa Anna approached Amanda:
"And you, Senora? If you are set free, will you
tell your people that surrender is the only way to avoid
annihilation?"
"That's the last thing Til do-Excellency. I will
tell them how you ordered a massacre-was
"Don't!"
Susannah cried, understanding Amanda's fierce
expression all too clearly. "He's only
asking us to
report the truth. We can't win against them-why do you
want to pretend we can?"
For a moment, Amanda wavered. Susannah might be
right-
For most of her adult life, she had put
survival foremost on her list of priorities.
Was she foolish to change those priorities now?
No, she decided, thinking of Crockett's slashed
body. Of the boy in the blanket shot down in the
sacristy. Of Bowie's bayoneted corpse.
No
-
She couldn't scorn Susannah or the two
slaves for their desire to live. She knew
Susannah probably believed the Texans could
never hold out against the Mexican army. Amanda
wasn't sure they could either. But in spite of that, the
price Santa Anna was asking for survival was
higher than she wanted to pay.
Trying to keep her voice steady, she said, "Take
the general's offer, Susannah. I can't.
If I go to Gonzales- There was a catch in her
throat; her stomach churned as the smell of the burning
bodies worsened "comif I go there, I'll tell
everyone His Excellency deserves to be shown
exactly the same mercy he showed at the Alamo.
I'll tell them it's better to die for an
American republic than surrender to a
Mexican killer-was
Santa Anna was livid. "I do not speak
English well, Senora. But I understand a little of
it. You will regret what you have just said." He lost
control.
"By God, you will-to "
He pounded a fist on the desk, overturning the
creamer of the tea service. Thick droplets fell
from the edge of the desk, striking the inlaid floor with a
loud
plop-plop.
The officer who had mentioned turning Amanda over to the
dragoons started to repeat the suggestion. Before he'd
spoken half a sentence, she was struck just under her
left breast-viciously-by a man's fist.
She spun, raising her arms to protect herself. With
shock and disbelief, she saw the contorted face of
her attacker.
It was Cordoba.
iv
"You've said enough, you ignorant whore!"
Cordoba yelled, drawing his hand back to hit her
again.
Susannah Dickinson tried to rush to Amanda's
assistance. Two of the enlisted men seized her and
wrenched her back as Cordoba slammed his fist
into Amanda's stomach, then flung her to the floor.
The room darkened; distorted. She pressed her hands
against the wood, trying to rise-trying to comprehend the
inexplicable change that had come over the major. He
was flushed; breathing hard as he bent his leg
backward at the knee, then kicked her in the
belly.
Amanda cried out. The room began to swing back and
forth. Cordoba's voice sounded faint but furious:
"Let me take her and discipline her,
Excellency."
"Better she be shot outright," another of the officers
said.
Cordoba again: "No, no, Colonel-if you
please! I'll see that she suffers for her insolence.
Much more than she'd suffer if you killed her."
Santa Anna: "I find your request a
bit unusual, Major. You said nothing during her
outbursts-was
"My astonishment-my anger-robbed me of suitable
words, Excellency."
"Nor are you known for your temper-was
"Except when my commander is insulted,
Excellency."
"Well, that's the proper attitude, certainly."
"Then let me have her!"
Amanda tried to sit up. She was too weak and
dizzy.
She fell back, her black silk dress
tangled around her legs. She'd thought Cordoba
possessed some small degree of honor. Like
Santa Anna's generosity, that honor had been
revealed as a sham. Over the ringing in her ears, she
heard him pressing his request:
"comI promise you I'll work her till she
drops, Excellency. I lost my serving-woman
on the march from Salillo.
Telele
killed her-the fever from bad water. So if you'll
put her in my keeping, Til teach her to respect
Centralist authority-was
Several of the officers muttered about
Cordoba's proposal comwhether for or against it,
Amanda couldn't be sure. Finally, she heard
Santa Anna shout for silence. The voices cut
off abruptly. The dictator sounded amused again:
"Very well, Major, you may have her. See that she
fully enjoys the perquisites of her new station-and
that she comes to regret her refusal of my
clemency. But mark this-to "
He struck the desk again. The sound was loud as a
shot.
"Under
no
circumstances is the offer to be repeated. By you or
any other officer. She will not go free now or ever.
Of course, if she finds the work of a camp woman
too difficult-if she should sicken and die-that's your
affair. No questions will be asked."
The room seemed cloaked in darkness. Amanda let
it sweep into her mind, blotting out Santa
Anna's soft, satisfied chuckle.
A fly buzzed. There was a sensation of intense heat.
She opened her eyes.
Above her, she saw an expanse of light. After a
moment she realized she was lying on hard ground,
gazing
up at the sloping side of an officer's marquee,
one of dozens that dotted the flat land and the
hillsides around Bexar. The sun was broiling down
on the other side of the canvas, lighting it
to brilliance.
She still ached from the punishing Cordoba had given
her. Slowly, she rolled her head to the side and
saw a mussed cot. A rickety table. A
washstand holding a razor case, brushes, a dented
copper basin--Then,
in the periphery of her vision, she noticed boots.
Boots marked with dried blood and dirt. One of the
boots was resting on a small wooden box. Hands
were drawing a cloth back and forth across the stained
leather-
She turned her head a bit more. Cordoba took
his foot off the box, dropped the cloth. He stood
staring down at her, his uniform blouse unbuttoned.
Black hair curled above a sweat-grayed
singlet.
The inside of the marquee was broiling. She drew in
a breath of the unpleasant air. It was ripe with the
smells of horse droppings, the burning dead,
male sweat. Cordoba continued to watch, his
expression a blank.
She gathered her strength, attempted to sit up. The
effort pierced her side with a pain that made her wince
and cry out softly.
"You stupid, intemperate woman!" Cordoba
exclaimed, grabbing her wrists and pulling her to her
feet. As soon as she was upright, he let go. She
sat down hard on the cot, gasping.
Rage still colored the major's cheeks. But it was a
different kind of rage than he'd displayed in
front of the general. Puzzlingly different-
Cordoba strode forward. Outside, several mounted
men clattered by, laughing and joking in Spanish.
She raised her hand to strike him. Cordoba
caught her wrist; pushed her arm down:
"Listen to me! I have very little time before I must attend
that wretched review-was
The officer's fingers were hard, like a vise. Behind the
mild countenance that had turned so hateful in the
Mus-quiz house, there was unsuspected strength-a
strength he exerted to keep her immobilized on the
cot as he said:
"Do you know that you nearly got yourself sentenced to a
firing squad? Or worse?"
"Let me go, God damn you!"
"No! Not until you hear me out! You
made His Excellency furious. He was ready
to order you shot-or to turn you over to those dragoons
Colonel Fialpa mentioned. In the latter case,
a hundred men would have taken you. Then you'd have been
thrown to the
soldaderas.
To die-if you were lucky."
She laughed at him, a raw, raging sound:
"Don't start telling me how generous
you
are, Major!"
"I had to mistreat you, don't you understand that? I
knew of no other way to get you out of there!"
"You're telling me what you did was-was a
sham?"
"Yes! Completely!"
"Well, it was too damned realistic!"
"For that, I am truly sorry. It was the only
way-He loosened his grip. "If you promise not
to run, I'll release you."
She debated; finally sighed and nodded:
"All right-though I still don't quite believe what
you're saying."
He let go.
"God-was She massaged her belly. "You
hurt me."
He shrugged. "A trifle."
"You call broken ribs a trifle?"
"Compared to the ministrations of the dragoons, yes.
Besides, I don't believe any of your ribs are
broken. While you were unconscious, I looked
at-that is, ah-I examined-never mind! Take my
word, you'll survive."
He stood back, rubbing his reddened cheek. It was
beginning to show a sweaty growth of beard. As the red
faded, he said:
"Let's get down to the issue, Senora de la
Gura. It's quite simple, really. You can stay with
me and I'll treat you decently-with a few public
demonstrations of cruelty to impress my fellow
officers, naturally. Or I can turn you back
to Santa Anna and you can take your chances. You lost
your opportunity for freedom when you provoked His
Excellency. So I trust you understand the choice is
no longer liberty or the lack of it, but whether you
want to live with me or die with someone else."
Wearily, Amanda gazed at him. She saw an
emotion in his eyes that almost made her laugh out loud.
He looked as earnest and hopeful as a small
boy. She didn't laugh because she couldn't
quite bring herself to humiliate him.
After pondering his offer a while, she said, "I
realize you're trying to help me, Major. But
I'd feel like a traitor staying with you."
"A traitor to whom?"
"To my own people."
"Ahl"
He gestured sharply. "Better to be alive-with
hope-than dead with none. His Excellency
predicts total victory soon, but I am not so
certain. Especially now that you Anglos are fighting
for a country you have declared to be your own."
"I'm not fighting for anything, Major. I'm a
prisoner."
"There is always the chance you could be rescued."
"Highly unlikely, I think. I just don't
understand your
concern for my welfare. What kind of man are you?"
"A man whose
soldadera
died, and who needs-was
"That's not what I mean and you know it."
"What else can I tell you?" he exclaimed, his
skin
growing pink again. "My life is
commonplace-quite
unextraordinary. I'm a professional soldier
with a duty
to perform-and with little fondness for the style of my commander."
"Now we're getting somewhere. You don't like Santa
Anna?"
Still flushed, he sat down on the small box. It
creaked under his weight but, staring at his hands, he
seemed not to notice.
"That is understating the case, Senora." After a
cautious glance at the tent entrance, he went on,
"His Excellency demands the best for himself. The
tastiest food. The choicest wine. Snowy linen,
polished silver-my God, the man has a passion
for silver such as I've never seen before-to "
Fascinated, Amanda watched the major growing
angry again.
"You may be sure His Excellency was comfortable on
the long march from Saltillo. He slept under fur
robes, with a brazier burning in his marquee, when the
blizzards struck the hills of Coahuila and the men
had no tents and no fires. He pretended not
to see the wretched Mayans from the Yucatan
battalion lying like bundles of rags at the
roadside-dying because they couldn't withstand the
northern cold. We were short of provisions from the
beginning, so His Excellency cut rations to half-for
everyone except himself. Can you imagine how I liked
ordering my men to fall out and search for their suppers?
Search?
They ate mesquite nuts-have you ever tasted them?"
"Yes. Bitter."
"Compared to our usual fare, they were a banquet, I
can assure you! We lost men by the hundreds-both from
desertion and-you'll forgive me-diarrhea. In his
haste to mete out punishment, His Excellency also
overlooked the small matter of providing enough
doctors, medicines and ambulance wagons-but of
course he made sure his personal physician was
always close by! My God, you wouldn't believe the
chicanery the man
condones! You can imagine how our wounded need
blankets and bedding today. But every stitch in Bexar
has been appropriated by His Excellency's
brother-in-law, Colonel Dromundo. It's
available-to any hurt or dying man who can pay
Dromundo's price-was
Crlumly, Cordoba shook his head. "They would
slit my throat if I said any of this in public.
But His Excellency General Santa
Anna is fighting for his personal power, not for
Mexico."
"Then why do you obey him?"
"Because, for better or worse, he
is
Mexico-at the moment. Don't make any
mistake, Senora. Despite my dislike of him,
I'll honor my promise. You won't go free.
And if you try to escape, I won't stand in the way
of your punishment. Beyond that, I guarantee you good
treatment. My wants are minimal. Decent
meals. Clean laundry. My boots polished-I
hate a duty uniform. It's unprofessional."
Amanda thought it over. She was still undecided when
Cordoba jumped up. "Believe me, Senora,
I'm offering you a better bargain than you'd get from
most in this encampment!"
He was probably right. And becoming a camp
follower was no worse than some of the other things she'd
done to stay alive.
"All right, Major," she said. "I accept."
He clapped his hands, delighted as a child:
"Wonderful! Now the first thing you must learn is how
to say my first name correctly-was
"Major."
"What is it?"
"There's one subject you overlooked."
"Yes?"
She patted the cot.
He turned red again. "I make no demands there,
Senora. Clean smalling clothes and a hot meal at
night will satisfy me."
"Then you're one of a kind."
He shrugged, almost scarlet. "I am what I
am."
"Don't you like women?"
He looked at her steadily.
"Some women."
She honestly didn't know what to make of
Cordoba. At the moment, he resembled a shy
boy more than a man. At least he didn't frighten
her any longer, and to be free of fear even for a little
while was welcome.
He cleared his throat. "Uh-senora-my name-was
"Oh yes, I'm sorry. Tell me what it
is."
"It is Luis."
"Luis," she repeated.
"Good, that's just right-was
Still flushed, he pulled out a cheap pocket
watch, then began buttoning his uniform blouse
hastily.
"I don't think you'll find me too unpleasant.
I am not a violent man. I am a narrow one,
I regret to say. All my adult life has
been spent in the army. I've had no time for other
pursuits-nor any interest in them. But you know
something? The older I grow-the more I see of the
politicians who direct any army-the more I
wonder whether I should have done something else with my
life. Campaigning's no pleasure under a man like
His Excellency."
As he finished dressing, he added in an
apologetic way, "I trust you won't attempt
to escape while I'm gone."
"No, I won't." She stretched; wriggled her
shoulders, thankful that the aches were lessening.
"You'll have many an opportunity in the weeks
ahead. You won't be guarded, or even watched very
much-was
"Major, you saved my life."
He waved. A shade too quickly, she thought. "For
purely practical purposes, I assure you."
"Even so, I owe you something for that. And I made a
bargain. I'll live up to it."
"I do think I should station a corporal's guard
outside for a few days. For the sake of appearance-was
"Go ahead if you want. I'm going to lie down for a
little. Then I'll tidy up the bed, and try to find
some branches to sweep this place out."
"Please, senora-just rest. You have seen horrible
sights today. There is no need to busy yourself so
soon."
"Yes there is," she said softly. "If I work,
maybe I'll forget what I saw."
His eyes met hers, large and melancholy.
"Do you honestly think that's possible, Senora?"
"No. But God forgive me, I wish it were."
"So do I."
They stood a moment longer, staring at one another.
Then Luis Cordoba snatched up his shako and
batted dust off the pompom. After a last look at
the bedraggled woman in the center of the sunlit
marquee, he touched respectful fingers to his brow
and went out.
The Camp Follower
THE ARMY MOVED EASTWARD,
and Amanda with it. Cordoba brought her word of
terrified Texans fleeing ahead of the Mexican
force. The major said Sam Houston himself
had ordered the retreat, fearing more slaughter of the kind
that had taken place at the Alamo. Susannah
Dickinson and the two blacks had evidently reached
Gonzales with an account of the massacre.
The weather was rainy and miserable. Trudging in mud
beside the wagon carrying Major Cordoba's
marquee and equipment, Amanda saw frequent
signs that the spirit of resistance had been broken.
Homesteads, abandoned and torched, billowed black
clouds into the gray sky. Herds of cattle broke
the horizon-line and trembled the earth, set free as
their owners piled belongings on muleback, left their
small ranches and hurried east.
The village of Gonzales was still smoldering when
Santa Anna rode in at the head of his host.
Amanda walked wide-eyed through the dirt streets,
listening to the talk of the
soldaderas.
Houston had insisted on burning Gonzales so there
would be no shelter for Santa Anna's troops, the
woman said.
But a few rickety buildings survived. In the
doorway of one, an old blind woman, an
American, listened to the clatter of the army passing,
clutched a mangy white cat to her breast
and wept.
Amanda was some distance down the street when she
heard a shot. She looked back. The doorway was
empty. One of the
soldaderas,
surrounded by laughing friends, was waving a pistol-
"General Urrea has taken Colonel Fannin
at Goliad," Cordoba told her two days after
Palm Sunday. Amanda already felt bad enough without
hearing that. Her period had come. She was miserable from
the stickiness and chafing of the rags tied beneath her
dress.
"Fannin was the one who should have come to the aid of the
mission, wasn't he?"
Amanda nodded in a dull way.
"They say he had four hundred men when he was
captured. Palm Sunday morning, they all thought
they were being paroled. A detachment of Urrea's
troops took them to a woods near the village.
Urrea had other men hidden among the trees.
Fannin and his four hundred were shot to death." There was
no satisfaction in Cordoba's voice when he
said it.
Amanda lost track of the days. Rain fell
intermittently, sometimes a shower, sometimes a
torrent. The drenched plains took on a wearying
sameness. The Texans were still reported in wild
flight. Santa Anna was in high spirits, confident
he'd catch the rebel leaders before they reached the
sanctuary of American soil beyond the Sabine.
March became April, but Amanda was hardly aware
of it. Constant bad news only compounded the weariness
produced by the hard routine of the march.
She rose before dawn every day, stiff from sleeping on
blankets laid at the foot of Cordoba's
cot. Her first chore was to go outside to the communal
cook fire, jostle a place among the other camp
followers and begin brewing the major's coffee.
At first she had been crowded away from the fire.
Taunted with obscene remarks. Even threatened. A
couple of incidents in which she'd used her nails,
her teeth and her fists to defend herself put an end
to the
harassment The other
soldaderas
never spoke to her directly. But they allowed her
room to work.
After breakfast, she was expected to help
Cordoba's orderly strike the marquee and pack
it for transportation in the baggage wagon.
All day she followed the wagon on foot, breaking
the routine occasionally by dropping back to the wagons
of the civilian sutlers.
With money Cordoba had given her, she bargained for
food. She refused the tainted meat always offered
first, and demanded fresh. She swore and gestured and
haggled until the inflated price came down to a
satisfactory level. Here, at least, her
experience on a farm and at the hotel made her the
equal of most of the other women-and superior to some.
Quite a few of the
soldaderas
were young girls, unlred and ignorant of the fact that the
sutlers routinely tried to sell spoiled food at
ten times its worth.
She did get a rest every afternoon. War or no war, the
Mexicans demanded a siesta. But as soon as the
army camped for the night, work began again.
She prepared the major's evening meal. And whenever
there was a stream nearby, she carried his laundry
there, washing it with yellow soap that left her hands
raw. She slapped the clothes damp dry on
stones, Indian fashion.
Illness was still rampant in the army. So once a
week, she insisted on plunging the
major's wash into a kettle of boiling water. She
boiled his drinking water as well. Although these
unusual procedures elicited more laughter from the
camp women, Cordoba remained healthy while many
of his fellow officers succumbed to dysentery.
She spent a considerable amount of time polishing
boots and uniform buttons. Cordoba was almost
fanatic about a neat appearance-a reaction, she
suspected, to the sloth and disorder prevalent in the
camp. Cordoba's gleaming leather and metal were an
expression of his
outrage-and one of the few aspects of a chaotic world
that he could control absolutely.
There was one part of the
soldadera
routine in which Amanda refused to participate, though.
Every night, the women worked together to dig open trenches.
Whenever they had to relieve themselves, they squatted
over the trenches like so many hens, chatting amiably with
their skirts hiked above their waists and their bottoms
clearly in view.
Perhaps because of her city upbringing, Amanda couldn't
expose herself that way.. She had to seek the
privacy of a grove of trees, or at least some
shrubs. Occasionally, the lack of such
foliage near the campsite kept her in
excruciating pain while she waited for darkness.
The other women laughed about her fastidiousness, just as
they laughed about her cooking of the clothes. One
soldadera
in particular seemed not just scornful, but hostile.
This was the coarse-faced young woman with the mole; the
girl Amanda had encountered in the street the morning
after the massacre.
Now and again Amanda would run into the girl at the
sutler's or along a creek at laundry time,
and the girl would be sure Amanda heard some
particularly filthy reference to her parentage, or
her relationship with Cordoba.
Each time, Amanda met the girl's ugly gaze
squarely comalm daring her to lay hands on her. But
she didn't. Amanda asked a few questions of
Cordoba's men and learned that the girl lived with a
captain of the artillery. For a woman belonging to a
man of lesser rank to attack the
soldadera
of a senior officer was a violation of the camp's rough
protocol; and it was that which kept the girl's
hostility from degenerating into the physical. But
Amanda was sure the ranks of their
respective men fueled the girl's fury; she was
probably jealous of an Anglo woman enjoying the
favors of a major.
If the girl only knew! Amanda thought. During
their first weeks together, Cordoba didn't so much as
touch her.
She had frankly expected him to order her into his
bed, despite what he'd said that first day. But he
treated her with punctilious politeness. He
complimented her often, praising the flour biscuits
she baked, or the whiteness of his dress shirts:
"I swear to heaven, no man ever had a better
soldadera.
You take to this life as if you were born to it."
"I wasn't, and I don't like it."
"Nevertheless, you're extremely skilled."
She shrugged. "All it takes is making up your
mind."
In response to his puzzled frown, she
elaborated:
"I didn't have a lot of schooling, Luis. And
what I did have, I didn't care for very much. But
when I was growing up, I managed to learn something
that's as important as what they teach in
classrooms."
"What is that?"
"I can do almost anything I want if I want to do
it badly enough."
"Such confidence!"
"I'm not trying to brag-the same thing's true of
most people. They just don't want to put forth the effort,
that's all. When I was young, I lived for a while with a
tribe of the Sioux-was
His mouth dropped open. "With
Indians?"
"Yes."
"You continually astonish me, Amanda. Do go on."
"I was the property of one of the dog soldiers-the
warriors who police the buffalo hunts.
To satisfy the man I lived with-and keep him from
hurting me-I had to learn how to make love like a
grown woman- when I wasn't much more than twelve
years old. I had to learn to broil the meat of a
buffalo hump the way he liked it. I'd never
cooked anything in my life-but I learned because it was
necessary. And because I didn't
want to seem weaker than the Sioux women, I
learned every game they played-and practiced until
I was better than they were. The man I stayed with
was so proud of me, he ordered his first wife
out of his tepee forever. And whenever white traders
came to the village, he put guards over me and
kept me hidden. He was afraid I might be
stolen away-was
"I trust you were appropriately flattered."
"Yes-but maybe not for the reason you think. Not because of
vanity. His attitude showed me I'd done what
I set out to do. Survive. Even thrive. The
man I was living with was killed, and I left the
Sioux. But before I went, the old chief-the father of
my man-told me he'd never seen a Sioux girl
who could play the double-ball game comhandle the
rawhide and the sticks-as well as I did. He
couldn't give a higher compliment to any woman. The
point is, I don't think learning the game took
special talent. Just the will to do it."
"I think you underestimate your abilities."
"Will counts for a lot in this world, Luis. I'll
trade money or education for will anytime."
Cordoba was silent. There was a look akin to awe
on his swarthy face.
His reticence about sex continued to bother her. At
night, he seldom glanced her way as she brushed
her hair and prepared for bed. She slept in the
same black silk dress she wore all
during the day. Could that be part of the trouble? she
wondered. The dress, clean but ragged now, struck
her as decidedly unfeminine.
One warm evening in the first week of April, she was
awake long after Cordoba had fallen asleep on
the cot. She moved her head from side to side,
uttering a small sigh once in a while. There was a
tightness in her body that she couldn't deny.
Jaimie de la Gura had been dead a long time.
And there had only been a very few men since then; an
occasional customer of Gura's Hotel to whom she
took a fancy. The last one, a wandering trader
bound for Taos, had slept in her arms more than
half a year ago.
She alone was responsible for the unsatisfied
hunger, she knew. It was ironic-the brothel
madam who could no longer give herself casually. She
had given herself that way early in her life, when it was
necessary to use her good looks and her sex for
survival. But after Jaime, she changed. Without a
basic liking for the partner, she was unwilling-even though
her body made its need manifest in aches and
sleeplessness.
The need this particular night grew almost unbearable.
She finally rose on one elbow; whispered
softly in the darkness:
"Luis?"
The major answered with an exhausted snore. She
stretched out again, uncomfortable and unhappy. She had
come to like Cordoba. But beyond that, his lack of interest
made her feel there must be something wrong with her.
True, she was duty and unkempt most of the time. That
didn't seem to make any difference to other men in the
army, though. They rutted with women who smelled like a
sty.
Cordoba stirred. Said something in his sleep. She
propped herself on her elbow again, listening.
The major was mumbling a name. Her heart beat a
little faster in the hope that it might be hers-
A moment later, she was ashamed of the foolish
conceit. She slid her hands down her belly,
pressing her palms against herself. She couldn't go to the
cot and waken him now. She knew it would have made
him miserable afterward.
In torment, she lay still. It was an hour or more before
she fell asleep and dreamed erotic dreams that
left her grumpy in the morning.
II
The army marched into San Felipe on the Brazos
on the seventh of April. Once more the
Texans were gone, though Cordoba said scouts had
sighted Houston and three or four hundred men
downriver at Thompson's Ferry.
That the tiny Texas army Jhad recently been in
San Felipe was evident when Amanda went down
to the Brazos in the red twilight. Carrying
Cordoba's laundry, she passed two
pirogues with their bottoms staved in. The prow of a
third poked up from reeds near the shore. Houston
had destroyed any craft the Mexicans might
use to cross the rain-swollen river.
Up and down the bank, chattering
soldaderas
kneaded and pounded their men's clothing. As Amanda
walked by a group of four, she noticed the girl with the
mole. Kneeling in the mud, the young woman stared at
her.
Amanda hurried on. She heard the girl and her
companions talking. Suddenly she yelped, stumbling
as a stone struck the back of her head.
She dropped Cordoba's shirts and underdrawers in
the mud; turned; saw the girl wiping her hands on
her blouse.
The girl hoisted her skirt and began tucking it
into the rope belt she wore, unconcerned
about revealing her grimy thighs and a black tangle
above. One of the older
soldaderas
caught her arm:
"Ah, let the white slut alone, Manuela.
She behaves herself-was
"Which is more than can be said for your friend!" Amanda
called, rubbing her scalp, then bending to retrieve
the laundry.
Head lowered, Manuela started walking toward her.
Amanda wondered why the young woman looked even more
haggard than usual.
"I'm sick of seeing her parade herself,"
Manuela said to her companions. "She thinks she's
a queen, living with a major only a step away
now, Manuela reached out and twisted a lock of
Amanda's hair around a stubby finger. She breathed out
the smell of wine as she went on:
"But she's an ice queen, this one. I have a friend who
belongs to a sergeant in one of Cordoba's
platoons-Amanda said, "Let go," then pulled
back. But Manuela held the lock of hair.
Amanda winced.
"comand I hear Cordoba's marquee is silent
all night long. Never any sounds of
pleasure. Just the ice queen farting in her sleep."
Amanda's cheeks darkened as she realized she'd been
spied on. She supposed she should have expected it.
Manuela kept winding the strand of hair tighter
around her finger:
"Probably the major regrets taking an
Anglo into his tent. Anglos are as weak between the
legs as they are in then bellies-was
Amanda wrenched suddenly, tearing away. Manuela
stepped back with a curse. Then she squatted,
fingers digging in the mud until they closed on a
pointed stone.
A barking dog and half a dozen ragged boys from
San Felipe came running along the
sunset-reddened bank, drawn by the promise of a
fight. Amanda's stomach flipflopped. Manuela
meant to do her physical harm-
"You'd better get her away," Amanda warned the
other three women. "I don't want a quarrel.
But if she pushes it-was
"Yes? What will you do?" Manuela demanded. She
spat. "Nothing!"
"She lost her captain three days ago," one of the
older women blurted. "He was knifed in an
argument over cards-was
Amanda understood the reason for the girl's haggard
look. But that didn't lessen her fear. Manuela
held out the rock, showing Amanda the point:
"After I finish with this, the major will need another
companion."
"I don't think so."
"I do. He may be surprised when I come back
in your place. But I don't think he'll be
disappointed. I think he'll welcome a woman
who knows how to spread herself properly."
Amanda's racing mind sorted the ways she might
deal with the situation. Appealing to logic wouldn't work.
Manuela obviously had a gut hatred of
Texans. And now the loss of her captain had
removed any reason for restraint.
The boys had stopped nearby, smirking and nudging
one another in anticipation. Manuela shuffled
forward again, her bare feet squishing in the mud:
"The fact of it is, I need a man. I'm sure
you won't mind surrendering yours since you bring him
no happiness-was
Determined to try to bluff her way out, Amanda said,
"Unless you want to get hurt, leave me alone."
"Perhaps if you beg me, Anglo."
"Beg!
The hell I will, you--" Unthinkingly, she resorted
to the kind of slur she would never have used when she was
calm: "comy greaser bitch."
Manuela licked her lower lip. "I am going
to make you hurt for that, Anglo."
"All right." Amanda nodded. "Turn your wolf
loose."
"What?"
"I mean go ahead and fight. You'll wish you
hadn't."
Briefly startled, Manuela laughed with false
bravado:
"Eh, the ice queen shows a little fire! What are
you going to use to fight me?" She ground her heel
on one of Cordoba's shirts. "Dirty
laundry?"
Before Amanda was quite prepared, the girl rushed
her. The point of the stone slashed toward Amanda's
eye.
Amanda lunged aside, lost her footing in the mud.
As she fell to her knees, the stone raked her
temple. A second later she felt the trickle
of warm blood above her eyebrow.
(snarling obscenities, Manuela jumped around
behind her. She seized Amanda's hair with
one hand, used the other to smash the stone against her
scalp. Amanda pitched forward, gasping. Manuela
stepped on the back of her neck, driving her face
into the mud.
Sputtering and fighting for air, Amanda rolled
aside frantically as the young girl started to kneel
on her stomach. Mud clogged her eyes, her
nostrils. But somehow she avoided the next swipe
of the rock and kept rolling-straight into the shallows
of the river.
Manuela stormed after her, kicking up droplets
that glowed red in the sunset. The dog was barking
loudly. The boys clapped and encouraged
Manuela, who struck for Amanda's head again.
Amanda grabbed Manuela's forearm with both hands,
jerked it to her mouth and bit. Manuela squealed.
Amanda shoved her backward. The stone almost slipped
from the younger woman's grasp, but she caught it.
Soaked and moving slowly because of it, Amanda still
managed to get behind the girl and use her own tactic
coma yank of the hair. But Manuela was strong;
strong enough to slither free and spin, hacking at
Amanda's face with the rock.
Amanda dodged again, laced her hands together, kicked
Manuela's leg. The girl doubled over.
Amanda's locked hands came down on Manuela's
exposed neck with terrific force.
Crying out in real pain, Manuela sprawled face
first in the shallows. The stone flew from her fingers,
splashed and disappeared under the water. Amanda
thought about calling a halt. But if she did, she'd
never be safe in the encampment. She had to defeat the
Mexican girl completely; decisively-
She gazed around for a weapon. Something Manuela had
said came to mind. She darted for the bank, grabbed one
of Cordoba's shirts, dipped it in the water and
lashed Manuela's cheek.
Floundering in the shallows, Manuela cried out. She
tried to grab Amanda's leg. Amanda whipped the
girl's face again. Again. Her eyes were red with the
glare of the sunset as she struck-
She laid ten, twelve, fifteen strokes on
Manuela's face, neck and shoulders. When the
shirt showed blood, she stopped. Whimpering,
Manuela crawled away in the water-
Amanda was shaking. She stumbled up the bank. The
boys and Manuela's companions stared at her in
amazement.
She wiped her brow with a soaked sleeve, then stared
at the blood from the cut over her eye.
She dropped the shirt she'd used as a whip,
retrieved the rest of Cordoba's laundry.
Manuela was still on her knees in the water, shaking
her head in a groggy way. Amanda hooked a toe
beneath the bloody, ruined garment, and kicked it toward
Manuela's three companions:
"Clean her up. And tell her the major has a
lot of other shirts."
Walking as steadily as she could, she moved on down
the bank in the stillness.
II
"God above, what happened to you?" Cordoba
exclaimed when she entered the marquee sometime later,
the clean laundry bundled under one arm.
She put the laundry on the washstand, her hand none
too steady. "Nothing," she said. "I'm all right."
Cordoba was bare-chested. The black hair below his
throat showed glints of sweat in the light of the hanging
lantern. At the waist of his trousers, his stomach
bulged. He laid a palm over the roll of fat,
as if ashamed to have her see.
She sank down on the cot. "I'm afraid I
lost one of your best shirts, though."
Cordoba seemed not to hear. "How did you cut your
forehead?"
"It isn't important."
"I insist that you answer." She didn't. "At
least let me find some alcohol-was
"No, I only need to rest a minute."
"Damn you, woman! Tell me who hurt you and
I'll see him flogged!"
If she hadn't been so spent, she would have laughed.
The major looked furious.
"Not
he,"
she said. "It was one of the
soldaderas.
She won't bother me again." Her generous mouth
curved in a wry smile. "She had designs on
you. She lost her own man, and-well, let's just
say she wasn't thinking very clearly."
She lay back. Closed her eyes. She sensed
Cordoba crouching down beside her.
"I still want to know the woman's name. I intend
to see her punished."
"It's not necessary, Luis-I took care of it."
"You might have been killed!"
"I wasn't."
She studied him. His deep-set eyes seemed
unusually dark in the shadows beneath his brows.
Teasing, she added:
"Maybe you would have preferred her. She claimed she
could please a man better than I do."
Cordoba gathered both her hands in his. She
felt the weight of his forearm against her left breast.
She was touched by the almost child-like tenderness of his
expression:
"You have pleased me more than any woman I have ever
known, Amanda. You have made this filthy campaign
bearable. Brought me comfort just with your presence. You know
I'm poor at talking like a romantic-I am a
soldier. I'm trying to say you are the dearest-was
Swallowing, he stopped. The familiar redness tinted
his cheeks again.
She smiled. "But I don't seem very good at
giving a man what he wants most from a
soldadera
-" She was only partly teasing now. His closeness-the
warmth and hardness of his arm-stirred something in her that was
part passion, part hunger for reassurance. "I've
really wondered why you never touch me."
"Because-was His eyes brimmed with pain. "Because I have a
wife."
He bowed his head.
She reached her right hand across her breast;
ran the palm down the faint stubble on his face.
"I know that, Luis."
He jerked back. "You
know-?"
"Well, I guessed. One night, in your sleep,
you spoke a woman's name several times. I
decided it was the name of a sweetheart or, more
likely, your wife."
Each word cost him effort: "I have wanted you very much,
Amanda. But I dared not ask-was
"Always so honorable-was Gently, she touched his
forehead. "That's a terrible burden to bear in a
dishonorable world."
"I told you before-I can't help what I am. I
know I must go home to my wife in the capital one
day-was
"That could be a long time in the future."
He said nothing.
"Do you have children?"
"Alas, no."
"Well, I wouldn't want you to do anything that would
make you feel ashamed later-was
"Stop!" he exclaimed. "It's only on your
account that I've held back. You're a beautiful
woman-and a decent one. If you were just a
camp whore, I'd have taken you and thought nothing of it.
Well-almost nothing. You deserve better. I could
never dishonor you with lies. False promises-was
"I don't need promises, Luis. I just need
you."
Again he averted his head:
"Sometimes I wish I'd never seen you. But I
did. And I have come to-to love you with all my
being. More than I have ever loved any woman." He
raised his head. "Any woman."
"If that's how you feel, nothing else is necessary.
Blow out the lamp and lie down with me-was
She saw the dawning wonder in his eyes. Wonder
mingled with suffering. He was still agonized by what he had
revealed about himself. She tried to relieve his
conscience with a light tone:
"It is about time you treated me as a proper camp
follower! Besides, I'm too sore to sleep on the
ground one more night."
Slowly, slowly, a smile forced itself across his mouth.
A tentative smile that turned to joy as he reached
upward for the lantern.
iv
Li the darkness, he cursed, then apologized.
He'd tangled his feet in his breeches as
he pulled them off.
He lowered himself beside her on the narrow cot, touching
her cheek almost hesitantly. She circled his
neck with her arms, turning her head to the proper
angle for a kiss.
When their lips touched, much of Cordoba's
restraint disappeared. He pressed his mouth hard
against hers. She felt his yearning in the sudden clasp
of his arms beneath her back-
He murmured her name over and over as they
embraced. He spoke lovely, courtly
Spanish as he caressed her body. She sighed with
pleasure when his hands closed on her bare breasts.
A moment later, she maneuvered beneath him, guiding
him and laughing when he gasped at her boldness. He
entered her gently, although his breathing roared loud as a
storm in her ear. When she urged him to speed, he
complied, and with each quickening movement of his body, she
understood again that this was no weak man, only one who was
tender and humane in a world that sometimes derided those
virtues. With the straining of her own flesh, the
movement of her hands, the press of her mouth, she
tried to show him that she admired and prized what he
was.
He was quicker than she, bursting
into apologies afterward. She stilled them with a kiss,
then drew him into the curve of her arm. Holding him
close, she murmured that, before the night ended, there
would be another time. A better one-
"Oh," he said, alarmed, "I don't know if that's
possible for me-was
"It is. You'll see."
She caught the sound of a boot scraping in the dirt
street outside. Another eavesdropper?
She felt sorry for him, whoever he was.
Skulking in the April dark, he could only hear the
sounds of lovemaking. He would never imagine the
sense of completion and peace and-yes, admit
it-affection that warmed her soul after long, long months
of privation.
After that night, Manuela never bothered her again.
An even happier result was the change in her
relationship with Cordoba.
Before, their conversations had been largely
superficial: the events of the day's march; the
suspected position of Sam Houston's little army;
the latest example of incompetence or dishonesty on
the senior staff. But once they had shared each
other's embraces, she and the major wanted to share the
whole sum of themselves as well-their hopes and
histories; their dreams and disappointments.
As the army worked its way south toward Thompson's
Ferry, their evening lovemaking usually ended not in
langorous slumber but in quiet conversation. Nights
when they were both too tired, conversation sufficed.
The only subject Cordoba wouldn't discuss was his
wife. Otherwise, he held nothing back. What
he had said about himself was true: his background-his
world- was limited to soldiering.
He had been born in Veracruz, the fourth of his
father's children, and the only son. He was a young
subaltern in the army when the political upheavals
began in the 1820's. His father, a prosperous
importer, remained loyal to Spain. After much
painful deliberation, Luis Cordoba put himself
on the side of independence, helping to overthrow the
Spanish government, then that of the professed
revolutionary Iturbide, who had turned on his
separatist followers and maneuvered himself into the role
of emperor.
Iturbide had been deposed in 1823. A year
later, a revised, democratic Mexican
constitution began luring the Anglo-American
empresarios
to Texas. Through it
all, Cordoba said, he had remained loyal
to Mexico first and the army second:
"When the separatist movement developed, I had the
highest of hopes. I thought that, at last, I could
fight for something other than simple military
victory. For principle. Over the years I've
learned how easily principle can be crushed by those with
ambition. Now I'm virtually back where I
started-obeying orders. Hoping to win if there's an
engagement. Not daring to look too deeply into why
we're fighting. A man can die in many ways, you
know. Death in battle is perhaps the most final, but the
least grievous. It's much worse to struggle for a
cause, then perceive that you've struggled for nothing. I
felt that way-cheated; dead-when His Excellency
jettisoned the constitution."
"There's no hope of unseating Santa Anna?"
"Next to none. He's firmly entrenched.
God-what a poltroon he is! In its short
history, your country has been fortunate to escape
his kind, Amanda."
"Oh, we've had our share of poltroons, I
think-was She shook her head. "I get such an odd
feeling when you speak about the United States."
"Odd? What do you mean?"
"It is my country. Yet sometimes it doesn't
seem so any longer. My grandfather did fight in the
Revolution-was
"Did he! And survived?"
"Yes, though he was wounded. He limped for the rest of
his life."
"The Americans have a positive passion for
rebellion! Even more so than those of us south of the
Rio Grande, I think."
"That isn't always a good thing, Luis. Do you know that
when we fought Britain again, twenty-five years
ago, several of the northern states wanted to secede
because they hated the war? And four years ago-I
remember being shocked when I read it in the papers-
"It means a state placing itself above the law of the
country. South Carolina didn't like one of the
government's tariffs. So the state legislature
nullified it. Said it didn't apply to South
Carolina. Old Hickory-was
"The president, Jackson?"
"Yes. He said it did, because no state could declare
itself separate from the union. He promised to send in
troops if South Carolina continued to disagree. The
state gave in. I suppose that was proper. I
remember hearing my father say that once the
country was formed, no one could tear it apart. I
didn't understand-I imagined huge ditches in the
earth. Now I know what he meant comand how serious the
question is."
"Your country is still divided on at least one great
issue. South Carolina nearly left the union
because of Nullification."" I don't know the term."
"You mean slavery?"
He nodded.
"That's where our passion for rebellion as you call it
could prove our undoing," she said in a somber way.
"There are people in the east-mainly in New York and
Boston-who call themselves abolitionists. They want
to do away with slavery completely. The south can't
afford that. There's trouble coming-you can tell even by reading
the papers out here."
Boston, Amanda revealed, was the city in which she'd
grown up. She had lived in a splendid house
owned by Gilbert Kent, her father, a well-to-do
printer of books and newspapers.
Gilbert Kent had died at a relatively young
age, leaving Amanda in the care of her pretentious and
somewhat unstable mother, Harriet. Gilbert's widow
had made a poor choice of a second husband-a
wastrel named Piggott. He had succeeded
in gambling away
most of the family's assets, including the printing
house, Kent and Son.
"The loss was probably no accident, I learned
later. My cousin Jared-the son of my father's
half-brother Abraham-served in the navy in the
1812 war. There was an officer aboard Jared's
ship-Stovall, his name was-who fancied boys and
men in preference to women-was
Cordoba snorted in disgust
"Jared got in a scrape with Stovall. Injured
Stovall's face-scarred it. Permanently. The
man never forgot. After the war, he came to Boston
in secret. He was the one to whom my stepfather lost
Kent's."
"You think this Stovall planned it? Maneuvered your
stepfather into a game and cheated him?"
"Fm almost certain of it. Anyway, my cousin had
a terrible temper in those days. He set fire to the
printing house and shot and killed Stovall's general
manager, a man called
Waltham-Walpole-something like that."
"In heaven's name, why take vengeance on some
flunky?" Cordoba exclaimed.
"Jared didn't intend to-he was aiming for
Stovall."
"And so those tragic circumstances marked the end of the
family business?"
"I've no way of knowing. Books are fairly
scarce out here-especially among poor people. Now and
then I've asked questions. No luck. Besides, if the
firm burned to the ground, it might not have been
rebuilt at all. But I never heard that Stovall
had any connection with publishing. His family
operated an iron works of some kind."
"How about the fellow himself? Is he living?"
"There again, I've been too busy staying alive
to look into it-and I'm not trying to be clever saying that.
It's God's truth. I haven't had the money-or
the necessary eastern contacts-for making an inquiry. I
know our family employed a Boston law firm,
but the name is another of those details that's
completely disslipped away
from me. Sometimes, I think Fm much better off
leaving the whole question alone. I'm afraid that if I
learned Stovall was still alive, I'd spend all
my energy on schemes to repay him."
"You have a deep hatred of him, obviously-was
"Without ever having set eyes on him. If he
hadn't lured my stepfather into a gambling
game with the firm at stake, my mother might have lived.
She died the same day Jared burned Kent's and
shot the general manager."
"How did she die?"
"She was run down by a dray right-in front of our
house on Beacon Street. Everyone called that an
accident too, but my mother's second husband caused
it. My mother had a fight with Piggott. He told
her he'd lost the printing house. She rushed out,
intending to go straight to the firm. She stumbled on the
curb-the drayman couldn't stop in time-was
Amanda paused, re-living the scene in her mind.
Cordoba whispered a word of sympathy. She let
a shudder work itself out, then went on:
"That same night, Jared crept back to Beacon
Street and told me what had happened. That he'd
set fire to the firm because he couldn't stand the thought of
someone like Stovall taking over what the Kents had
worked so hard to build."
"This Jared sounds like a headstrong sort. Did he
have no one to discipline him?"
"No. My mother tried, but she and Jared despised
one another."
"What became of his parents?"
"Abraham, his father, tried to homestead in
Ohio. Jared's mother was killed there. By Indians.
Abraham gave up and came home. A few
months later, he disappeared completely. I
remember very little about him except that he was a
noisy, quarrelsome man. His loud voice frightened
me. He was drunk most of the time, I
think-anyway, the night the printing house burned,
Jared convinced me that we had to leave Boston together.
We had no one except each other, and he was
afraid of being arrested for murder. We started for
New Orleans. I can't remember much about the
early part of the trip, except that it was winter. We
were always half frozen,, and half starved. We met
a few kind people. I recall one little girl named
Sarah, in Kentucky-her mother and father were farmers.
They treated us well and helped Jared recover from a
sickness. We didn't get far after we left
Knob Creek, though. Only to Tennessee-was
From the pain of the past, she summoned the rest of it:
her rape and abduction by the bogus preacher,
Blackthorn, who sold her in St. Louis to a
trader named Maas. He in turn sold her to a
warrior of the Teton Sioux, a young, not unhandsome
man whose Indian name translated to Plenty
Coups:
"Some of this you've already heard-was
Cordoba grinned. "How you were experienced with men
at age twelve, for example? I'm certainly
fortunate to have the benefit of all that training-was
She pinched him. "I didn't ask for it, Luis!
I was pretty well filled out by the time I was
twelve-was
He rolled his tongue in his cheek. "That is not hard
to imagine."
"Oh, be serious! Do you want to hear this or don't
you?"
"I do. Please continue."
"Being a woman was the only weapon I had when I
was sold to the Sioux. If I hadn't used it, I
would have been treated a lot worse by Plenty
Coups."
"How long did you stay with the Indians?"
"Eight-no, closer to nine years. Like you, I never
had any children. For some reason, Plenty Coups
couldn't."
"I'd say you were lucky to survive such an
experience."
Tve told you before, it wasn't all luck."
"Ah, yes. The old chiefs compliment when you
left-was
"Determination was only part of it. Something else
helped me get through those years-and the ones since.
Somehow I've always been blessed with almost perfect
health. I never realized how precious that was-how
rare among women especially-until I saw all
the sick squaws in Plenty Coups" village.
Work and childbirth and white men's diseases killed more
of them than I can remember-was
She told him the rest on succeeding evenings: how
Plenty Coups had been injured in a fall from his
horse as he rode in to strike a huge bull
buffalo with his coup stick during a hunt. Three
weeks later-just about the time, they figured out, that
Iturbide had been at the height of his power as
Emperor Augustin I of Mexico comshe was a
widow.
A month after Plenty Coups' death, a party
representing John Astor's American Fur
Company had visited the tribe.
"Jaimie de la Gura, my husband, was one of
those men. The American and French winterers and the
Dela-wares who worked with them called him Spanish
Jim. He was very handsome-was
Cordoba pulled a face. "More handsome than I?"
"Just about the same." She leaned up to kiss
his lips.
"You told His Excellency your husband came from
New Orleans-was
"That's right. His father was quite well off. Ran an
elegant coffee house. But that was when he was older.
Civilized, you might say. There was a wild streak
in the de la Gura family. Jaimie's father
came by most of his money running slaves with the
Lafitte brothers. He wanted Jaimie to enter
the clergy or perhaps study law. Jaimie wouldn't do
either. He didn't like town living very much. He ran
away up the Mississippi when he was eighteen,
went to work for a fur trader in St. Louis, and
traveled west from there-was
"To find you in the Sioux village."
"Yes. I was allowed to be seen by white men after
Plenty Coups died. Jaimie took a liking
to me. He asked me to go with him-and he was willing
to pay the old chief in trade goods for my
freedom. My life with the tribe had come to a kind
of ending, so I said I'd go. Jaimie was ten years
older than I was. A good man."
"And obviously one of impeccable taste."
She laughed. "We were married in St. Louis. We
spent our honeymoon in a real hotel, with
solid walls, and beds with the most marvelous sheets
and blankets -I'd forgotten what that sort of
existence was like. Jaimie still didn't care for it,
though. And he was too independent to work for one
employer very long. He didn't keep on as a
trapper because he felt the life was too hard for a
woman. We went south. He worked at odd
jobs-we covered a lot of territory before he
finally decided we should come to Texas and try
farming."
She described the events that had led to Jaimie's
death and her subsequent venture with the hotel:
"So you can see Fve done a good many things in
thirty-three years, Luis-some of which I'm a little
ashamed to talk about."
He brushed his mouth against her cheek, as if to dismiss
her concern. Then he shifted his position so she could
lie more comfortably. He asked:
"This Jaimie-did you really love him?"
"I think so. He was kind to me. I never felt
any great outpourings of emotion when he was alive.
But I liked him-I enjoyed being with him-at least
until things went sour for us. I mourned a long time
when he died. If that's love, then yes, I loved
him."
The major touched the rope bracelet. "Did he
give you this?"
"No, my cousin Jared did. He made it from
cordage on the
Constitution,
the frigate he served on during the
war."
"Do you know where your cousin is now?" She shook her
head. "That day in Tennessee was the last I ever saw
of him. He may be dead. He might have gone back
to Boston, though I doubt it-was
"You sound sad when you speak of this Bos- " He
had trouble pronouncing it. "Bos-ton. Do you miss
it?"
"I miss never being hungry, or cold, or
worried about
tomorrow. I sometimes feel Boston's where I belong."
"Because of the comforts?"
"No, that's not it. My father came of a very
independent, idealistic family. I can still see him
in the front sitting room one night when I was little.
He was speaking to Jared. I can't recall the exact
words, but I understood his meaning, and it made a great
impression. My father said anyone who belonged to the
Kent family had a duty in this world. A
duty to give, not just take-Lost in the reverie, she
closed her eyes. The images in her mind-a
flickering hearth; her cousin's tawny hair and
blue eyes; her father's sallow face and frail
body beside the mantel; a long, polished
muzzle-loader; a gleaming sword; a small
green bottle-were incredibly vivid:
"I can hear his voice to this day. And see the things
above the mantelpiece. A little borde of dried
East India tea my grandfather collected when the
colonists dumped the shipment in Boston harbor.
There's a sword my grandfather got from the French
general, Lafayette- and a Virginia rifle-was
She opened her eyes.
"Those things were important to my father. I remember
him saying they had to be preserved, as tokens of what
the Kents stood for. I have no idea what's become
of them-
his
"Would you like to go back and try to discover that?"
"Yes, I would. Everyone has one special dream
they
cherish, I suppose-a dream that doesn't stand a
chance
of being fulfilled. Going back to find those
things is
mine." Her smile was rueful. "I expect they were
sold for junk years ago."
"If you have such a consuming desire, I would have
expected you return to Bos-ton long before this.
You've had opportunities-was
"After Jamie died?"
"Exactly."
"I thought of it. But there's a funny kind of pride
involved, Luis. I think I told you the Kents
were once a wealthy family. I promised myself
I'd never go back unless I could be worthy of the
name."
"You mean go back as a rich woman?"
"At least well off. So I could properly face
anyone who might remember the family.
Especially that son of a bitch Stovall or his
heirs-was She paused a moment. "You probably
think I'm crazy."
"To be truthful, I should prefer to say
unrealistic."
She snuggled against the muscle of his naked arm. "I
admit it."
"Then again, perhaps I'm the one who is unrealistic.
I listen to you, and I can believe you
will
go back one day."
"I don't think I'd be a very good caretaker of those
things my father prized. The Kents are supposed to be
people who contribute, remember? I've done nothing
much but keep myself alive-was
"Nonsense, Amanda! You're a generous, loving
woman. An honorable woman! You made that clear
when you faced His Excellency-was
She laughed softly. "I love you for saying things like
that. But I'm afraid it's your heart talking, not
your head."
"It's the truth!"
"Oh, Luis, we won't really find out what we
are until it's too late to do anything about it. The
Sioux believe the only honest verdict on a
human life comes when it's all over."
"Are you saying that trying to live honorably is
useless? I can't accept that."
"I can't either-but I do believe the Sioux are right
when they claim we see ourselves imperfectly.
Untruthfully. And only someone else can judge
us-was
Quietly, Cordoba asked, "Do you mean
God?"
"The name isn't important, is it? The Mandan
Sioux, for instance, believe that when you die, a great
vine sprouts from the ground near your body. A vine
that's invisible to everyone else. The vine leads
straight up to the sky-to paradise. Your spirit
rises and begins to climb. About halfway up is the
critical point. Either you go all the way
unmolested-or great hands reach down from paradise and
break the vine, and your spirit falls back to earth,
denied heaven because you lived an unworthy life."
Amused, she added, "Can you guess who those hands
belong to?"
"Why, to whoever those Mandan call their God."
"No, to an agent of the high spirit. An intermediary."
"An Indian Christ?"
Merrily, Amanda said, "A very formidable woman."
"A
woman?
That's blasphemous!"
"I think it's delightful. I must say your
attitude's typical of men, Luis."
They laughed again, and then he returned to the original
thread of the conversation:
"Well, I can't worry about the afterlife-I have enough
problems with the present."
"And no dreams?"
There was a long moment of silence. Then:
"None that will come true. You, though-you have your
Bos-ton. Hold onto that, Amanda. You may still
see your home before that remarkable vine appears. You
have the will-was He began to stroke her hair. "Right
now, though, your home is here. If only for a short
time."
his
I sometimes wish it could be for a long time, Luis."
He pulled her closer.
"I wish that constantly, Amanda. Constantly." When
she fell asleep against him, his cheeks were wet.
VI
On the eleventh of April, Santa Anna's
troops captured a flatboat at Thompson's
Ferry. They began crossing the Brazos the
following day.
On the fourteenth, an apparition appeared on the
river coma smoke-billowing monster that chugged and
rumbled. Great revolving paddle-wheels propelled
the boat through the water. There wasn't a human being
anywhere on deck.
Infantrymen lining the banks grew terrified at the
sight-though a few had enough presence of mind
to unlimber their muskets and fire at the boxy
pilot house, where dim figures crouched over a
wheel. Amanda, watching with a group of terrified
soldaderas,
tried to calm them:
"That's no demon. It's a boat driven by an
engine."
"Engine-?"
Round, frightened eyes signaled a total lack of
comprehension.
"Well, just take my word for it-there aren't any
imps in the boat's belly. Just a machine that
moves a shaft and drives the wheels by means of
steam."
"Steam-to "
She gave up. They didn't grasp any of it
Amanda herself had never seen a steamboat before. But she
had read about them in Texas newspapers. She
knew they were changing the nation in which she'd been born;
speeding the pace of its river commerce and drawing the
frontiers closer to the cities. Fascinated, she
watched the steamboat churn by-
As its stern came into view, she noticed bright red
lettering:
YELLOW STONE
Only the night before, Cordoba had told her
Houston was using a small steam vessel of that name
to ferry his fleeing army across the Brazos. Now,
apparently, the retreat was complete-
A handful of the more courageous officers rallied some
men and rushed to a point of land where the river narrowed.
Using ropes, they tried to snare the steamboat's
smokestacks as she chugged by. Pistol shots from the
pilot house scattered the would-be ropers.
Yellow Stone
was soon gone around a bend. Amanda stood staring after
it, somehow saddened by the sight.
She turned away from the bank, still gripped by wonder
and melancholy. That marvelous boat without oars or
tow-ropes represented the world in which she'd been
born. Unbidden, dim pictures slipped through her
mind-
The cozy glow of a fire in a grate.
Ice skaters gliding in a white landscape.
While church bells pealed, she rode in a
carriage, finely dressed; recognized as
Gilbert Kent's daughter-
With a fierce shake of her head, she returned
to reality. Nothing remained of the steamboat but traces
of smoke in the sky. Her convictions about the
power of her own will seemed pathetic all at once.
Her dream of seeing Boston again was just as
insubstantial as the vanishing smoke.
vu
Late that same day, dispatch riders sped to Santa
Anna's marquee with news that the president of the
Republic of Texas, Senor Burnet, could be
caught at the
settlement of Harrisburg, a scant thirty
miles away. Before dark, His Excellency had a
picked force moving forward: seven hundred
infantry; fifty dragoons; a six-pound
cannon, the necessary wagons and, of course, the
soldaderas.
Cordoba's men-and Amanda-were with the special
detachment.
The forced march was grueling. The advance party of
dragoons reached Harrisburg the following
midnight.
No Burnet. The Texas government, such as it
was, had fled again.
And where was Houston? Somewhere up the Brazos? No
one was sure.
The Mexican citizens of Harrisburg wanted
to be helpful, but they lacked information. The
Texans who foolishly stayed behind-including three
Anglo printers still churning out English-language
newspapers-suffered arrest and maintained stoic
silence under interrogation. Santa Anna torched the
town and sent his cavalry eastward on a probing
expedition.
Again riders brought back news that whetted the
general's appetite for a final slaughter of the only
"army" that stood between him and total conquest of the
rebellious province. Houston and his men had been
sighted. Moving east-to the sanctuary of the land beyond
the Trinity River. To reach it, they would have to cross
the San Jacinto, probably at Lynch's
Ferry.
Once more the army moved with all speed. For Amanda
the march was a nightmare blur of walking, sweating,
going without meals, fording flooded creeks, struggling
to help free mired wagons-
On April the eighteenth, the Mexicans made
rendezvous with their cavalry in the town of New
Washington on Galveston Bay. His
Excellency granted his men a night's rest while
dragoon scouts combed the countryside that was cut
by river channels and bayous. On the morning of the
twentieth, the scouts galloped back
into camp at eight o'clock.
Within an hour, the drams were beating the signal
to advance.
vii
As the marquee came down, Amanda noticed how
pale Cordoba looked. She asked him why.
"Because-was He swore. The belt that held his saber
had to be loosened another notch before it would fit around
him. "combecause His Excellency is feeling so
splendid. Houston has been sighted less than
eight miles from here. But I spoke with the dragoons
myself. Houston and his men are facing us, not Lynch's
Ferry."
She shook her head. "I don't understand what's
wrong with that."
"Why, nothing!-except that we have been operating from
one assumption all along. The assumption that
Houston is in wild retreat before us. I wonder.
If he's retreating, why has he stopped?"
Cordoba drew his saber; quickly sketched a
crude map on the ground.
"Even His Excellency seems to have forgotten that we
are now separated from the main body of the army. In our
eagerness to pursue the Texans, we have left
Ses-ma with a thousand of our best at
Thompson's Ferry-was
He stabbed the sword at the ground.
"Urrea at Matagorda-was
Another stab.
"comand God knows what's become of Filisola and his
two thousand!"
Stab.
Swift strokes obliterated the map and markings as
the bugles and drums sounded. The first of the baggage
wagons began to roll.
"I wouldn't presume to advise His Excellency,
of course," Cordoba said sourly. "I only
pose the question
comare we chasing frightened men? Or being lured by clever
ones? Are we the pursuers or the pursued? I
don't like the smell one bit!"
He moved to Amanda. Swept an arm around her and
buried his mouth against the curve of her throat:
"Whatever happens, you remain with the women and the
wagons. I don't want anything to harm you."
Then he was gone through the dust behind a cantering squad
of dragoons.
She should have drawn comfort from Cordoba's concern.
Instead, she felt afraid.
Not for herself.
For him.
The Corn of San Jacinto
A MOSQUITO TICKLED Amanda's neck. She
reached up quickly and squashed it. One of the
soldaderas
sitting near her in the simmering shade of the baggage
wagon opened her eyes.
The woman saw nothing of importance. She closed
her eyes again. Perspiration trickled down
Amanda's nose. She wiped it away.
The whole camp was taking siesta; Santa Anna
had insisted. Because of the heat, the general had left his
carpeted marquee of striped silk. She could see
him stretched out beneath the great oak tree that crowned the
hilltop, his hands folded on his belly.
The oak stood approximately in the center of the
campsite chosen last evening. Around the sleeping
general, officers sat talking quietly or studying
maps. Few were as relaxed as their leader.
Major Luis Cordoba was standing up, staring toward
the forward section of the encampment. There, infantrymen
in mud-stained white fatigue suits dozed against a
semi-circular barricade of packing boxes,
pack saddles and other gear. The makeshift
breastwork was located just where the hilltop
began to slope down to a broad expanse of wild
grass.
What time was it? Amanda guessed three o'clock.
Dawn on this twenty-first of April had been clear
and beautiful. But the temperature had risen
steadily. Now the air steamed.
At nine that morning, General Cos had appeared with
an extra five hundred cavalrymen. They too
were resting, at the extreme rear of the camp. The
horses cropped grass while the men napped in
whatever shade was available.
Restless, Amanda pushed up from where she'd been
sitting. She walked to the end of the wagon. She saw
Cordoba glance her way, but the distance was too great
for her to read his expression. She assumed he was
worried.
His Excellency didn't seem worried. His
relaxed slumber was a marked contrast to his fury
at sunset yesterday -
Early on the twentieth, the Mexicans had
located Houston's force with very little trouble-almost
confirming Cordoba's fears. The
Texans-reportedly numbering only about half of
Santa Anna's fifteen hundred comhad gone
to ground in a forest of oak trees festooned
with Spanish moss. All during the afternoon, they had
refused to come out and fight.
Instead, riflemen sniped at the Mexican lines
from the gloom of the wood, and two six-pounders fired
rounds of fragmented horseshoes. Santa Anna's
sole six-pounder replied occasionally, with little
effect.
Late in the day, a Texas cavalry unit had
probed the Mexican position, only to be driven
back-without losses. Santa Anna's curses
roared through the encampment until night fell. When
Amanda and the major went to bed in his marquee after
dark, he told her that, tomorrow, His Excellency
intended to take the initiative-
If so, when? The afternoon was already waning.
From the end of the wagon, she gazed at the barricade.
Some of the infantrymen were asleep. Others were
nervously checking the mechanisms of their antique
muskets. Amanda fanned herself, dizzy all at
once. She shut her eyes; drew deep breaths
of the stale air-
The dizziness passed. She still felt uneasy. Her
loyalty really belonged to those unseen men hiding in the
wood
along Buffalo Bayou. Yet she was
deeply concerned for Cordoba, too.
The forest where the Texans hid rose at the far end
of a great meadow. Santa Anna had chosen to camp
on the hilltop because of its commanding view of the wood
and the meadow. From the barricade, his marksmen could rake
the meadow's lush grass, which in many places grew
taller than full-grown wheat.
Studying the meadow now, Amanda realized something was
wrong. The air around her was still. But the grass
stirred as if
Mown by
a gentle,
wind-
She blinked. were men moving out there?
With one hand on the wagon, she stood on tiptoe
for a better view. Along the barricade a number
of soldiers had risen and were watching the unusual
motion of the grass.
She glanced to the oak. Santa Anna's staff
showed increased activity. Men were running back and
forth between the tree and the barricade. One was
Cordoba, racing toward the oak and brandishing a
spyglass.
With a yawn, Santa Anna roused. Beyond him,, she
saw movement where the cavalrymen had been
dozing only a moment ago. Dragoons hurried
to their horses, hazy figures against a distant
growth of trees. The trees screened a swamp that
drained into the little San Jacinto River, which ran
down from the north to intersect Buffalo Bayou.
Just as she turned her attention back to the meadow, the
notes of a Mexican bugle split the drowsy
air. All the men behind the barricade scrambled up,
readying their muskets. At a place where the meadow
grass wasn't so high, Amanda glimpsed other men
advancing with rifles, and a rider jogging on a white
horse.
The riflemen quickly left the highest grass behind.
While the Mexicans took siesta, the Texans
had begun then advance-perhaps counting on the inactivity
in the enemy camp. They moved steadily toward the
base of the hill,
spreading out in a wide semicircle. The
horseman in the center of the line grew more visible
moment by moment. He towered in the saddle-
It was Sam Houston. The man the Oherokees of
eastern Tennessee had christened Raven.
Amanda had met Houston before, in Bexar. On his
last visit, he'd spent an hour in the public
bar of Gura's Hotel. He was a
strapping Scotch-Irishman, with good manners and
obvious education. Yet Amanda found there was something
primitive about him, and he seemed to defy easy
classification.
He indulged his temper as readily as he did his
intellect. He spoke of reading Julius
Caesar for relaxation, but he was so fond 'ofa
particular cussword that some Mexicans called him-and
thus any Texan-
Senor God-damn.
In the meadow, his height and the milky whiteness of his
horse Saracen identified him beyond all doubt.
An officer at the barricade bawled a command.
Muskets lifted, cracked and spurted smoke and
orange fire. The volley sent the Texans
diving for cover.
Houston wheeled his horse aside, bending low over
its neck. The infantrymen reloaded, began firing
again. Now the whole camp was in motion. Men raced
to join those already in place behind the improvised
rampart. The
soldaderas
screeched in alarm and rushed to protect their
belongings-
Amanda remained at the end of the wagon,
watching. Acrid smoke drifting along the
barricade obscured her view for a few moments.
Then she saw the meadow again. Houston's men were still
moving forward, that long, sweeping arc closing on the
base of the hill. Incredibly, the Texans had
yet to fire a single shot.
She heard music. The
tap-tap
of a drum, then a fife. The Texans were advancing
to the melody of a popular romantic ballad,
Come to the Bower.
Noise in the Mexican camp soon overpowered the
music. Men shouted orders. Hoofs thudded and gear
creaked as the cavalry milled at the rear of the
hill. In the confusion, Amanda lost sight of
Cordoba.
Running, the first Texans reached the base of the
hill. The infantrymen fired steadily. And still no
shots from the attackers-
Even as Amanda realized this, a volley thundered from the
bottom of the hill. On the barricade, a
white-suited soldier spun around and fell. From
somewhere behind the advancing line, the Texans" two
six-pounders boomed.
The fire was brutally accurate. Amanda
ducked behind the corner of the wagon as geysers of earth
erupted just in front of the breastwork. When she looked
again, she saw that a gap had been blasted in the center
of the barricade.
Behind her,
soldaderas
wailed and ran in every direction. Through the thickening
smoke, she glimpsed Santa Anna berating an
orderly. The man sprinted off-for what purpose,
she couldn't guess.
Then she heard another sound from the unseen slope of the
hill. A raw, animal sound. For a moment, the
sound made no sense-
When it did, she shuddered. The Texans were screaming
as they climbed the hillside. Shooting and screaming-
"Remember Goliad!" comthe Alamo-was
"Remember the Alamo!"
The first Texans reached the gap in the barricade and
stormed through, firing rifles and pistols point
blank at the few defenders brave enough to remain
near the opening. Bearded and dirty, the Texans
spread out, clubbing men down with rifle butts and
attacking them with knives and tomahawks.
A steady stream of Texans poured through the gap.
Others came jumping over the barricade.
Houston rode
through the opening, mounted on a bay horse now.
Evidently the white one had been shot from under him.
He fired pistols from both hands.
Amanda spun around. All across the camp, an
incredible scene of panic was unfolding. Mexicans
streamed away from the barricade. Groups of
terrified soldiers surged back and forth,
leaderless-then began to run. Not toward the barricade.
The other way.
Clouds of smoke and dust blew across the hilltop.
The dragoons were moving too. Not toward the
barricade. Away.
Under the oak, Santa Anna clambered onto a
black horse whose rein was held by the orderly she'd
seen before. Sword still sheathed, His Excellency went
galloping off toward the rear of the hill.
A Texan ball blasted the corner of the wagon.
Amanda leaped back, her cheek stabbed by flying
splinters. The fife and drum could no longer be
heard at all. The Texns were howling too loudly.
They fanned out across the hilltop, almost crazed.
They shot and cut and killed-
"Remember Goliad!"
"REMEMBER THE ALAMO!"
She saw Houston's bay stumble and fall, blood
spurting from its belly. Houston dragged himself from under
the horse, then doubled as a ball tore into his
boot. But he recovered quickly. He shot a
Mexican cavalryman out of the saddle. When the
Mexican hit the ground, Houston tore the man's
pennoned lance from his hands and stabbed it into his throat.
In seconds, Houston was mounted on the
cavalryman's horse, shoulders hunched and blood
welling from the top of his right boot-
The frightened screams of the Mexicans blended with the
howling of the Texans. The last of the Mexican
infantry broke from the barricade, flung down their
weapons and ran toward the rear. Amanda saw a boy
hardly
out of adolescence twist and raise his hands
defensively as two lanky Texans caught up
with him.
The boy shrieked, "Me no Alamo!
Me no Alam
-
His
One of the Texans disemboweled
him
with two slashes of a bowie.
The Mexicans ran-but not fast enough. They died by the
tens and twenties, shot down, clubbed down, kicked
and stepped on. Everywhere, Amanda heard the same
hysterical plea-
"Me no Alamo!
Me no Alamo!"
There were a few who didn't try to save themselves that
way. One Amanda caught sight of suddenly was
Luis Cordoba. With a small group of enlisted
men, he was attempting a pathetic defense near the
oak.
The major was surrounded by seven or eight men, most
struggling to reload their muskets as a band of
Texans charged them. Saber drawn, Cordoba
shouted for the soldiers to load more quickly. Two pitched
over, killed by pistol shots. Amanda started to run
toward the tree, dodging between bearded Americans.
One leveled his rifle at her, checking his fire
only when he saw her white skin.
Amanda had already flung herself on the ground in
anticipation of the shot. She buried her head on her
arms as other Texans behind her volleyed at a
troop of retreating cavalry. When she looked up
again, she saw that Cordoba and three other
survivors were fighting hand to hand with twice
as many opponents.
A rifle butt felled one Mexican soldier.
The other two threw down their pieces and dashed around
the tree. With all the noise, Amanda couldn't hear
what they cried. But she knew-
"Me no Alamo!"
His uniform ripped and bloody, Luis Cordoba
stood his ground. He raised his saber for a
defensive stroke. Amanda lurched to her feet,
nearly bowled over again as Houston rode past,
shouting commands.
She raced through a litter of Mexican bodies,
holding up her black silk skirt and crying
Cordoba's name. The Texans backed him toward
the oak; crowded around; wrenched the saber from his hand.
Blood smeared his forehead. His eyes were huge and
fearful suddenly-
A Texan thrust a pistol to within six inches of
Cordoba's face and pulled the trigger. The
major slammed back against the tree, his mouth gushing
blood. Amanda screamed,
"Luis!"
as he sank from sight, the back of his head leaving
blood and gray matter on the bark.
Someone grabbed her, flung her
aside-"Get out of the way, you Spanish slut!"
Two young Texans raced by as she struck the ground,
the wind knocked out of her.
Her mind burned with an image of Cordoba dying,
the victim of a code of honor that hadn't permitted
him to run or beg for mercy-even though he was more
entitled to mercy than most of those shrilling, "Me
no Alamo!"
With her cheek in the dirt, she wept for him in the
brief seconds of incredible noise-hoofs,
shrieks, shots combbf she fainted.
The battle of San Jacinto lasted no more than
twenty minutes. The pursuit and capture of the
demoralized Mexicans lasted well into the night.
Though most of the senior officers were either caught or
surrendered voluntarily, Santa Anna got
away.
Amanda was carried to a large tent erected for the use
of the Texas army's surgeon, a mild, kindly
man named Ewing. She was put on a cot among those
occupied by wounded men, some of who complained about the
presence of a woman until Ewing ordered them to be
quiet
Ewing gave her brandy and a chance to tell her story.
When he heard it, he promised he'd
arrange for her to repeat it to Houston himself after the
general awoke from the heavy sleep into which Ewing had
drugged him. Houston had lost a good deal of blood
as a result of the wound in his right leg.
Next morning, while most of the Texans were
sleeping off their raucous celebration of the victory,
Sam Houston propped himself under the oak where
Santa Anna had rested and Cordoba had died.
He began penciling dispatches to President
Burnet hiding somewhere on Galveston Island, and
to President Jackson in the east. He was still working
when a detachment returned with yet another
captive-a rather tall Mexican wearing a dirty
blue smock, leather cap and slippers of red
felt.
The man claimed to be a private who had run
away. He said he'd stolen the smock and cap from a
slave cabin in the neighborhood. He had been
discovered hiding in the sedge grass along Vince's
Bayou. He had wanted to swim across, but didn't
know how.
What made the prisoner of more than passing interest
was his cultivated speech, unusual among ordinary
line soldiers. The man was telling his story as the
detachment rode into camp. Suddenly some
soldiers imprisoned in a rope corral
exclaimed,
"El pr@esidente!"
Very shortly, the prisoner stood in front of
Houston. With a preening smile, the Napoleon of the
West admitted his identity and shrugged off the
failure of his ruse.
The Texans shouted for a lynch rope. Houston
ordered them silent. When Santa Anna requested
opium to calm his nerves, Houston had it brought from
the fallen marquee. By noon, the marquee was set
up again. Inside, the dictator got to work writing
orders that called for the total evacuation of all
Mexican troops north of the Rio Grande.
Amanda heard the story from Doctor Ewing late in
the day. He'd come into the tent where she was resting.
After describing Santa Anna's capture, he
said Houston might have a few minutes to receive her before
supper. The general was anxious to see his old
acquaintance who had been at the Alamo, then been
held captive by the Mexicans, Ewing told her.
Amanda nodded in acknowledgement, wishing she didn't
feel so dispirited. She should have been happy. Her good
friend Bowie and all the others butchered at Bexar had
been avenged. The Texans had won a
splendid victory against a force twice as large as
theirs. And done it with incredibly small
losses-six killed, two dozen wounded.
The enemy toll was more than six hundred dead and
something like twelve hundred captured. Cordoba's
prophecy had been right. Houston was a better
strategist than Santa Anna had ever
suspected-
Cordoba. She couldn't get him out of her mind.
That was the problem.
She forced herself to pay attention to Ewing; agreed with his
comment that it seemed a little unfair for Santa Anna
to be paroled and allowed to return to Mexico City.
But Houston was adamant, Ewing said. Though the new
republic of Texas had won its independence with
savage fighting, it would now conduct its affairs
honorably.
Honor. Amanda's mouth pursed in a bitter way.
Honor had earned Luis Cordoba his grave.
Puzzled by her dour mood, Ewing said, "I would
think you'd show a little more pleasure, Senora de la
Gura. You were rescued. Your own side carried the
day-was
"Don't misunderstand, doctor. I'm glad
Santa Anna was beaten. He deserves
much worse than he's getting. But you see-was She
gazed at his silhouette against the red sun visible
outside the tent.?-nothing is ever clear cut. The
Mexican officer who kept me was a fine man.
A brave one. He didn't run away yesterday.
He didn't
cower and pretend he had no part in the Alamo
killings comthough the truth is, he didn't. But he
was still shot down. And Santa Anna's alive.
I'm sorry it wasn't the other way around."
Doctor Ewing didn't know what to say. Looking
uncomfortable, he rugged out a fobbed watch:
"We'd better go. The general said five sharp."
As she started out, a young man with a bandaged leg glared
at her from an adjoining cot:
"You a Texican, woman?"
"Yes."
"Well, I heard what you said. Ill be blasted
if I can see how you'd grieve for one of those
fucking greasers. I just can't understand that at all."
"No," Amanda said, "I suppose you can't. I
don't suppose anyone can."
Her face stark, she followed Ewing into the late
afternoon heat

Amanda expected the interview with General Sam
Houston to be difficult. As she walked with
Doctor Ewing toward the oak, she saw groups of
Texans at cook fires glance her way. Some
pointed; scowled; made derogatory comments. She
tried to ignore them. Tried to walk with her head up
and her expression composed. But it took great effort.
Sam Houston saw her coming. He sat up a little
straighter on the blankets spread at the base of the
tree. His bootless right leg was swathed in bandages
from foot to mid-calf. On either side of him,
several packing boxes formed an improvised
office. She saw an inkstand, pencils, books,
foolscap writing paper-
And a number of Texans loitering on the tree's
far side. The side on which Cordoba had fallen.
Thank God
she wouldn't have to stare at the bloodstained bark-
But the faces of the Texans bothered her. The men
seemed just as hostile as those at the campfires.
Houston smiled and waved as she and Ewing
approached. The general was more than six feet
tall, with a long, blunt jaw, wavy,
gray-streaked chestnut hair and bright blue eyes.
His skin was pale. His fine shirt was torn
and powder-blackened. So was his claw-hammer coat.
A distinctly rumpled and weary-looking Raven-
Houston had been given the name in his youth, when he'd
run away from his widowed mother to live with the Indians.
He had served in the army, studied law, been
elected to Congress as a Jacksonian
Democrat, and then won the governorship of
Tennessee. In 1829, he'd abruptly resigned
hi the middle of a campaign for a second term,
fleeing the state and an eighteen-year-old bride
who had left him after three months of marriage.
Amanda had heard both sides of the story.
Houston's partisans insisted the girl had been
cold, and Houston had every right to leave her. His
enemies claimed the girl feared him; said he was
insane-jealous beyond reason; and that his sexual
appetites were a disgrace even in the marriage bed.
Whatever the truth, Houston had disappeared for a time
along the Arkansas River, where the government had
resettled his old friends, the Cherokees. He used
liquor to blot out the past. So much liquor that the
Cherokees gave him a second, less flattering
name-Big Drunk.
In the early 1830's he had emerged from his
alcoholic wanderings and re-established his
old ties with the president under whom he'd soldiered
in the Creek War. Some in Bexar hinted that
Houston had come to Texas for a purpose other than
the one publicly announced: to help American
traders negotiate treaties of peace with the
marauding Indian tribes. The rumormongers said
Houston's real mission was to foment a movement for
Tex
as independence, thus paving the way for the territory's
eventual union with the United States.
It might have been true. Certainly since the
beginning of the Mexican trouble, Houston had been in
the forefront of the Texan cause-
"Amanda!" Houston exclaimed in his deep voice
as she entered the dappled shade of the oak. "I can
hardly believe it's you! When I heard you were a
prisoner of the Mexicans, I was almost as
surprised as I was when Santa Anna snowed up
wearing bedroom slippers."
"My compliments on the victory, General,"
Amanda said. The remark brought snorts and some ugly
glances from the men in buckskin and homespun on the
other side of the tree.
"You're mighty formal all at once. What's
wrong with the names we used in Bexar?"
"A lot's happened since then, General."
"Goddamned if it hasn't. I trust you'll
forgive me for not standing up. Orders of Doctor
Ewing there. Push those books off that case. Sit
down and tell me how you got here."
"She got here because she was yella," one of the men beyond
the tree said hi a false whisper. Houston glared:
"The next man who utters a remark like that will
answer to me." He glanced back to Amanda.
"Passions are still running pretty high. I'm not
too popular myself since I refused to let the men
hang our Mexican friend."
"I can understand disthe feelings. I was in the mission."
"So I learned from Almeron Dickinson's
widow."
"I saw what the Mexicans did-on Santa
Anna's direct order."
"I'd like to hear your account of it."
She told him, trying not to let the words conjure
sounds and sights and smells. But they did. She was
glad when she finished the story.
He reached out to grasp her hand. "Thank you.
You've confirmed everything that was reported to me. I
suppose I shouldn't have asked. The memory is
obviously unpleasant-was
"I try to forget how it sounded-how it looked-and how
sickened it made me. I can't."
"No one can forget-even those of us who weren't there.
I told His Excellency much the same thing this
morning. Before he decided we'd be easy to beat,
he should have remembered the Alamo." He squeezed
her hand. "Are you up to telling me the rest of your
experience?"
She nodded and, hi a subdued voice, described
how she'd been made a prisoner. She omitted the
more personal details of her relationship with the
major, characterizing him only as a man who had treated
her in a humane way. At the end, she said:
"I hope his body can be sent back to Mexico
City. He-he had a wife there."
"That may not be possible. Some of Santa Anna's
staff officers are going to do what they can about
notifying next of kin. There's no need for you
to worry about such things-you're a free woman now."
Some of the men beyond the tree didn't like that either.
Houston's lids flickered; he heard the angry
whispers. But he didn't turn to acknowledge them.
Instead, he went on:
"You can join in the work to be done in Texas.
We've got to rebuild. Get the
government functioning-was
His hand strayed beneath one of the mussed blankets. He
pulled out an ear of corn. Some of the kernels had
been nibbled away.
"My afternoon meal," he smiled. His thumb
accidentally flicked three kernels from the ear. One
of the men on the other side of the tree scrambled forward
to snatch them up:
"I could take this corn home an" plant it,
General."
Houston glanced at the ear in his hand, then suddenly
began shucking kernels from it:
"Here-all of you take some. Plant it in your
fields. It's time to cultivate the arts of peace
now that you've shown yourselves masters of the art of war."
Pleased by his flattery, the men crowded forward.
Amanda was momentarily forgotten as the Texans
laughed and jostled one another, straining to get some of the
corn Houston dropped from his outstretched hand.
"By God, we ought to call this Houston corn!" one
of the men shouted.
The general shook his head. "Honor yourselves, not me.
Call it San Jacinto corn."
With his forefinger he worked another kernel loose, then
tossed the ear into the crowd. Noisily, the
Texans swarmed around the man who caught it. Not a
one of them was paying any attention to Amanda now. She
wondered whether the byplay with the corn had been a
ploy to divert them and blunt their hostility.
Not entirely, she realized, as Houston held out his
hand:
"You take this one. It's time for all of us to start
thinking about the future."
Amanda tried to speak. She couldn't. With bleak
eyes, she stared at the kernel resting in her palm.
"Doctor Ewing," Houston said, "I think you'd
better conduct the Senora back to the surgical
tent. If any man so much as touches her, report
it to me and I'll have him whipped till he can't
walk."
She leaned on Ewing's arm in the twilight. Along
the way, the kernel of corn dropped from her other
hand. She was aware of the loss. But she didn't
turn back to search. She had no field to plow and
plant. Nothing to give the future meaning and
value. That she was safe and unhurt seemed of
small importance. The fabric of her life had
been ripped to ruin-again.
IV
On a gray and showery afternoon in June,
Amanda walked through the rubble in the lobby of Gura's
Hotel. With her was a small, finely-boned man
in cleric's robes, the parish priest, Don
Refugio de la Garza.
Don Refugio wrinkled his nose at the smell of
human waste left in a corner. Amanda surveyed
the smashed counter, then a pile of scrapwood and
horsehair-all that remained of the lobby
furniture.
Her dress was the only touch of color in the whole
dreary scene. It was homespun, dyed yellow with
root dyes. A sunbonnet kept her face in
shadow as she studied the wreckage. She had been
back in Bexar for several weeks, escorted by an
amiable soldier in a wagon Houston commandeered for
her. The journey had been difficult. She felt
weak most of the time, and was troubled frequently
by nausea.
Shortly after she'd arrived, she'd been informed that
Gura's Hotel was no longer fit to be lived
in. Don Refugio had advanced her a small
sum to rent a room elsewhere in town. This was the first
day she'd been able to summon the courage to visit
Soledad Street and see the devastation for herself.
"It's a pity, but there's not much left,"
Don Refugio said as Amanda gazed at the
whitewashed wall. Someone had used charcoal
to scrawl a filthy remark about Texans. "There was
a good deal of drinking and carousing while Santa
Anna's senior officers were quartered here. Also,
they were not particularly respectful of property
belonging to an Anglo." Amanda sighed. "Is it the
same upstairs?"
"Worse."
"Then there's not much point in going up. I suppose
the land and the building will bring me a little money."
The priest's gray eyebrows shot up. "You
don't intend to re-open the hotel? I know it would
require a great deal of work, but I thought-was
"I'm going to sell, padre. As is. There's bad
feeling toward me in this town."
"Yes, I realize. Still-was
"It's even worse than before, when I had girls
upstairs."
"You can admit the ill will is understandable, can you not?"
"No. I was the one American woman who
survived the battle at the mission
and
stood up to Santa Anna- in return for which, I
was made a prisoner. To the Americans
around here, that somehow makes me a traitor.
Susannah Dickinson, on the other hand, took
Santa Anna's clemency-was
"She saw her husband die, Amanda! She was
utterly demoralized-was
"I know. I'm not finding fault, just stating a
fact. She
did
accept his offer-and spread the message he wanted
her to spread. For that, she's a heroine. I don't
imagine my name will ever appear on the list of the women
who lived through the massacre. I'm confident hers
will."
"Ah, but a name on a paper tells nothing! If
your name is recorded, you will probably be listed as
a Mexican-was
"True. Anyway, that's not the point. I wouldn't
accept Santa Anna's so-called generosity-and
look where it's gotten me."
"But people wonder why you didn't run away from the
Mexicans."
"Because I gave my word to the officer who saved me from
execution! Oh, what difference does it make?
They hate me, and that's that."
"It will pass, Amanda."
"Will it? I know what people are saying. That I should have
refused to go with Cordoba. Broken my
word. Fled. And if that wasn't possible, I
imagine they believe I should have done away with myself!
Well-was Her mouth twisted. "I've always had a
strong survival instinct. I gather that's no longer
permitted in Texas."
"Nonsense," Don Refugio snorted. "Do you
know how many, here and elsewhere, actively supported
Santa Anna when it seemed the Texan cause was
lost? I assure you the number is not small."
"People might even think differently if I'd lived
with a different sort of man," she went on, staring at
three holes drilled in the wall by pistol balls.
"ButMajor Cordoba was decent-and I've
made no secret of that. Evidently decency on
the part of the enemy is also unthinkable."
"That we are all God's creatures, with an
equal distribution of devils and saints among all
nations, is seldom remembered hi wartime."
"General Houston remembered," she said. "He,
at least, was kind to me."
The priest nodded. "He has grown to be a man of
immense wisdom, I think. They say there'll be
an election in the next few months.
Burnet will step aside. Houston is almost certain
to be named president of the republic. He's your
friend, and I'm sure he'd see that you were treated
fairly. For that reason, you might want
to reconsider your decision. I assure you the
hatreds will be forgotten. We are all Texans
now. We may eventually become Americans, if
the rumors are true."
"The rumors about annexation?"
"Yes. Houston is hi favor, is he not?"
"Very much so. He told me before I came back that
he may petition Congress-or at least ask the people
to vote on whether a petition requesting annexation
should be sent. But the newspapers say Jackson's
cooled on the idea. He doesn't want a
protracted war with Mexico, so he has to maintain
neutrality. It's all very muddled-especially
since the Mexican legislature repudiated
Santa Anna's treaty recognizing the
republic's independence. Who knows how it will come
out?"
Her words trailed off with an empty sound. The
priest pondered, then agreed:
"Yes, in some ways Santa Anna's defeat
only compounded the confusion. The matter of
chattel slavery will becloud annexation, no doubt-was
Thinking of the dead in the mission, she made a
derisive sound. "I trust you heard how Quincy
Adams referred to the rebellion? Denounced it in
Congress as nothing more than a scheme to restore
slavery down here, and bring another slaveholding
state into the nation? The fool!"
"There are some who would hope for that," Don
Refugio told her. "Here and in the United
States."
"Well, I won't be present to see how the whole
thing's resolved, padre. I've made up my
mind. I have to start over somewhere else. With a new
name. Or an old one, rather. The name I had before I
was married. I need a fresh start at everything."
The little priest tried to read her face in the shadow
cast by the bonnet's brim. He couldn't. But he
heard the strain in her voice:
"Whether I've done right or wrong is something someone
else will have to decide. Maybe the woman who
guards the vine-was
"Who?"
"Never mind."
"Amanda, I beg you to think carefully before-was
"I can't stay in Bexar any longer,
padre. There are- too many memories. My
husband-my friends murdered hi the chapel. The
major-was
Her voice broke. She shook her head as if
angry with herself. Don Refugio laid his slim
fingers on her arm, squeezing gently to comfort her.
"Where will you go?"
"I don't know. Further west,
I suppose. I can travel with one of the pack
trains. Perhaps to Santa Fe. Even on
to California-I hear that's beautiful country."
"Comfortable, certainly. But you would be a subject of
Mexico again."
"I'm not trying to escape a government, just the past.
Besides, more and more Americans are settling there all the
time. Coming up from Santa Fe, or from the east
by ship-was
"And across the mountains one day, perhaps."
"The mountains? I doubt that."
"So did I, at first. But a number of the itinerant
traders claim the fur companies have sent wagon
shipments quite far west to equip their brigades. They
believe it's possible to traverse the mountains and
reach the Pacific with a wheeled vehicle." He
looked amused. "America has a ravening
hunger for land. Few obstacles will deter its
satisfaction, least of all mountains. I expect
your people won't be content until they claim the continent
from coast to coast. So I'd have a care about choosing
California. You might find yourself embroiled in the
same political turmoil you've just endured here."
"There's always the Oregon Territory."
"One more area ripe for dispute and rebellion!
Don't the British and the United States occupy
it jointly, by treaty-?"
"It doesn't make any difference where I go-so
long as it's away from here!"
After a moment, Don Refugio sighed in a
resigned way:
"If your mind is made up, I am at your
disposal to help with arrangements."
"Thank you." She smiled, but without much feeling.
"I won't be going immediately, much as I'd like to.
I won't be in any condition to travel for a while.
You see, I-was
She experienced a bursting sense of relief at
finally admitting it to someone:
"I'm fairly certain I'm going to have a child."
"Push," the fat old midwife said with a singular
lack of compassion. She rested hard hands
on Amanda's huge, heaving belly.
She tried. The pain was intense, and growing worse.
The contractions seemed to torment her whole being.
She lay on a table in a room Don Refugio
had provided in a wing of the San Fernando church.
Her knees were bent, her feet braced against
blocks of wood the priest had nailed to one end of the
table. Don Refugio, dimly visible at the edge
of a circle of lantern light, was in attendance because
he'd acquired certain medical skills over the
years. But Serafina, the midwife brought in from the
country, was in charge.
There was a howling in Amanda's ears. Was it the wind
outside the church, carrying sleet and rain from the
northwest this gloomy day in January, 1837?
Or was it only an imaginary echo of sounds from the
past? The melody of the
deguello?
The shrieks of the dying in the mission? The pitiful
cries of the routed soldiers at San Jacinto-his
"Push, for the Virgin's sake!" Serafina cried.
"I can see the head!"
The insides of Amanda's thighs were wet. She lay
naked, only her breasts covered by a scrap of
rag. Her hands gripped the ends of a length
of pine wood the midwife had given her to bite.
She dug her teeth into the soft, fragrant stick and
closed her eyes, writhing.
"Hold her still!" Serafina exclaimed. Don
Refugio's hands pinned Amanda's shoulders. The
contractions
were no longer distinct; they blended into a single,
consuming pain. She felt the thick thrust of something
being expelled from within her body-
"Push, woman.
Push."
She lost her sense of time and of place, catching
only fleeting visual and aural impressions as
her mind blanked out, then re-awoke-
The thickness between her legs was gone. She saw Don
Refugio, white rags draped over one arm of his
robe. She heard water splash as Serafina bathed
her red-stippled hands and forearms.
She heard a muted gurgling, too; then the
midwife's grumbles as she manipulated twine,
tying the cord once near the opening from which the child had
emerged and a second time close to the belly of the
unseen baby. The child must be resting on the mound of
rags between her thighs, Amanda realized-
The midwife stepped back.
"Cut the cord, padre."
The sudden glitter of a bowie knife almost made her
scream aloud. Then she remembered she wasn't in
the mission, nor on the hill of San Jacinto, but
hi an adobe room with a winter rainstorm raging
outside.
Don Refugio's hands dipped out of sight.
Immediately after cleaving the cord, he whipped the rags
off his arm and began to bundle the infant. Amanda
glimpsed a tiny, plum-colored face puckered
hi a struggle for breath. The baby's skin was wet
and shimmering-
"A very good child," Serafina announced. "Now we must
wait."
A second later, Don Refugio said, "I
don't believe she hears you."
"The Pope send me packing, but it's a mystery
to me how you celibates can presume to minister
to women. Nothing personal, mind you-was A shrug.
"You're a lot better than some I know." A
pointing finger loomed
before Amanda's eyes. "She hears me. She just
doesn't feel like chattering."
"A thousand pardons!" Don Refugio said. "I
forget this is your domain, not mine."
Amanda's grimace gentled into a smile. She
stopped biting the stick so hard; released her hands from
the ends. The priest melted into the darkness as the baby
began to squall. In the church tower, the wind struck
wild clangs from the bells.
Amanda let her heavy eyelids close. She
opened them suddenly at the midwife's cry:
"Ah, Jesus have mercy! She's gotten rid of
everything but she's still bleeding-was
Don Refugio's white-haired head bobbed above
Amanda. He laid a dry hand on her sticky
forehead. Suddenly her loins felt thick
again-Serafina had thrust her right hand and forearm into her
and was massaging vigorously to stop a warm flow she
could feel on her legs.
The midwife grunted anxiously as she worked. At
last she withdrew her red hand, disappeared, and once more
Amanda heard the sound of flesh being plunged
into water.
Presently Serafina returned. She stood
immobile, her gaze focused between Amanda's
legs.
After what seemed like hours, she nodded:
"The bleeding has stopped." For the first time, she
allowed herself a smile. "You can sleep
now, Senora."
"I-I'd like to see the baby-was
"All right, but only a moment." She swung toward
the darkness. "Step lively, padre!"
Amanda heard sandals scraping stone; Don
Refugio obeyed the midwife just as any novice
would have obeyed a superior.
"You've had babies before," Serafina declared, moving
up beside Amanda's torso and re-arranging the cloth that
had shifted away from her left nipple.
"None-that lived. I want this child to live."
"Oh, I think he will. He's a hefty one."
"He?" Amanda repeated. "A boy-?"
"From every observable sign," the older woman said with a
wry smile. "What will you call him?"
Drows@uy, Amanda answered, "Luis, I think.
Luis Kent. Only spelled-was She labored for a
breath. "American fashion-with an o in the first
name."
Louis Kent How good that sounded! Then she thought of
something else:
Now there's someone to carry on the family. I can
take him with me if I ever go back to Boston. I
can show him where his grandfather and great-grandfather lived

and teach him to be proud he's a Kent.
"Louis, eh?" The midwife sniffed. Amanda
barely heard:
Now that I have him, I
will
go back. We'll go back together
-
"Louis-well, I suppose that's all right. Though
everyone these days is naming their newborns after the men
who fell at the mission. I'd have thought you might
pick a hero's name too."
"I-did. The baby's father-was with the Mexican
army-was
"Ah yes, I heard they held you captive for a
while."
"He-could have killed-a great many. But he didn't-was
"Well, the decision's yours. Why the baby was named
will soon be forgotten anyway. Your people and mine,
we're no longer much different, it seems. We're
all citizens of the republic. Living under the new
republican flag with that one star. Judging by the way
the voting went in October, I might even be an
American presently. It's a remarkable world-was
She whirled to the shadows:
"It's about time, pad-mother of God, keep
the feet covered!
Covered!"
"My profound apologies," the priest murmured,
surrendering the child to the midwife. "I'm a mere
man-was
"That's quite apparent, I'm sorry to say."
Serafina in turn handed the small warm bundle
to Amanda. Then the midwife and the priest stood gazing
downward, their shoulders touching and their banter
forgotten.
Fighting sleepiness, Amanda lifted a corner of a
rag aside and stared at the slitted eyes, the
wrinkled pink flesh, the mouth that sucked air
noisily. Suddenly she clutched the little boy tight
against her breast.
"In God's name handle him gently!" Serafina
said. "You'll suffocate the poor thing."
But Amanda clutched her newborn fiercely,
feeling him squirm, then hearing him squall.
What a strange turn of events, she thought,
remembering the tiny kernal Sam Houston had
dropped into her hand beneath the oak at San Jacinto.
He hadn't known-nor had she-that an entirely
different kind of seed would germinate from the war's
bloody ground. A seed that would yield this
miracle of living flesh within her arms; give her a
purpose; a new reason for going on when it seemed
that all the rest of her reasons had been destroyed-
The future no longer terrified her because of its
emptiness, its uncertainty. Let the wolf run;
she wasn't afraid.
Louis Kent howled louder. She had never heard such
a sweet, sweet sound-
Serafina slapped her hips:
"Merciful Jieaven, padre, I give up. Now
she's crying too!"
The Journal of Jephtha Kent, 1844
Bishop
Andrew's Sin
April the 30th.
Arrived in New York City after wearying journey
by coach, my annual stipend not being large enough
to permit riding the rail roads. I have joined my
brethren here for General Conference. Am stopping at
a modest hotel where the appointments are few but
clean, though of course the establishment cannot compare with
other local hostelries. Adjoining one of its
rooms, The New York Hotel has installed a
separate, private facility for the purpose of
bathing-or so I was told by my companion,
the Reverend Hodding, with whom I took a brief
walking tour late this afternoon.
Hodding is a pleasant, if opinionated, fellow.
He itinerates in the vicinity of Chester County,
Pennsylvania. We compared our situations, which are
not essentially different, except in one regard.
Freedom for the enslaved Negro is a goal much
sought by Hodding, as well as by many of those to whom he
ministers,
I in turn attempted to present Hodding with the
views of those Christian men and women I have served
the past two years from my location at Lexington, in
Virginia's valley of the Shenandoah. But I did
not press a strong personal view upon him. I have
none. Whenever I think on the subject, I end in
a quandry.
As evidence of the moral failure of our own
Church, Hodding spoke scornfully of the treatment
accorded men and women of color at Lovely
Lane in Baltimore, where the "Afric" may
sit nowhere but the balcony, and receives the sacrament
only after it has been served to
white persons. He also mentioned St. George's
in Philadelphia, where Negroes must hold their
own services at an hour different from that
at which the whites worship. Clearly my companion
is one of those enraged by the failure of the Methodist
Episcopal Church to declare a position on the
slave issue; twice during our stroll, he
repeated Mr. Wesley's claim that the system of
black bondage in this nation is "the vilest that ever
saw the sun."
I continued to refrain from argumentation because, as I
noted, I am not sure of my own heart-and also because
I cannot deny out of hand those whom I serve in
Virginia. To do so, I would have to deny the very woman
with whom God has favored me, blessing our union
with Gideon-
Gideon. A splendid little boy! I must not
overlook his coming birthday. I must take a trinket
home.
Before we parted, Hodding insisted the Conference would
address the slavery question. I pray not. Such
disputation can only lead to divisiveness of the sort which
has already led the Reverend Orange Scott of
Lowell to withdraw from the Methodist connection.
I fear a confrontation, and wonder why. Is it because
there is epic risk of fostering ill will within the
Church? Or is it because I know that, if forced to search
my own conscience, I will find a lack of
personal conviction?
Later.
Prayed an hour for guidance, but remain as worried
and uncertain as before.
May the 1/.
One hundred and seventy-eight pastors have gathered.
As the proceedings commenced, I was restored and
refreshed by the preaching and the singing. How good to hear those
stout voices inquiring of each other's welfare as the
opening hymn,
And Are We Yet Alive?,
soared forth.
Bishop Soule, occupying the chair for the opening
session, sounded a warning to those who would disturb
our work among the people of color. Their souls are for
saving but all else is beyond us, the bishop declared in
his address. "To raise them up to equal civil
rights and privileges is not within our power. Let us
not labor in vain and spend our strength for naught."
His remarks produced a few dark looks up and
down the benches, but no open dissent. I trust the
Bishop's admonition will be heeded for the sake of the
Church's tranquility and, I shamefully admit,
mine.
May the 2nd.
A quiet day. Another walking tour late in the
afternoon. Even though I twice visited Boston
while a student at the Biblical Institute in
Vermont, the splendor and squalor of New
York City far surpass anything I have beheld
elsewhere.
There are a great many Irish present, and more arriving
by ship each month. Simply by listening to street
conversation, one is made aware of the animosity
directed toward them. A Mr. Harper, a book
publisher like my great-grandfather, is to run for mayor
here. Harper is what is called a reform
candidate, for the city's affairs are in disorder and
badly need setting straight. Whether Mr. Harper
is dedicated to that task remains questionable, since I
was informed that his partisans are preparing banners bearing
a campaign appeal that seems to have little to do with
reform, and everything to do with stirring hatred of the slum
Irish. The slogan is, "No Popery!" Let
us hope the campaign will not produce the sort of
anti-Catholic rioting which recently struck
Philadelphia.
Obtained an edition of Mr. Greeley's
Tribune,
which contains this remarkable information-the rail
road trackage within the country now totals close
to four thousand miles, with more being laid all the time as
new lines open. The United States has several
times the
trackage of the entire continent of Europe, the
paper says. "Thou
art
the God that doest wonders!"
May the 3rd.
Today, Friday, the cataclysm is upon us. The
sectional quarrel which has inflamed tempers in
Congress and the press has reached even here. The
Conference to which the Reverend Orange Scott formerly
belonged put forward a petition opposing slavery,
whereupon the meeting erupted into shouting of a most
unseemly sort.
The chair has appointed a Committee on
Slavery to accept other memorials on the same
subject. Hodding told me such petitions are
sure to come, then went on to confirm a suspicion
I have not uttered or written before, though many of my
southern brethren have expressed it tome:
The anti-slavery delegates are operating according to a
plan drawn long before we assembled. The
ultimate target of the strategy is the
worthy and well-regarded Bishop James Andrew
of Georgia, whose sin is this: he is the unhappy
possessor of a mulatto girl and a Negro boy,
neither of which he purchased. Both were bequeathed to him in
the estate of his first wife. His second wife is
also the inheritor of slaves. Under Georgia law,
neither the bishop nor his spouse can manumit the
slaves.
When Hodding mentioned Andrew in a most challenging
way, then asked my opinion on what should be done,
I once again took refuge in excuses that hide
my own equivocation. I said I did not feel
qualified to take part in any general debate, being
among the most recently ordained of all those
gathered; I became a pastor not quite two years
ago. I said I felt doubly unqualified
by reason of age, having just observed my
twenty-fourth birthday.
Did Hodding suspect my evasion? His smirk
made me believe so.
Later.
I thought much of my beloved wife Fan, and of our
son. I asked myself what the anti-slavery
delegates would offer Fan's father, Captain
Tunworth of Lexington, as well as her
numerous relatives in South Carolina, in
return for the black labor on which they depend. That,
it seems to me, is one of the sticking-places: Even
many in the south accept the fact that the peculiar
institution is, in a great number of respects,
inhumane. But abolitionist agitators such as
Mr. Garrison of Boston, whose
Liberator
newspaper insists upon full freedom for
Negroes, never propose any plan by means of which
the southern agriculturist can replace his Negro
labor. And without the labor, there is no prosperity
for those who cultivate the land. The snare is a
cruel one, since human beings north or south are
not prone to abandon that which fosters their survival.
At supper, we fell into a heated discussion of one
alternative to slavery which has been proposed for
nearly thirty years by the Colonization
Society-namely, the freeing and re-settlement of the
Negro in Liberia. Hod-ding bitterly chastised
several of the more moderate brethren who favor this
idea. He said the scheme is based on an
unspoken belief that the Negro is inferior to the
white-and will somehow contaminate the nation with his continued
presence. Hodding then proceeded to put a
theological cast on the subject
John Wesley, the beloved Asbury, Coke-the
pillars of our faith-were unequivocal about the
absolutes of good and evil. Good and evil are the
fixed stars in our struggle as itinerants. Our aim
is, first, conversion-admission of sin-and then
redemption; the eradication of human wickedness through
the grace of Our Lord Jesus Christ. No one
could disagree with those extremities, and the lack of a
middle ground. Then Hodding closed the trap.
If there is no middle ground in our theology, so
there can be none regarding the slave question. If slavery
is acknowledged an evil, it must be destroyed, just as
confessed sin is overcome by redemptive love for
Christ. Several shouted at Hodding-one subject,
they cried, is spiritual, the other temporal! Hodding
sees no difference; he sees, in fact, an
irrefutable connection.
I sat silent throughout. Hodding's logic troubled
me sorely, but not as much as the intemperate speech
of my brethren on both sides of the argument. It
seems to me the affair of Bishop Andrew is
exacerbating tempers to a dangerous degree.
May the 10th.
A resolution has been put forward
"affectionately" requesting Bishop Andrew
to resign his office. And a curious thing has
occurred-the use of the word "slavery" has become
infrequent in our sessions. Andrew's alleged
transgression has somehow been transmuted into a
question of Church authority: whose will is paramount? That
of the General Conference? Or that of the bishops?
It is a screen, nothing more. The fundamental
issue is Andrew's ownership of black men and
women.
Screen or no, Bishop Soule today sounded
another, even more dire warning. He said that permitting
the Conference to remove Andrew without a proper
ecclesiastical trial would rend the organization of the
Church "beyond repair."
May the 14th.
The debate continues, heated and unsettling. I
absented myself for a time this afternoon, having realized that I
will be forced to take a stand unless the committees
laboring in private can effect a
compromise, which I think unlikely. By leaving the
gathering, I hoped to free my mind of the dismaying
subject-only to discover it turning to another almost as
troublesome.
My thoughts returned to my conversion six
years ago by the Reverend Lee of the Willamette
Mission in Oregon. Jason Lee was the great
man who first revealed to me that my name, Jephthah as
it is spelled in the Old Testament, means "God
opens." The conversion did not please my father, to whom
I have not written in far too long.
Many years ago, my father Jared Kent put the
eastern part of the continent behind him forever, accepting both
the freedom which the western lands afford, and the struggle
they require for even meager success. My father
came to love the free spaces, their natural
beauties and abundance. He wanted me to remain a
westerner as he is. I could never convince him that my
given name must have had a pre-ordained significance
unknown to him when he bestowed it, for, through the Reverend
Lee, God truly did open my soul to His
message, and I felt a compelling call to train
myself for the ministry. My answering of the call wounded
my father not a little.
As I walked along the Broad Way, I was
overcome with pity for my father, who saw me onto the
ship for the east with the greatest reluctance. His
rheumatism, developed from many years spent in
icy streams trapping for plews, has made his
existence as a wheat farmer trying in the
extreme. His sorrow was increased when my beloved
mother, Grass Singing, went to her grave three years
ago. Thinking of him alone now in Oregon, my
guilt was, for a time, nigh unbearable.
Desperate to relieve it, I sought refuge in an
act I freely acknowledge as a pandering to human
vanity. In answer to my wife's earnest request,
I inquired about, and was directed to, a studio where
the remarkable Daguerreotype is available.
The sitting required less time than I
expected-a
minute, no more. But all of the kitchen funds which my
dear Fan gave me for this express purpose were
required to purchase the little copper plate which now
reposes in a silk-lined box on my bureau.
Although the visit to the studio was worldly indulgence, the
experience refreshed my spirit in an unexpected
way. On the plate I first saw not myself but the
Almighty's handiwork-for surely the Frenchman,
Da-guerre, was blessed by heavenly inspiration when he
perfected his method of capturing the human face
on a bit of metal.
On returning to my hotel, I continued to marvel
at the plate, which is somehow treated with silver
salts and then exposed to the light to create
an image. I discovered again why my brethren chide
me good-naturedly with the name "Indian Preacher." I
have the light eyes of the Kents but the dark and unruly
hair of the Shohoni. All in all, mine is a
curious and severe countenance. For a few moments, I
fancied that, in the eyes of the image, I saw my
guilt over the unhappiness I had brought to my father,
and I fancied that I also saw my doubt about where I
would stand on the question now being debated at the Conference in
increasingly heated language.
May the 25th.
All the city agog with news from Baltimore, where,
only yesterday, there was received an actual, audible
message transmitted in code from the Supreme
Court room in the capital by means of the electric
telegraph of Mr. Morse. He is the inventor
of the device as well as the code. Four words were
sent: "What hath God wrought?"
As the debate grinds on, I ask the same
wracking question about the presence of the black man in
America. Why was this tribulation visited upon him-and
upon us? Why were we so unlucky, or so foolish, as
to find this form of labor most suitable to the
requirements of an economy founded on tobacco,
rice, cane and cotton crops?
Is Garrison correct in his jeremiads? Is
our precious Constitution "a covenant with death and
an agreement with hell" because it recognizes the right
of an owner to apprehend Negroes who have committed
the felonious act of fleeing from their servitude? As
Garrison claims, does the Constitution at the
same time guarantee Negroes every right of
citizenship that whites enjoy? Even many in the
northern states find that concept too radical
comyet the extreme abolitionists have been propounding
it for more than a decade.
Decent people disagree on both questions just noted. Mr.
Justice Story of Connecticut, for example,
expressed a majority opinion of the Supreme
Court when the Pennsylvania Act of '26 was
struck down two years ago. The opinion was founded
on the Court's contention that neither Pennsylvania
nor any other individual state has the authority
to prevent the owner of an escaped Negro from
reclaiming him-even if the Negro has reached
non-slave soil. Mr. Story clearly believed
that the owning of slaves confers an unquestionable
Constitutional right to recapture that slave-that piece
of property.
In further opposition to Garrison and his
followers, the opinion also implied that our
American liberties are solely for the benefit of
members of the white race. Story and the Court
ignored the Constitutional promise of due
process. Conclusion-it simply does not apply
to any man or woman with dark skin.
Who is wrong and who is right? I do not know; I do
not know!!
May the 27th.
There is no way in which I can evade the issue before
the Conference, so I have given up trying. I am,
instead, struggling to reach my own decision.
After digesting the various arguments and praying on the
whole matter, I am for the moment tending to side with the
faction which would unseat Bishop Andrew, even though the
bishop is clearly a man without onus; a
Christian man; a Methodist man; a good man.
If my present mood prevails, I will in
effect turn my back on my own dear wife and
her family.
Am I capable? And is it
right?
Later.
Mr. Polk and Mr. Dallas have been nominated
as presidential candidates by the
Democrats in Baltimore comthe news
"telegraphed" for the first time in the nation's history.
Either Polk or Mr. Clay, the candidate of the
Whigs, will be forced to resolve the stormy issue of
annexation of Texas, Mr. Clay is hi
opposition because the Texan Republic has not been
recognized by Mexico, and there is talk afloat
that annexation will mean war.
Of more pertinence, if Texas should be admitted to the
Union, it will come in as a slave state, further
promoting sectional strife. It is already known that a
treaty of annexation prepared by Secretary of
State Calhoun and currently before the Senate will be
rebuffed. But opposition to annexation does not end
there. The politicians who espouse Garrison's
radical philosophy are adamantly against the
extension of slavery into any new territory
whatsoever-a thorny problem since the country's
mood is generally expansionist; among some sectors
of the population-the restless and the poor, whose universal
answer to unhappiness or failure is westward
migration comwildly so.
The northern radicals will never be content merely with
blocking the admission of new slave territories,
however. They would prefer to completely
upset the fragile balance of the "spheres of
interest" established by the Missouri Compromise'of
1820, by means of which slavery was prohibited in
all Louisana Purchase lands north of
approximately the thirty-sixth parallel-
Missouri excepted-but made permissible south of that
line, while Maine was admitted as a free state
to balance Missouri's presence.
They say former president Jefferson, a very old
man in those days and but five years from his death,
spoke of the Compromise as "a fire bell in the
night," warning of a sectional dispute that could rend the
nation. I fear he was correct. The abolitionists
want the institution of slavery destroyed wherever it
exists, and forbidden forevermore.
My wife's people, of course, believe Texas should
and will come in slave. So no matter how the issue of
admission is decided, the outcome will only
provoke more bad feelings-nationally, and in whatever is
left of the Methodist Episcopal Church after the
Andrew question is resolved. My southern brethren and
I now recognize that if the Andrew matter is
put to a vote, we will be outnumbered and defeated-
A sorrowful conceit, the inscription of "we"-I
am still tormented, uncertain-but tending toward
the other side.
May the 30th.
Perused the book stalls this afternoon. The Conference is
recessed while the committees labor, in hopes that
some compromise may yet be worked out. Discovered the
bins are a-bulge with guidebooks purporting
to inform those afflicted with "the Oregon fever" as to the
best way to equip themselves for the journey across the
mountains.
In the past few years the "fever" has become
epidemic. The trains of wagons leaving
Missouri in the good weather number in the dozens, so
the newspapers say. I would as soon never meet
one of those eager pilgrims, for I would be forced
to report the truth: that homesteading in the Oregon
valleys is fraught with risk.
For one thing, the border dispute with Great Britain
remains an irritant and a potential source of
conflict. Everyone cries, "Fifty-four forty or
fight!" But informed opinion maintains that England will
never accept the fifty-fourth degree of latitude
as Oregon's northern boundary. For another,
homesteading is best left to those thoroughly skilled
in agriculture. This I have seen for myself.
My father traveled to Oregon with my mother and
me after the summer fur rendezvous of '37. At that
time, the price of a plew was already down to the disastrous
low of one dollar, due to beaver hats at last
passing from fashion. My father and his fellow trappers
saw the demise of their trade in that depressed
price-but my father, unlike some too old or too
disheartened to begin again, was determined to find an
alternate livelihood.
Although he has worked diligently at wheat farming in
Oregon, my father has not fared well, lacking the
proper experience-and the temperament; he was always more
suited to the boisterous, unfettered life of the
brigades with which he marched and rode for some twenty
years.
Yet I can understand why the Oregon territory
holds such allure today. The vale of the
Willamette is truly beautiful, and this I know
my father appreciates, despite the rigors of the
labor and his scant success. If he sorrows at
what many would call a life of small
accomplishment, it is a gentle sorrow, rendered
less stinging by what God has shown him of the lovely,
though demanding land beyond the Mississippi. "I have
looked on wonders," he remarked once, "and
while I live I hope I never lose
the hunger to behold more."
If my father regrets anything deeply, I
suspect it is the stormy temper which plagued him
during his early years. I can never forget his quiet
confession about taking the life of a man named
Walpole; a man involved in a scheme to seize
control of the Boston printing firm my great-grandfather
Kent founded. My father set fire to the firm to leave
the schemers nothing but ashes, then fled the city of
Boston with his young female cousin.
The confession took place one night when I was
thirteen or fourteen, my father saying I was at last
old enough to hear the story. I can still see him reclining
in our tipi that evening while my mother sewed him a
new hide shirt.
I see his sun-lightened yellow hair streaking
to gray, and his thick-knuckled fingers, stiff from the
cold beaver streams, turning and turning his one
tangible reminder of his younger days-a fob medallion
struck for him by his father's half-brother, Gilbert
Kent, who operated the firm for a time. The medal
bore the family symbol, and a Latin motto-
Cape locum et for vestigium.
Take a stand and make a mark.
The former my father felt he had done. He
had put the past behind him forever, and ventured into the far
west, both to make a new life and
to search-fruitlessly as it turned out-for his cousin,
Gilbert's orphaned daughter, whom he lost to an
abductor in Tennessee in 1814. As to the
latter-making a mark-my father openly doubted his
success.
Because my father speaks of the past as closed-an
indication, perhaps, that its memory still holds a power
to hurt him-I have felt it kinder never to write him
about my two visits to Boston while I was studying
at the Institute. I not only saw the house on
fashionable Beacon Street where my father lived-a
house now occupied by an unknown family-but I also
saw, rebuilt, a publishing company called Kent
and Son.
What called all this to mind is a volume I
discovered
among the guidebooks in the stalls-an expensive
and obviously new edition of a currently popular
historical romance by the Frenchman, Dumas. The
book is entitled
The Three Musketeers.
The spine was damaged, no doubt accounting for the
volume's presence in the bin.
I opened the book, smitten by a most ungodly
urge to read something other than Holy Scripture.
There on the title page was the family device which
my father carried on the obverse of his medal-the partially
filled bottle of tea. Accompanying the symbol
were the words
Kent and Son.
I located the date of publication. 1844. The
firm still survives.
Before I replaced the novel, I briefly
entertained the idea of sending it to my father with my
next, long overdue letter. I decided against it for the
same reason I said nothing about my discoveries in
Boston. To hide the truth from a man who prized his
family heritage and saw it lost, remains, I
believe, the most Christian and compassionate
course.
Later.
Did I do right about the book? I am so unsure of
everything, though I try to let no one see. Only
these private pages, an outlet for my turmoil
now and for my hopes and apprehensions during the past
two years, know of my misgivings-only these
pages, and Him Who Sees AU.
May He have mercy on my weakness and my
doubt.
June the 1/.
All compromise has failed. The will of the Conference
majority has proved paramount. A substitute
resolution, requesting Bishop Andrew to cease his
ecclesiastical function, was adopted one hundred
ten to sixty-eight. Having spent a sleepless
night in which I prayed almost continuously, and
recognizing that I may have committed a grave sin,
I abandoned my earlier flirtation with the majority and
cast my vote nay.
I did so with the image of my dear Fan's face in
my thoughts. When I was assigned the itinerancy in
Virginia, I took the people as my own. I discovered
my wife among them, and even though God may one
day judge them sinners despite their professions of
conversion, I cannot condemn them. I chose to stand with them.
In this perhaps I erred. But I am somewhat comforted because
I do not believe my beloved mother would see it so.
The Shoshoni are a remarkable people. During the years
my mother and I wandered with my father, first with his partner,
Weatherby, and then with my father alone after Weatherby
perished of the small pox, many of my mother's spiritual
beliefs were implanted in my mind, forever coloring
my imperfect understanding of Christian
tenets.
The Shoshoni do not deny the existence of evil. They
only hold a unique view of its source. To my
mother and her race, the evil man was not merely sinful,
but deranged-a subtle yet important distinction.
The man who carried out some heinous act was
obviously not in full possession of his God-given
reason. Had he been, he would have recognized that his
behavior was harmful to himself and, by extension, harmful
to the tribal community. Patience and moral
instruction, not punishment, were the remedies for such
behavior. Perhaps it is from a secret, all but
unadmitted faith in my mother's principles that I
turned from the shrill posturings of Hodding and the others
of the anti-Andrew faction and sided with the
slave-holding bishop and, therefore, with those to whom I
minister. Perhaps I acted from an unvoiced belief
that, if we have sinned collectively, we can one day
come to understand our derangement and correct it
It may be a vain hope. I pray it is not an
excuse for cowardice.
Many at the Conference yearned for compromise, but that
longing was frustrated by the vote. Lovick Pierce
of
Georgia has declared the southern Conferences
will lodge a "manly, ministerial and proper
protest" concerning the Andrew affair. I have this very
night heard talk of the form the protest will take:
Separation. The sundering of the Church into two bodies,
north and south.
June the 2nd.
The Conference winds to its grievous end; I will begin
my homeward journey tomorrow. Even the name of my
lovely little town in Virginia has become as
ashes hi my mouth-for I have not been able to escape the
memory that, near another Lexington, my
great-grandfather first stood with those country marksmen who
dared to pledge their lives to the promise of liberty
which this nation represents.
But liberty for whom? Whispers the worm of conscience
now that the vote is done. I could not rest all
night, seeing faces of color scorning me for
rejecting their cause. My mind is a maelstrom.
Is the agitation I suddenly feel on behalf of
black men and women a temptation of the Devil,
to divert me from my chief task of redeeming souls?
What of the souls of my own kind in Lexington-his
In the gloomy hours before dawn, I wrestled
afresh with these questions-and Heaven saw fit to deny me
an answer. This morning I encountered
Hodding. He did not speak. His glance d-d me
for lack of courage. Yet even that bothers me
less than what his loathing suddenly portended.
After he hurried on, I saw with utter clarity that
we must discover a solution to repair this terrible
schism. A solution both sides can accept-and one
which will deal properly and fairly with the person of
color as well. That the black man has a soul the
Church does not
deny. That he is entitled to be a communicant of
American liberty is what tears us asunder.
Whether that idea is right, or only an aberration, the
side ultimately found to be in error must be
persuaded to admit and amend its error.
Who will lead us in a search for truth and accord? Who
will speak reason and effect the means of escape from
our dilemma? Unless such means are found, I fear
passions will rise even as they rose during the
dreadful business in St. Louis in '36, when
white hysteria inspired by the columns of the
Congregationalist Lovejoy's antislavery paper,
The Observer,
led to all manner of mistreatment of Negroes, and
to the death of a poor black riverman the mob
caught, chained to a tree and burned
alive. Hodding has self-righteously recalled the
incident to me on more than one occasion-as well as the
fate of Lovejoy himself, who fled to free soil in
Alton, Illinois, only to be killed by five
bullets while another hysterical mob wrecked his
fourth printing press.
Such damaging passions are present north and south.
How often have I heard Captain Tunworth speak
fearfully of the deranged Turner? The slave led
perhaps as many as one hundred of his fellows on a
rampage throughout Virginia's Southampton County
in '31, slaughtering fifty-seven white persons,
including women and children. Captain Tunworth swears
the black man is a beast, to be chained for the
protection of society. He says he would die
defending that view.
So where is the answer? Passion is rampant on
both sides. I have seen that here, in a meeting of men
purportedly pledged not to animosity but to its
antithesis- compassionate love. Will God show us the
path soon, after we have endured His testing and renewed
our vow to follow His Son's teachings? Or has
He already abandoned us in rage and sorrow because we are
so blind; so incapable of governing our passions, and
bringing Christian order from them?
Should God turn aside from us, will not the Federal
Union find itself in the same wretched state as the
Church does today? Irretrievably sundered? Should
that transpire, the prospect is holocaust-for we
preachers, contentious as we may be, still waged our
little war this month with debate and document and
resolution. Even with a gulf now opened between northern
and southern Conferences, a modicum of Christian
love remains for the brethren on the other side-
Will men outside the Church feel that restraining
affection?
I fear not.
Later,
I have re-read what I wrote earlier. I am
humiliated and ashamed and increasingly filled with
dread.
How can there be hope of a solution if even men of
Christ have come this far, failing to find it? I go back
to Virginia not only wondering whether I have done the
right thing, but whether these thirty troubled days are but a
harbinger of much worse to come.
A man such as my father-in-law, Captain
Tunworth, will not yield. The abolitionists still thunder
with the ancient Roman jurist, "Let justice be
done, though the heavens fall!" Above the
whole tumult rings the black man's anguished
cry.
Those who seek a middle ground may be cursed and
shouldered aside. I feel it-Almighty God,
I
feel it terribly-Still later
-
en route.
Very hard to write; coach bouncing; and my hand
unsteady. So distressed was I during my last hours
in the City, I forgot to buy a bright trinket for my
little boy Gideon. I fear I am bringing him
instead a legacy of much darker hue.
Book Two:
Gold
Cry in the Wilderness
ON A BRILLIANT MORNING in the
second week of April 1848, the clipper
Manifest Destiny
sailed into the bay, having been en route from the hongs
of Canton an intolerable sixty-two days. The
clipper dropped anchor opposite the settlement
of Yerba Buena, a straggling collection of frame
and adobe buildings set near the water against the
background of the southern peninsula's
grassy hills.
The ship was owned by the Ball Brothers Line, New
York. She had slid off the ways only two
years before, christened by her builders in a burst of
patriotic zeal. In the pages of
The Democratic Review,
Mr. O'Sullivan had referred to the nation's
steady expansion toward the Pacific as a
"manifest destiny." The words had caught the fancy
of Congressmen and China traders alike.
At thirteen hundred and sixty tons,
Manifest Destiny
was a lean and beautiful vessel. But as her canvas
came down, and a lighter operated by the local hide
merchant put out from the beach, her captain was still
cursing her roundly. He had hoped for a straight,
swift passage from China, around the Horn and up
to New York. Like most captains of clipper
ships-so called because their construction helped them clip
time from existing speed records-he was always trying
to beat some other skipper's performance. His current
target was the seventy-eight-day mark of Captain
Waterman's extreme clipper
Rainbow,
set in '45. He didn't like
Waterman. Few in the
China trade did, including Waterman's
crewmen, who had nicknamed him Killer.
A typhoon in the South China Sea-a freak
storm, blowing months after the fall season-had
nearly dismantled
Manifest Destiny's
masts as she started her homeward run. The damage
forced her back to Macao for a refitting. With the chance
for a record-and the resulting prestige and increased
business for Ball Brothers comgone, the clipper's
captain had decided to concentrate on profit.
Manifest Destiny
had called at the Hawaiian Islands, adding
another two tons of Alaskan sealskins to the
sixteen thousand tons of tea already in the holds. The
clipper then set sail for Yerba Buena, the
sunny little port on the California coast. Here the
captain would squeeze aboard whatever hides and
tallow were available. The captain's primage was
calculated at a generous seven and one half per
cent of the delivered sale price of the cargo. Since
he was already far behind schedule, the more he brought home
without making the clipper plow under, the greater his
earnings.
Yerba Buena had one other attraction besides the
possibility of extra cargo. As the lighter headed
for shore, the captain began to think of that, and with
considerable pleasure. It took his mind off his anger
at the ship, the weather and himself.
The captain sat in the lighter's bow, the
oilskin-wrapped parcel from New York tucked
under one sleeve of his trim blue sea jacket.
He wore a peaked cap and his best black silk
neckerchief. He was a tall, slim man with a sharp
chin and gray eyes that tended to intimidate those who
served under him. Though he was just forty, white hair
already showed around his ears. His name was Barton
McGill. His home-birthplace, rather comwas
Charleston, South Carolina.
While the lighter plowed through the chop, he scanned the
small crowd gathering on shore. Such a
crowd always formed when a ship of size entered the
roads. The permanent population of Yerba Buena
was right around five hundred, perhaps half of those being
Americans. Even at some distance from the beach, Bart
McGill could easily spot the Yankees. The
darker ones were Coloma Indians, Mexicans,
Chileans and Peruvians. There were even a few
Hawaiians in the village. He saw
white and colored waving with equal enthusiasm;
heard halloos across the water-
Then, approximately in the center of the crowd, he
spied an extremely tall, yellow-skinned
Negro. Bart McGill's eyes were momentarily
cool. He and Israel didn't get along too
well. But the Negro's height helped the captain
spot the person he really wanted to see-
Sure enough, there was Amanda. Standing a little to one
side of Israel, and waving. A few steps behind
her was her son Louis, recognizable because of his
size-he was eleven-and his jet black hair.
Goddamnedest thing in the world, finding someone like her in
this penny-ante port, Bart thought, smiling. He'd
been married twelve years to a proper Charleston
bitch who had borne him three daughters, none of
whom had survived infancy. At last the bitch had
done the decent thing and left him a widower while he
was somewhere in the Indian Ocean hi '43. But he'd
had to visit California two years ago to discover
a woman he really cared for; a woman older than
he was; most miraculous of all, a woman who
didn't want to knot
him
up in matrimony.
He didn't call often at Yerba Buena. But
everyone knew Amanda was Captain McGill's
woman, as well as the proprietor of Kent's, a
tavern and eating house on Portsmouth
Square-where, he noticed as he squinted into the
sunlight, the stars and stripes still appeared to be
flying.
Commander Montgomery had sent that banner up the
staff for the first time in '46, when the Americans in
California heard the news of their country's war with
Mexico. That same year, a treaty with Britain
had settled the disputed northern boundary of Oregon
not at the fifty-fourth parallel but the forty-ninth.
With a potential enemy out of the way, the United
States had turned its attention to a real one.
Provoked by the annexation of Texas, Mexican
soldiers had attacked a U.s. dragoon
company near Matamoros, and the war was on-
Realizing how out of touch he was, Bart McGill
turned to one of the oarsmen:
"Did General Scott capture Mexico City
last fall? I sailed right after he took
Chapultepec-was
"Yessir, captain, he did. The greasers done
signed a treaty, too. I heard
Washington got all o' Texas, New Mexico
and Upper Californy. Guess it's true-was
"Which was practically American anyway after the
Bear Flag revolt and General Kearny's
capture of Los Angeles," Bart said in his
mellow southerner's voice. "Will California come
into the Union, then?"
"Too soon to tell," the oarsman answered. "The
treaty ain't more'n a couple of months old.
Can't see much reason why the Union'd want us,
either," he added. He bent forward and drew back on
his oar.
Bart McGill turned his gaze inland, to the green
and tan hills receding to the distant bluish haze that
might have been only a haze-or the great Sierras.
The land was indeed desolate; a wilderness-though
he'd heard there was good hunting in the Sierra
foothills. He wondered about the territory's
status if, at some remote time in the far future,
it acquired enough people to entitle it to statehood. The
request would touch off another debate about slavery,
no doubt. Being a southerner, he had views on the
subject of slavery. But he much preferred the sea
to the settled east because he got sick of hearing
nigra, nigra, nigra. In New
York, nobody could talk for
half an hour without launching an argument over the
south's peculiar institution.
"Bart? Here we are!"
The faint cry borne on the breeze took him
away from the tedious and disagreeable subject. A
couple of Mexicans with cornets began tootling
a welcome. There was some desultory cheering. But the
crowd seemed skimpy, even for Yerba Buena.
His eye fixed on Amanda-forty-five years old and
looking ten years less. God, what a handsome
woman. If only she'd been able to conceive a child. But
her time for that had ended relatively early-before he
met her.
She strained on tiptoe, her dyed cotton dress
a sparkle of red amid the drab rags of most of the
other inhabitants. Her son Louis wore a
flannel shirt
n
and homespun trousers. Bart didn't even
notice what Israel, the tall mulatto, was
wearing. He was concentrating on the vibrant,
dark-haired woman who kicked off her shoes and
dashed to the water's edge, awaiting the lighter.
Bart felt unusually sentimental just then.
During all the years of his marriage, his wife had
never once generated emotion of the kind that gripped him
as he watched Amanda barefoot in the white foam.
She was a prize; a genuine prize-
She'd been married once; lived in Texas a
while, then in the pueblo of Los Angeles.
She'd been in Yerba Buena for the last four years,
and on the surface seemed content to earn a meager
living selling food and drink. But he knew how
deceiving that air of contentment was. He knew because of
things she asked of him, and because of the parcel he bore
under his arm.
She was waving hard now, her hand flying. On her
wrist he saw that peculiar rope bracelet given
her by the vanished cousin she spoke of occasionally.
She claimed she could have been a Boston heiress
if the right cards had fallen. But here she was on the
California coast,
scraping out an existence in a single-story building
she'd put up with the last of her savings after paying
sixteen-fifty American for her fifty-vara
lot-
And damned if he wasn't glad about the whole
business.
Better watch yourself, McGill, he
thought, or you'd do some fool thing like deciding you love
this woman enough to marry her-and there goes independence and a
handsome living with the Messrs. Ball.
The lighter grounded. The cornets blared as Bart
prepared to jump down into the surf. Amanda spun
toward the crowd:
"Louis? Come here and see Captain Bart-was
"Oh, they's one more thing I forgot to tell you," the
oarsman said suddenly.
Bart turned, an inquiring look on his face.
"Folks around here got tired of the old name for the
town. Some of "em are starting to call it after another
settlement that used to be near here."
"What settlement?"
"San Francisco."
II
"Bart!"
Amanda cried, throwing her arms around his neck. "I
nearly fainted when Louis ran in to say they'd
sighted your clipper from the hill. I thought you were going
straight back to New York this trip-was
"Planned on it. Ran into an out-of-season blow."
He bussed her cheek, relishing the clean, soaped
smell of her skin. Even hi such a public
place, the touch of her body produced a
decided physical reaction. "Tell you about it
later," he added as he hugged her. She felt him,
all right:
"I can tell you've been away a while. Lord, how
I've missed you-I"
He grinned. "That's why I don't come around too
often. I reckon we'd get pretty tired of
each other if we slept in the same bed year in and
year out- " He planted another kiss on her
cheek. "I swear you just keep growing prettier,
Amanda."
"No. I'm getting gray, Bart."
She was; strands of white showed in the dark
glossiness of her hair.
"It's becoming. You take it from one who's seen all
kinds."
"Nice of you to flatter an old lady, Captain
McGill -" She caught his arm as they walked from
the surf to the damp sand. She picked up her shoes,
still teasing him: "You know some of the local women think
I'm scandalous, keeping company with a youngster like you-was
"The hell with "em. Five years" difference is
no difference at all." He peeked around her at the
sturdy, black-eyed boy with swarthy skin and broad
shoulders. He held out his hand.
"How are you, Louis?"
"Very good, Captain Bart, thank you," Louis
Kent said with a cheery smile. Bart gave the
obligatory nod to the hulking yellow scarecrow
lingering a respectful distance away:
"Israel. Things well with you?"
"About the same, cap'n."
In the opaque brown eyes, Bart detected the
hostility he'd encountered before. Amanda said Israel
bore southern-made scars on his back-Bart had
never cared to ask to see them-and so all southerners were
anathemas to the mulatto. Israel made no
secret of having run away from a Mississippi
cotton plantation. How Amanda could treat the
ex-slave as an equal, Bart McGilPs
experience and education did not permit him to fathom.
Amanda had met Israel in Los Angeles, where
he'd gone as a member of one of the trading
brigades coming
up from the southwest. That was early in '44. She'd
hired him to accompany her north to Yerba Buena,
where she'd hoped to find a more prosperous economy
than the one she'd left in the pueblo. In that, she
had been disappointed.
Together, Amanda and Israel, who was about
thirty now, had built Kent's. It tickled
Bart that Amanda approached physical work with an
almost masculine directness. He'd watched her
split a log for firewood once, and laughed
aloud when she raised her palms to her mouth, spit
on them, and clamped a grip on the axe- treating
him to an arch look because he laughed. He'd assured
her he was only laughing because her behavior was such a
delightful contrast to the vaporish ways of eastern
ladies-including his unlamented wife-who probably
would have gone to their graves rather than let anyone see
them spit
or
chop wood.
The mulatto had helped supply the knowledge of carpentry
required to put up the tavern. He and Amanda had
shared the labor equally. He'd remained her
devoted comand free-employee ever since. For no
rational reason, Bart distrusted
him
coman inheritance from his own upbringing, he occasionally
admitted to himself.
The crowd was dispersing. Amanda and the clipper captain
started up the beach toward the crude buildings that
comprised the settlement. Israel and
Louis followed.
"Feels good to be on shore again," Bart said.
"Feels good to have you here."
"Reckon we should celebrate with a little music after
you're finished for the day."
"Not just with music," she laughed, squeezing his arm.
"Miz Kent already hung up the sign saying we're
closed," Israel remarked from a pace behind.
Bart was annoyed at the Negro eavesdropping on
private conversation. But Amanda's bubbling voice
took the edge off his irritation:
"I'm going to cook you the biggest meal you've had in
months. And Louis and I want to hear some songs-was
"Got a new one I think you'll like," he said,
taking her arm. He noticed her dark eyes straying
to the parcel in his other hand. "But you're more interested in
these, aren't you?" He bent to whisper. "There's a
price on
"em."
Her eyes brimmed with warmth, and she was only partly
teasing when she replied:
"You don't have to bargain for that, Bart. You know how
much I long for you while you're gone-was
"Still say you couldn't stand me if I was around all the
time."
She kept eyeing the parcel. In answer to the
unspoken question, he said:
"Yes, Kent editions, every one. Three Coopers.
A collection of stories by Hawthorne-
Mosses from an Old Manse,
I think the title is-and a bunch of peculiar comoh,
supernatural tales, I guess you'd call them.
Written by some fellow named Poe. I didn't
care for 'em much. That particular book was
second-hand. I was told the public doesn't
care for 'em much either."
Amanda's ebullient mood seemed spoiled by the
mention of the books. Soon after they had met for the first
time, she had spoken candidly about her childhood,
who she was and who her father had been. She said she had
never imagined her father's firm was still in existence
until, by pure chance, she had come across a tattered
copy of Headley's
Napoleon and his Marshals
in Los Angeles.
The book was being sold among other odds and ends by a
wagon-trader who had passed through the pueblo. It
was the twelfth edition of the popular work, published
at Boston in 1839 and carrying the words
Kent and Son
and a design representing a bottle of tea on its
title page.
After that very first visit, Bart had brought her Kent
books on every trip. Whenever possible, he also
brought her answers to questions.
Listening to the story of her early years, he had
learned in the bargain how she'd traveled this far
west. He had been thunderstruck by the account of what
she'd endured, and not a little disturbed by her
unpleasant expression when she spoke of the man who
had won the family firm from her stepfather hi a
dice game-
Her face had the same grim look now. In New
York the past autumn, he had found the answers
to some new questions. He wondered whether he should tell
her. He disliked seeing the angry streak in her
nature assert itself-
She didn't leave the choice to him. She quickened her
step so they drew ahead of Israel and the boy. They
swung past a smith's and walked on toward the
oddly quiet Portsmouth Square. Even
Brannan's mercantile emporium looked
deserted. Abruptly, Amanda said:
"What about Stovall?"
"What about him?"
"Bart, don't string me along. Did you find out
everything I wanted to know?"
He sighed. "Most of it"
"Well, then-is Stovall still running Kent disand
Son?"
"Yes."
She swore as vehemently and violently as any of
his able seamen. He finally interrupted:
"I don't know where you learned all those words,
sweet, but I'm suitably impressed. Now you
want to let me finish?"
"I'm sorry, go on."
"StovaUs's running the company, but through underlings, not
personally-was
"The way you say that, you make it sound like I put you
to some terrible chore-was
"I'm out of my depth investigating a
muckety-muck
like Mr. Hamilton Stovall. Steel's a far
cry from shipping, and I got plenty of peculiar
stares at the saloons where the newspaper writers
hang out-
"You also got answers, didn't you?"
"Eventually. But those reporter fellows sure as
hell wonder why a sea captain's buying
them rounds and asking about the third biggest steelmaker
in the whole United States."
Amanda seemed not to hear:
"Where is he living?"
"A fancy mansion in New York-he and his
wife."
"He's
married?"
"He is. The woman's a good deal younger. They have
no children."
"I'm not surprised. From what Jared told me,
I can't imagine Stovall being interested in a
woman-unless she could confer some kind of
respectability on him."
"Perhaps that is why he married. He's certainly not
the same man you described to me-at least not in
public. He's eminently respectable."
"But treating the book company like a stepchild-
"Not exactly. A couple of clerks told me
Kent's is still a popular and successful imprint."
"Which he keeps going solely because it makes
money?"
"Why else would he keep it going?"
"My father and my grandfather believed printing books
served a useful purpose."
"So it does. It lines Mr. StovalTs
pockets."
"I'm talking about educating people. Having a point of
view and not being afraid to express it."
"It's my impression Stovall cares very little about the
state of the public mind. The clerks said the Kent and
Son list is growing less substantial every year.
And the house publishes nothing controversial-though come
to think of it, I did see a Kent edition of
Awful Disclosures."
"I've never heard of it."
"Caused a real stir when it was issued in "36-and
discredited soon after. It was written by a girl named
Maria Monk. That is, her name's on it-hacks
probably prepared the manuscript. Maria
claimed to have been a nun. Later it was proved that the
closest she got to the Roman faith was a
religious home for wayward girls. The whole
book's fiction, but it's lip-smacking stuff.
Nuns submissive to the carnal will of
priests-midnight revels in a Montreal
convent-illegitimate babies baptized, then
strangled, nine months after the aforesaid revels-was
"That's disgusting."
"But you can't call it controversial. Too
many people believe such tales about Catholics."
"Does Stovall?"
"Can't say. But I imagine that if he published
the Monk book, he hates the papists-especially
all the Irish filling up the eastern cities."
"Did you ask about his politics?"
"Forgot. You know I don't give much of a damn
who votes for what. Again,
Awful Disclosures
would lead me to guess he's a Know-Nothing."
"God!" Amanda seethed. "If my grandfather knew
a bigot like that was publishing books under his name-was
She was too angry to continue.
"I did discover a couple of things about Stovall's
main business," Bart went on. "He's opening up
a new mill in Pittsburgh. The railroads are
using more steel than he can produce. And he's
changed the company name from the Chesapeake Iron
Finery to the Stovall Works."
"Did you find out who's actually running Kent and
Son?"
He shook his head. "But I know who's general
manager of the Stovall Works. One of the boys from the
Sun
stood me to a schooner of beer after I bought
him three. He got to talking pretty freely.
He said-was
Bart's hands grew chilly. How he despised the
sight of Amanda's lovely face when it was this
white; this intense. She got that way whenever she
discussed Stovall-
They had reached the edge of Portsmouth Square. The
stars and stripes snapped in the breeze above the rows
of turned earth; the square was Yerba Buena's
potato patch.
Bart still hadn't finished his last sentence. In front
of the Old Adobe, the town hall, Amanda stopped,
blocking his path:
"Go on with it, Bart."
"Jesus! You could let me get to your place, at
least-was
"Tell me right now!"
"All right. The reporter happened to mention the name
of the fellow in charge of the steel operation. It's one
of the names you remembered. But you didn't have it quite
right-was He hesitated again. "It's not Waltham,
it's Walpole."
"Walpole!"
Louis, who had been dawdling behind with Israel,
ran to her:
"Ma, what's the matter?"
"Nothing-nothing."
"You sounded so mad-was
"You and Israel go on to the tavern-
go on?"'
The gangling yellow-skinned man drifted up:
"Do like your mama says, Louis." He took the
boy's hand and started off. The sight of black skin
pressing white made Bart McGill feel
slightly unclean. He'd been brought up to loathe
that kind of familiarity between the races.
Amanda showed no sign of moving. One hand shielding
her eyes from the sun, she was waiting for the rest He
figured he might as well get it over:
"Walpole," he repeated. "The same name as the
fellow your cousin shot."
"He's a relative-one of Walpole's sons?"
"He's the same man."
"That-that can't be!"
"Who asked the questions, you or me?"
"But Jared killed Walpole!"
"I know that's what you said. But I'm the one who
spent three gold pieces on more beer and two
telegraph messages. The
Sun
reporter contacted a man he knows on a
Baltimore paper. The man wired information back
the next day. Walpole's old-almost ready
to retire. There are employees at the company
who've heard him speak of being shot by one of the Kents
way back in fourteen or fifteen-whenever it was that
Stovall took over your father's firm."
"Then-Stovall let Jared think-was
"Think what? Your cousin never waited to discover what
really happened. You said both of you ran away the very
same night-was He grimaced. "I'm getting
weary of this blasted detective work, Amanda. What
I've found out hasn't done any good at all. It
only makes you more miserable. When are you going
to realize it's downright unhealthy to harbor a
grudge for so many years-?"
She paid no attention:
"He let Jared think he'd done
murder
-"
"Jared never gave himself a chance to find out
otherwise!"
"Stovall could have tried to locate-was
"Oh, come on, sweet!" Bart broke in,
angered that the past had cropped up so
soon. It always did eventually. But it seldom
produced the degree of rage seething in her right
now. Well, he'd guessed this might happen. But
he tried to make her see reason:
"Stovall didn't care a damn for your family.
Hated them, hi fact-you said so yourself."
"And all this time, he let Jared believe that he
killed -"
"All this timer
he echoed in a sarcastic way. "Your cousin's
probably dead."
"That makes no difference. By God, I'm going
back there-to "
He sounded tired: "You've told me. Over and
over."
"Ten years ago, I had the same idea-but for a
different reason. I just wanted to see where the
family lived comsearch for some mementos my father owned.
When I came across the Headley book, everything
changed. I want Kent and Son out of Stovall's
hands!"
"Maybe the first reason was better. This jeremiad
against Mr. Stovall eats on you worse every year-was
"Because I'm getting older. I may not have many years
left. I swear, if I can ever put together
more than twenty dollars at one time, I'm going
back and take the company away from him. I'll do more
than that to
him
if I can-was
Inexplicably chilly hi the sun, Bart said,
"Sometimes, Amanda, you scare the bejesus out of a
man. I know this much. You get involved in trying
to destroy someone and you'll wind up suffering as much as
he does. Hate works that way. It hurts the one
who gets it
and
the one who gives it-was
I
have first-hand experience.
"comChrist almighty, that's exactly what's
happening back east right now. One section against the
other-the tempers hotter, the words more vile and
unreasonable with every day that passes-before it's over, people
on both sides are liable to be killing each other!"
She didn't want to hear. She snatched the book
parcel from his hand, her fingers almost colorless as they
clenched the oilskin:
If I
only had some money
-"
"Dammit, woman, don't you
ever
listen to what I say? I've told you a dozen
times you don't need money to pay
your way east. Say the word and I'll take you and
Louis aboard-was
"I'm not talking about money for passage. I'm
talking about a lot of money."
Exhausted and unsettled by the discussion, he was
snappish:
"What if Mr. Hamilton Stovall doesn't
care to sell Kent and Son the minute you say so?
Did you ever think of that?"
Outwardly, she remained the same Amanda Kent:
full-figured, with a deliciously wide mouth,
lovely dark eyes-and yet the fury in those eyes
produced a subtle distortion; the total effect was
spoiled.
"I'll make him sell. No matter what I have
to do."
"Then you're just as crazy as you claim he is!"
"Thank you."
"Amanda-was
"Thank you very much, Captain McGill!"
Jamming the parcel of books under her arm, she
whirled and hurried away.
"Amanda, come back here! I didn't mean to make
you fly off-was
She didn't stop or look around. He swore a
few blistering words, then followed her slowly across the
sunlit square.
  ill
She dashed straight in the front door of Kent's
and slammed it after her. He noticed the
Closed
sign Israel had mentioned. Puzzlingly, similar
signs hung on the door of Sam Brannan's
store, and on the door of the small, jerry-built
office of the
Star
immediately adjoining. Brannan owned the paper as well
as the mercantile establishment.
But Captain Bart McGill had things to worry
about
besides the curious absence of the town's most industrious
citizen. The visit to Yerba Buena had gotten
off to a catastrophic start. All he'd wanted
to do today was spend a while enjoying Amanda's
company-talking with her of inconsequential
things; laughing with her; touching her. And then, at an
appropriate hour when Louis was bedded down and
Israel had retired to his shanty behind the tavern,
he would have climbed into her bed and loved her-
Instead, he'd wrecked her customary composure with the
one thing capable of doing that-the past; the past she
constantly picked over so the wound could never heal.
Goddamn,
why had he ever spent so much time and energy on those
inquiries? Why hadn't he refused to discuss the
contents of the parcel, or what he'd learned last
autumn, until later? Until it was dark and
calm and they'd taken their sweet fill of one
another-his
He knew why. He'd questioned the reporters hi
New York, and answered her promptly this
morning, because she asked-because he liked to please her.
But she
was
getting too old for silly notions about bringing the
Kents back to the position of eminence she claimed
they'd once enjoyed. Forty was an average
lifetime; five years beyond that, she was lucky to be in
such astonishingly good health. She should be enjoying what
was left of her life, not dedicating it to some
fool scheme that soured her disposition and didn't stand
a chance of succeeding. Wealthy or not, she'd be no
match for a powerful man like Hamilton Stovall-who
logically couldn't be expected to hand over Kent and
Son to a member of the family he despised.
Yet Amanda was a determined woman; that he knew
very well. Maybe she
could
succeed if she tried hard enough, and had a touch of
luck. What upset him was the fact that her ambition
was so closely tied to an al
most fanatic hatred of Stovall. And as he'd
tried to tell her, hate was a costly,
destructive emotion-
Except when some shipboard crisis sparked him to a
fury and drove him to action, Captain Barton
McGill was a calm, detached sort of man.
He'd been raised in a Charleston home where two
aristocratic people of high temper had clashed often.
Among his most vivid memories of childhood were
the sounds of argument-
Cursing.
Crying.
Crockery smashing-
He'd been fortunate to discover the haven
offered by a career at sea. His parents-both dead
now-hadn't objected to his leaving home when he was
quite young. He felt they had little interest in him, and
suspected they were glad to be rid of him. But he'd
married unwisely; married a woman who had much the
same disposition as his mother and father. Her anger,
easily roused, had driven him deeper within himself.
He developed a kind of spiritual kinship with the
spotted turtle he'd kept as a pet when he was
eight or nine-
Kept, that is, until one of the stormiest of the
arguments between his parents. His father snatched the turtle
from its box on the porch and hurled it at his mother.
She dodged and the spotted turtle hit the house,
its carapace cracked even though it had frantically
withdrawn its legs and head-
The turtle died that same night. Bart never
forgot. Over the years he concluded that those who
indulged their tempers for any but the most practical
and pressing reasons were fools doomed to destroy
others, and be destroyed. Even turtles weren't
perfectly protected from the wrath of such fools, but
at least they had some armor. His was intellectual.
He abhorred, and took no part in, the venomous
debate the slave question produced in the
north and south. He jeered at the hysterical
abolitionists and their
bombastic, foully slanted pamphlets and
newspapers. But his contempt was nearly as strong for
those cotton-kingdom demagogues who puffed out
clouds of gas about states" rights and offered sly
threats of separation-secession- to
scare
those northern bastards-
No matter what the motive, hate bred hate and,
in the end, chaos. He had long ago weaned himself
away from such damaging passions. He preferred the
steady, soothing beat of the ocean against a clipper's
hull; the spirited but essentially civilized bargaining in
the Chinese hongs. In the Far East trade, a
man could do his task, take pride in it, and make
a little money without staking his life on worthless
angers and wooly ideas-such as Amanda's Diction that
Kent and Son was supposed to do more than bring in a
profit; that it had some higher responsibility to inform
and inspire the people who bought the books bearing its
imprint. Ideas like that-turned into crusades-only
brought people to grief-
Damnation! He should have lied about the questions she'd put
to him on his last visit. Lied outright:
"Kenfs isn't owned by Stovall any longer. No
one's heard of Walpole in years
-"
As he stared glumly at the closed front door
where she'd vanished, he realized that if he'd thought
things through a little more-or if he cared for her a little
less comhe
would
have lied.
Now it was too late.
IV
Whittling, Louis Kent looked up as Bart
McGill approached the shadowed rear stoop of the
sun-bleached frame building. Out back, Israel
was pottering in the garden next to his shanty.
Bart wanted to go on inside; into the building's rear
room, a large, square chamber partitioned
into sleeping
space for Louis, and a second, somewhat bigger
alcove for Amanda. He could see the room's
furnishings-the piano he'd brought on one voyage;
the walnut dining table and chairs that had come on
another. Amanda and her son entertained visitors
at the table, and took meals there. Food came from the
tavern's small kitchen, located between the
rear living room and the more spacious public room in
front. Kent's didn't waste money on fancy
fixtures. A plank bar and several cheap tables and
chairs satisfied the diners and drinkers of Yerba
Buena-
He saw it all, fondly, but he didn't go in
because he suspected Amanda was probably still upset.
She'd let him know when she was composed enough to see him
again.
He sat down beside the boy on the splintery step.
"Louis, I've been wondering something." "What is
it, sir?"
"Have I got my days mixed up? I swear last
night, my log read Tuesday. But places around
here are closed tight, just like it's Sunday."
"You mean Mr. Brannan's store?" "And his
paper," Bart nodded. "Where is the old
money-grubber, off palavering with brother
Brigham?" "Oh, no, Captain Bart, Mr.
Brannan's given up the Mormon faith." "He
has! Why?"
"He and Young fell out over the place those
Latter-day Saints were going to settle after they got
run out of Missouri. Mr. Brannan brought some
families to Yerba Buena by ship, you
know-was "Yes."
"comand he tried to persuade Young this was the promised
land. I guess old Mr. Young saw it
differently, back at that salty lake they say
lies east of the Sierras. Young threw Brannan out
of their church-was
"Good God! I beg your pardon, Louis.
Continue."
"comand he said he wanted all the money Brannan
had collected in tithes, too. Ma said Mr. Young
claimed it was the Lord's money, so Mr. Brannan
said he'd return it as soon as Young sent him a
receipt in the Lord's handwriting. That Mr.
Brannan's pretty good at turning a dollar-was
"Almost as good as your mother," Bart observed with a wry
smile. "But you haven't told me where he is."
"I think he must have gone up to Captain Sutler's
mill."
Bart blinked. "You mean the fort on the Sacramento?
New Helvetia?"
"No, I mean Captain Sutter's sawmill.
I guess it's been built since you were here last.
About forty or fifty miles beyond the fort, on the
American River. Mr. Brannan probably
went up to see about the gold-along with Mr.
Kemble, the editor of the
Star,"
"What gold are you talking about, Louis?" The boy
shrugged. "Probably isn't real. Probably just
pyrites."
"Found in the river?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Marshall, who was putting up
the mill, spied it first." Louis fished hi his
pocket, produced a crumpled clipping. "This was
hi the other paper last month. I tore it out-I
got pretty excited. But ma calmed me down quick
enough. She said a lot of the yellow stuff had showed
up around here before-and all of it busted apart the minute
someone laid it on an anvil and hammered it. That's
one way you tell fool's gold, they say."
Bart scanned the story from Yerba Buena's other
occasional newspaper,
The Californian.
The item was dated the fifteenth of March:
GOLD MINE FOUND.-IN the newly made
raceway of the Saw Mill recently erected
by Captain Sutter on the American Fork, gold
has been found
in considerable quantities. One person brought
thirty dollars, worth to New
Helvetia, gathered there in a short time.
California, no doubt, is rich in mineral wealth;
great chances here for scientific capitalists.
He didn't read the final sentence, because Louis
interrupted:
"Nobody believes that now."
"But a few still went to look for themselves-?"
"Yes. Mr. Brannan even fetched along some
aqua jortis.
I don't know what that is, but he said if you poured
it on gold, nothing would happen, and that's another
way you tell real gold from pyrites."
"Explains why the town's so quiet, anyway.
Strikes me that if there were gold up along those
rivers, someone would have made certain by now. It's
April already -"
"Does seem funny, doesn't it?"
Bart changed the subject: "How are you coming along
with your studies?"
"Pretty well. Ma helps me three nights a
week. I'm good with sums-I can make change fast
in the tavern. My handwriting's only fair. And
I don't like all that poetry and those stories she
makes me read-was
"Well-was He tousled the boy's dark,
curly hair. In the blue shadow of the stoop,
Louis might have passed for a Mexican, so coppery
were his cheeks. "comy'll have to suffer. Reading's the mark
of a cultured man. I brought a new batch of
books. Maybe you'll like that Poe fellow's eerie
concoctions-was
The door opened behind them. Bart rose. But even before
he swung and saw Amanda's smiling face, he was
gratified by her calm voice:
"Come in, Bart. And forgive me for carrying on a
while ago-?"
Her smile was so warm, he promptly forgot the
worry
and turmoil caused by her reaction to the Kent
books:
"Nothing to forgive, sweet-less you refuse to pour
me a good strong drink."
The remainder of the day was merry and satisfying.
Amanda cooked up some beef brought in a few days
earlier from the fort of the somewhat bizarre European,
Captain John Sutter. The fort lay beyond the
central valley, where the Sacramento and American
Rivers flowed together.
While Amanda worked, Bart told her all the news
he could remember from the previous
fall-old news, to be sure, but she welcomed it.
There were some newer tidbits as well, the most
recent concerning the failing health of the famous Mr.
Astor,
He was dying at eighty-four, so enfeebled he could
take no nourishment except milk from the breast of a
woman hired for that purpose. To provide him with
exercise, his household servants laid him on a
blanket and lifted and lowered him. But sick as he
was, the legendary millionaire still kept track
of payments made by individual renters of his various
real estate properties- and demanded his agents
collect a small amount of money owed him by a
widow who had fallen on hard times. The gossips
said Astor's son had taken the sum from his own
pocket, and sent it to his father by special
messenger. The dying man was well pleased, Bart
said. He and Amanda exchanged eastern and western
perspectives on the war just concluded under the
leadership of two Whig generals, the military
commander of the southwest, Zachary Taylor, and the commander
of all United States forces, Winfield
Scott-both avowed political opponents of
President Polk. . Though both men were
Virginians, a greater personal
contrast could hardly have been found. Scott's
preoccupation with protocol and proper dress had
earned him a national nickname-Old Fuss and
Feathers. Taylor, unassuming and
unspectacular, seldom wore a uniform,
preferring farmer's clothing, with only a cap carrying
a general's emblem identifying his rank. While
cogitating, scanning dispatches or issuing orders,
he usually sat with both legs hanging down one
side of the old white nag he rode. His style
won him a nickname too-Old Rough and Ready-and
Bart said some in the east were already calling him
presidential material.
Like previous American wars, the one against
Mexico had been unpopular in certain quarters.
Many northerners saw it as a means of guaranteeing
the presence of a huge slave state, Texas, hi
the Union. Bart spoke with some derision about a
rustic philosopher of Massachusetts, a chap
named Thoreau, who had actually refused to pay a
poll tax to protest the "unmoral" war. He had
gone to Concord jail instead.
Amanda had a somewhat more personal, less
political interest in the outcome of the war. She'd
had firsthand experience with the Mexican
president, Santa Anna, back in Texas in
the thirties. Bart knew the story; he knew who
had sired young Louis, and under what circumstances.
With relish, Amanda described Santa Anna's
abdication after the capture of Mexico City in
September of '47:
"I only hope they've gotten the treacherous son
of a bitch out of office for good this time!"
She said conditions in California were settling down
now that Mexico had renounced claim to the land. The
territory was currently being governed by a garrison
at Monterey under the command of one Colonel
Mason. Exactly as Louis had said, she
dismissed the rumor of gold at Sutler's mill as
just that.
She served supper in the late afternoon, while the
sunlight began to diffuse behind the fog gathering out on
the Pacific. At Amanda's request, Louis
pronounced the grace. Then the boy asked:
"Isn't Israel going to eat with us, ma?"
"No, he has a touch of the stomach complaint."
She and Bart both knew it was an excuse.
Israel didn't enjoy the captain's company.
Bart was glad the former slave wasn't around.
He ate and ate, complimenting the cook
frequently. After the meal he lit a Cuban
cigar and moved to the room's most cherished object,
the small, compact piano he had freighted from
New York.
Before going to sea as a cabin boy in the Far East
trade, he had been forced to study music.
Despite his youthful dislike of practice, he was
accomplished. Music had become a companion for his
adult years; a companion who never argued over
damn fool
ideas,
or got het up, except as the composition and the
performer dictated -
He ran through the popular song he'd mentioned in the
morning, a lively novelty called
Oh, Susannah!
that everyone in the east was whistling. Louis and Amanda
quickly learned the words. The trio sang the song four
times through, with foot-stomping and hand-clapping to hide the
flaws in their voices.
Next Bart played some Chopin for Amanda, finishing
with a fiery yet somehow melancholy fantasy-Opus
66 in C sharp minor-whose central passage
seemed to speak of unfulfilled hopes and dreams.
Amanda rocked in the rocker, her eyes
closed, her sun-burnished face golden in the
light of the lamp.
Bart finished the piece and looked around. Louis had
slipped out, not caring for "fancy" music. He
watched Amanda rocking for a moment.
"Amanda."
"Mm." . "What are you thinking about?"
She opened her eyes. "Gold."
"You said there wasn't any."
"I know. If there were, Captain Sutter would
certainly have made more of the fact by now."
"Unless he's afraid the gold might bring a lot
of people tramping over his ground."
"You know, I never thought of it that way. You're right.
He's a farmer at heart-was
"A farmer who pretends he was once a soldier."
She smiled. "Everybody calls him captain out of
respect. No one really believes he served in the
Swiss Guards in France-any more than they
believe in the gold. Still, it's a lovely dream-was
"What is?"
"Owning a piece of ground with a lot of gold in it."
He didn't like the brief, predatory expression
in her eyes. He puffed on his cigar, rose and
stretched:
"Who does own this country? One of the men on the
lighter sounded like nobody's sure."
"That's true. Anyone who wants land around here can
claim it, except in town."
"Let's hope they don't want it. Changing the
name of this place is too much change already. I
prefer Yerba Buena just like it is. Quiet-was
He walked to her side, bent and kissed her
forehead.
"With you always here."
She reached up to touch his face, her fingertips warm
against his skin. How soft and beautiful she looked in
the lamplight. The predatory quality was gone.
He stroked her hair:
"You're an amazing woman, Amanda."
"Why do you say that?"
"I want another free meal tomorrow."
They laughed together. Then he went on, "I say it
because most females would have tried to lash me up
legally long before this."
She shrugged, the movement tightening the fabric over
her breasts and reminding him of his long-unsatisfied
need.
"You said one marriage was enough. Besides, even though
I'm regarded as something of a loose
creature around here, I continue to believe it's the
loving, not the document, that counts most. If you wish
to consider that an invitation, Captain McGU-LIKE,
please d-what on earth's wrong? Why did you
pull such a terrible face?"
"Just thinking of the poor devils still on board the
clipper. They don't get leave till morning.
While I wallow in debauchery-was He grinned.
"No debauchery permitted until children are in bed.
Do you want to help me find Louis?"
"With speed, sweet. With the utmost speed."
As she stood up, he leaned forward to kiss her
mouth. She caressed his face again.
"Make sure of that," she whispered.
He wheeled and sped out into the clammy fog, shouting
her son's name.
vi
She was full of eagerness and heat too long contained.
With Louis bedded down in the smaller cubicle, and the
curtain carefully pulled across the entrance to hers,
they made love with almost desperate haste, Amanda
not even allowing Bart to slip out of his trousers before
her hands were on him, pulling him to her.
The alcove grew warm. They lay together drowsily
afterward, Amanda laughing about how shameless it was
for a woman midway through her forties to enjoy a
man's body. She teased him about the difference in their
ages, calling herself a seducer of innocents-whereupon
he rolled over and kissed one of her breasts while
his other hand slid down the smoothness of her belly:
"I'll show you how innocent I am. Would you care
to learn a certain way Chinese girls make
love?"
She laughed and poked him:
"What Chinese girls, you deceitful bastard?"
"Unimportant Just pay attention-was
"And I thought southerners were honorable men."
"In public. Shut the bedroom tight and we rut
just as hard as the next. Harder, maybe. Better,
for sure-was
Laughing, hugging, kissing with their lips parted, they
went more slowly this time. The play of hands and limbs
drove Bart into a frenzy, until he was floundering
on her, parting her legs with insistent fingers, opening the
way for himself, thrusting forward with a haste that matched her
own-
She cried out happily at the impact-only to jerk
her head from the mussed pillow an instant later.
Her sudden movement jolted him:
"What the hell's wrong?"
"Someone's shouting-was
"Let them shout."
"I hear people in the square-was
He listened. Caught the unintelligible bellow of a
bass voice.
"We've had trouble before, Bart. Drifters
liquored and starting a scrape. Setting fires-hand
me my robe."
"Oh, goddamn it, all right," he said, severely
peeved.
She lit a lamp on the walnut table. Louis
popped out of his cubicle, asking what was wrong.
"You go back to sleep," Amanda said, reaching past the
pile of new books to a board hanging on the
wall. Pegs jutted from the board. Two of them
supported one of the revolvers manufactured
by Colt's of Hartford. The gun was an 1840
holster model, .36 caliber, with a barrel a
full foot long. Amanda handled it expertly,
flipping out the fold-in trigger and checking the five
chambers to be sure they were loaded. Through one
curtained
window Bart glimpsed a running figure with a
torch- the mulatto, Israel, heading for the square-
Amanda rushed through the kitchen and into the
public room, Bart a few paces behind. She
unlatched the front door, dashed out on the stoop.
Struggling to pull on his shirt, Bart saw her
stiffen, silhouetted against the weak glow of several
torches being carried through the fog toward the source of the
shouting. He heard the bass voice again. This time he
understood some of the words:
"By God, I tested it myself! Come and look if you
don't believe me-was
He ran toward the door as Amanda disappeared in the
thick fog. Moments later, shivering, he joined a
growing crowd of people who surrounded a spent, bedraggled
man. The man held up something that glowed yellow in
the blaze of the torches.
Sam Brannan's thick black hair literally
bouifced on his forehead as he emphasized his words with
shakes of his head:
"It's gold, I tell you-was He brandished the
half-full quinine bottle. "Right out of the
American river!"
Someone on the far side of the crowd went racing away
to summon others:
"Brannan's back! He's got gold from the
American -"
Within seconds, it seemed that a half
dozen voices began to bawl the word through the fog:
"Gold!"
"Gold!"
Lights bobbed as people came running with more lanterns and
torches. Bart McGill stared at the faces ringing
the stocky Mormon displaying the quinine bottle.
The faces were sleepy or stunned or stupidly
amused- all except one.
Amanda didn't see Bart watching-nor see him
shiver a second time. Her dark hair was lit by the
fuming torch in Israel's hand. She was staring at the
sparkling yellow dust in the bottle. Staring
thoughtfully-speculatively-
She had the look of a predator again.
The Fever
THE ARRIVAL OF THE
Manifest Destiny
was a welcome interruption of young Louis Kent's
undemanding, if monotonous, routine.
Louis customarily rose before daylight. He laid
and lit the fire in the cast iron stove in the
kitchen. While his mother cooked for the men who took,
breakfast at Kent's, he waited tables,
collected money and ran dirty dishes back
to Israel, who washed them in two large
wooden tubs. When the breakfast business slacked
off about eight-thirty, everyone began preparing for the
noon trade, which actually started closer to ten.
At that hour, Israel moved out front to take
charge of the liquor kegs. A phlegmatic
Mexican girl named Concepcion took over the
serving chores while Louis was demoted to dishwasher
for the afternoon and evening. He wasn't especially fond
of any of the work, but dishwashing was particularly boring.
He knew the work helped his ma keep the place
going, though, so he accepted his responsibilities
with no complaint.
But the nocturnal shouting in the square, followed
by Amanda's departure with her revolver, altered his
life more drastically than the return of Captain
Bart ever had.
The following morning, he learned the cause of the
commotion. Merchant Brannan had rushed back from the
American River with a bottle of genuine gold
dust.
Almost immediately, Louis noticed a change in his mother.
Her mind seemed to be on something other
than the operation of the tavern. He hoped she wasn't
finally planning the return to Boston that she discussed
from time to time. Even though life in Yerba
Buena was far from ideal-he had no playmates, for
instance-he wasn't sure he wanted to go.
Oh, she painted an elegant picture for him.
She said the printing business her family had once
owned would be his one day. She promised him fine
clothes, and marvelous sights, and an existence that no
longer included a broom, scalding water and
garbage scraps. He supposed it might be nice
to have some friends his own age. And it would be interesting
to see the huge cities at the other end of the continent,
though truthfully, he couldn't imagine any place
as large and crowded as New York. He hardly
believed half of Captain Bart's descriptions.
And could faraway Boston give him the fine, free
feeling that swept over him when he and Israel
roamed the hills of the peninsula, sniping at
jackrabbits with the mulatto's antique squirrel
gun? He doubted it.
His reservations sprang from something other than simple
fear of the unknown, however. When his ma spoke of
Boston, a peculiar, almost ugly look came
into her eyes. She seemed like a stranger, somehow.
He finally figured out that his mother's absent air was
directly connected to the furor over the gold, though
Boston might be mixed up in it. He
knew a lack of money was all that prevented their
return to the east. And now there was a kind of money
available right in the inland rivers.
He didn't like the whole business one bit.
Practically overnight, his ma stopped smiling-and
she always smiled a lot whenever Captain Bart
visited. She grew a little curt with him, and with
everyone-Israel commented on it. Louis wished Mr.
Brannan hadn't raised such a fuss and set the
whole village buzzing. He wanted his mother gay and
easygoing again-
But things were never to be what they had been before.
Two days after Brannan's return, Captain
Bart stormed into the public room about ten a.m.
Louis, pushing the straw broom, glanced up and saw
the captain wham his peaked cap onto one of the tables.
"Where's your mother?"
"In-in the kitchen, I think," Louis said, next
to speechless.
The captain sank into a chair. "Tell her to fetch
me a cup of coffee. Then you can uncork that rum
keg and pour me-was He jumped up. "No, I'll
get the damned rum myself. You get your mother."
Louis put down his broom and raced for the curtain
separating the front from the kitchen. He
discovered Amanda in the center of a cloud of steam.
Perspiring, she was stirring a kettle of beans with a
horn spoon.
"Captain Bart wants coffee, ma."
She laid the spoon aside. "I thought I heard
someone come in-was She lifted the lid of the battered
pot. "The coffee's gone. We had so many
customers this morning, we ran through four gallons."
"Where are all those people coming from?"
"Up from the south-out of the hills-from the sky! There must
be fifty more men in town than there were this time
yesterday."
"Maybe that's why the captain's in a bad temper.
I've never seen him so stormy-was
"Louis, for Christ's sake, the rum keg's
empty!" Mcill shouted.
"Ma, you better hurry-was
Amanda wiped her hands on her apron. "Find
Israel. Have him bring another keg from the storage
shed. We drained the one out in front last night."
She disappeared beyond the curtain. As the boy headed out
the back way, he heard McGill thunder:
"I sent Louis for you
and
some coffee, goddamn it!"
"Don't you talk to me that way, Bart McGill!
What in the world's become of that reserve you're so
proud of-?"
Her voice faded as the boy darted into the sunlight.
He hailed Israel, who was emptying a tub of
dishwater behind the privy. A few minutes later,
the two reentered Kent's, the lanky mulatto
balancing a small keg on his shoulder.
Israel removed the empty from its cradle behind the
plank counter and set the new one in place.
Captain Bart was tapping his cap against his knee
while Amanda studied a piece of paper. In a
moment, she shook her head:
"It's almost ludicrous, Bart."
"A man does ludicrous things when he smells
easy money. Jesus, I need
something
to drink-was He jumped up again and stalked toward the
counter.
"I'm sorry about the coffee-was Amanda began.
McGill paid no attention. Israel reached for a
tin cup. The captain snatched it from him:
"I'll pour my own, if you don't mind."
He put the cup back on the shelf and picked up
another. He maneuvered the cup under the
bung and got the keg open. But his hand was shaking.
Rum splashed, soaking the cuff of his blue
jacket. He swore under his breath, oblivious
to Israel's venomous stare.
The boy realized Israel was mad because the captain
refused to let him handle his drinking cup. Louis
saw that his ma noticed, too. She tried to blunt
Israel's anger with an explanation:
"Two of Captain McGill's crew jumped
ship last night."
"My cook and my third mate," McGill said.
"Took off up the Sacramento-was He downed a
swallow of rum, then gestured with the cup. "The mate
left a note
for his father. If he thinks I'm going to see it
delivered to New Hampshire, he's got shit between
his ears."
Amanda glanced at her son. "Bart-was
"Sorry," the captain muttered in a perfunctory
way. He drank again.
In a toneless voice, Israel asked, "What's
the note say, Miz Kent?"
"Go on, you can read it to him," Bart said to Amanda.
"I can read it for myself," Israel said. "My
momma taught me in the pine woods, even
though it was against the law. Bark for a tablet. A white
oak stick for a pen. An oak ball soaked in
water to make ink-and fifty apiece across the back
when the driver finally caught momma and me sneaking
off together for a lesson. There isn't any nigger more
dangerous than an educated nigger, is there,
captain?"
"I don't need any goddamn sass from you!"
McGill exclaimed.
"Maybe you gonna get some anyway. And something
else besides," Israel said, stepping forward.
Bart McGill slammed his cup on the plank
counter. Louis saw with alarm that the ex-slave's
fingers were fisted. Amanda rushed between the two, a hand
on each of them:
"I forbid that kind of behavior around here, and both of
you know it! Israel, you go back outside-Bart, you
settle down." She tugged his arm. "Come on-was
She glanced over her shoulder. "Israel, I'm
asking you to leave-was
"Asking or telling?"
"Asking. Please!"
His dark eyes resentful, the lanky man finally
shrugged, turned and walked out. McGill was still
seething. After the door banged, he
exploded:
"That snotty son of a bitch acts like I'm one of
those
Mississippi cotton barons! The McGills
never owned a
slave. Not one!"
"But Israel sees all white men alike because a
few of
them treated him badly. Unfortunately you have the
same kind of irrational feelings about colored
people-Louis heard Amanda with only half an ear,
having
inched his way toward the table where the paper had
fallen. He managed to glimpse a few of the
scrawled
lines:
comfrenzy has seized my soul. Piles of gold
rise up before me at every step. Thousands of slaves
bow to my beck and call. Myraids of fair
damsels contend for my love. In short it is a
violent attack of what I can only term gold
fever
-
"Now settle down and think about your men," Amanda
urged. "Are you going after them?"
McGill started refilling his cup. "By every law on
the book, I should. But I decided against it. I
plan to load the hold as fast as possible and weigh
anchor. I can't afford to lose anyone
else-I've already got the first and second mates
standing guard. They rounded up the whole crew this
morning and sent "em back to the ship. They have
orders to shoot if anybody takes a header over
the rail. I hope the cook and the mate dig to hell
and find nothing but a ton of those pyrites!" He
slumped at the table, staring moodily into the cup.
Amanda's face had acquired that intense look
Louis disliked:
"How does a man collect gold, Bart?
You've called in Peru and Chile, surely you've
heard-was
His head jerked up. "Why the hell are you so
interested? You planning to sail off to the American
too?"
Louis knew his ma was hiding something when she
answered:
"No, I'm just curious. Gold-hunting must take
some equipment-was
"Not much more than a pick, a shovel and a pan for
placer mining. You wash the dirt out of a pan
of water and because the gold's heavier, it stays put.
It's hard labor. Even harder if you're working
solid rock instead of a river. The South
Americans have mechanical contraptions-
arrastras
comfor separating gold from quartz."
He finished his drink, jammed the paper in his
pocket and his cap on his head:
"I'll see you for supper-provided I get enough
hides loaded. I want to get out of this lunatic
place-was
When he was gone, Amanda moved quickly to her son:
"Louis, I'd like you to do an errand."
Uneasily, he said, "What is it?"
"I need a new iron pan for the kitchen. Fetch
twenty cents and run to the hardware. While you're
there, see how many shovels are in stock."
"Ma!" he cried. "You haven't got the gold
fever too?"
Amanda laughed in a harsh way. "No, I'm not that
addled. But I've been noticing how many people have come
to town just in the past twenty-four hours-was
She gave him a pat on the bottom:
"You hurry along and get that pan."
II
"I need an iron pan, Mrs. Holster,"
Louis said to the stout woman tending the hardware
counter. She pointed to an empty shelf:
"Sold the lot not two hours ago."
"Who bought 'em?"
"Sam Brannan. He bought every pick and shovel,
too.
Paid twice the going price for everything. He's
loading them out in back right this minute."
Disappointed, Louis headed for the front door.
Courtesy jogged him into acknowledging the owner's
absence: "Is Mr. Holster feeling poorly this
morning?"
"You mean because he's not here?" The woman sniffed.
"He hired Andy Bellamy to pole him up the
river to Sutler's fort. Mr. Kemble the editor
went with him. You won't be reading the
Star
around here for a while- or seeing Mr. Holster
selling nails! I swear, I don't know what's
got into people, traipsing off to nowhere thinking they can wash
a fortune out of a stream-was
But Louis knew. He'd read the third mate's
note. The fever explained everything from the influx of
strangers and his ma's odd behavior to the
sudden turnover in hardware.
To verify that last, Louis walked around to the rear of the
building. Bare-chested and sweating, Sam Brannan
was lashing a canvas over the bed of a small wagon.
Louis said hello, then shinnied up one wheel for a
look into the bed:
"What are you shipping, Mr. Brannan? A whole
lot of pick-axes, huh?"
And pans and shovels, he noted before Brannan
shooed him off and covered the cargo completely:
"That's right, Louis. Going to peddle them in the store
I lease up at New Helvetia. I figure
just one pan will bring me anywhere from half an ounce
to one ounce of dust, flake or lump gold."
"How much is that in money?"
"Oh, about eight to sixteen dollars American."
Louis whistled. "How can you ask so much for a
twenty-cent pan?"
"Because men need 'em, my boy. And what men need,
they'll pay for-handsomely. Like I told Mrs.
Holster-was He grinned. "Spades are trumps
now.
If there's as much gold in the American as there
seems to be, it's going to be that way for a long time."
Louis ran back to the other side of
Portsmouth Square and reported to his mother. She
thanked him, but her eyes didn't seem to be
focusing on the immediate surroundings. She acted much the
same as she did whenever she discussed returning
to Boston.
"You go help Israel," she said. "I want
to look over my account book-was
She left him. He scuffed the toe of his boot
against the kitchen floor. Maybe living by herself-without
a man-had something to do with these peculiar spells.
Maybe it wasn't entirely the fault of the gold-
Amanda always refused to answer Louis" questions about his
father. She put him off with a promise that she'd clear
up the mystery when she thought the time was appropriate.
Did that mean he was still too young? He assumed so.
Every once in a while he keenly missed having a
father. Now was one such time. A man might help his
ma keep a level head. A man who was around more
regularly than Captain Bart might help cure
his ma of the fever comto which Louis was convinced Amanda
had succumbed, whether she'd admit it or not.
III
That night Amanda completely forgot her son's
lessons. Captain Bart arrived for supper about
seven, but the tavern was so busy, she had
no chance to serve him until half past nine-which put
him in another foul mood. Louis could tell from the
sort of music the captain hammered on the piano
before and after he ate- wild, noisy music, full
of heavy chords in the bass.
Louis couldn't sleep because of the racket. He pushed
the curtain aside and asked whether he could go out to
the privy. Amanda didn't answer. She was seated
at the walnut table, her pencil moving rapidly
over a sheet of paper. She was doing sums, he
noticed. Puffing on a cigar, Captain Bart
stared out a window.
"Ma? Did you hear me?"
Without so much as glancing up, Amanda said, "What?
Oh, yes, go ahead."
Frowning, the boy walked toward the back door.
He sat awhile on the rotting, splintery board.
But the request had been a pretense. Presently
he pulled his flannel nightshirt down and stepped
out of the reeking little building. The night air was
chilly, damp-smelling. Fog drifted. Out in the
bay, blurs of light showed the location of Captain
Bart's clipper and a small steam packet that made
coasting voyages as far north as Oregon.
A lantern was burning in Israel's
shanty. Captain Bart started pounding the piano
again. Louis didn't especially want to return
to the noise. He walked across the damp ground and
knocked on the shanty door.n
He heard Israel draw in a sharp breath:
"Who's there?"
"Just me, Israel."
"Oh-Louis. Come on in."
The place was cramped but scrupulously neat. A
table, a chair, a cot and a box for Israel's
few clothes comprised the furnishings. The tall man
lay on the cot, one of the new books-Mr.
Poe's-propped on his bare stomach.
As Israel sat up, Louis caught a glimpse
of the Negro's shoulderblade. Like most of
Israel's back, the yellow skin there was a
crosswork of hard brown scar tissue. Israel
often said-with a certain air of pride-that he'd been
whipped more than any other slave on the
Mississippi plantation from which he'd run away
when he was twenty.
"The captain's music keeping you awake?" the
ex-slave asked.
"Yes, that and-was Louis stopped, feeling vaguely
foolish.
"And what?" Israel prompted.
"And all the craziness in town."
Israel nodded. "Know what you mean. I heard
almost a hundred more folks showed up today."
"I just don't understand the reason, Israel. Why
is everybody so excited about gold? What can you do
with it?"
The tall man reflected a moment. "The truth
is, nothing much-except use it to replace a bad
tooth. Gold's not like iron or copper. You can't
turn it into needles or kettles or plows."
"Seems to me it's worthless, then."
"No, you can buy things with it. They say it lasts a
mighty long time. And it's not found in very many places
in the world. Guess that's why it's so valuable- there
isn't much of it."
"I still don't see why people would bother to hunt for it"
"That's because you don't think like a grownup, Louis.
Some grown-ups put a lot of stock in being rich."
"Is owning gold like owning people of color? The more you
own, the richer you are?"
Israel's gentle smile disappeared. "Yes and
no."
"What do you mean? What's the difference?"
"For one thing, a human being can produce
something comprovided he's scared bad enough. A lump
of gold doesn't think, either. Or shed a tear.
Or have any feelings to speak of-was
He said it quietly enough. But his eyes were so
somber, Louis shuddered.
"I wish they'd never found any gold at
Sutter's!" he declared finally.
"Could make California mighty prosperous,
Louis. Could be even more important than that-it just
might
start this part of the country filling up with people like nothing
else could."
"But ma's thinking about it too much!"
"How do you know?"
"Well, she's either thinking about gold or Boston.
She's hardly spoken to me since supper."
Israel tried to smile. "I expect she's
caught a light case of the fever. It'll pass."
Louis shook his head. "I think she has a bad
case. She wants money mighty strongly,
Israel. You know how she's always talking about going
east-was
"Yes, I do, and I have a peculiar feeling that
going there wouldn't be good for any of us. I know I
couldn't abide the crowds. Guess it's
none of my affair, though. You better hurry back
inside. You've been out here a while-was
"Bet they'll never notice how long I was gone.
Goodnight, Israel."
"Goodnight, Louis."
He left the shanty and crossed the foggy yard.
Amanda glanced up from her sums as he entered. She
said nothing. McGill sat at the piano, staring
into space.
Louis walked to the cubicle, drew the curtain and
threw himself in bed, feeling miserable. He could have
stayed out half the night-he could have jumped in the bay
or run off to the American-and she probably
wouldn't have said a word!
IV
The sandy-haired man walked into the public room
about nine the following evening. Nine was the normal
closing time. But it was already apparent to Louis that, with
all the new arrivals, Kent's could have extended its
hours till eleven or twelve and done a brisk
business in liquor.
He presumed the tavern would soon be open that long
every night. But right now his ma was occupied with those
scraps of paper on which she'd been ciphering last
evening and most of the day. She was at it again,
in the back, leaving Israel and Louis to hang out the
Closed
sign, sweep and clean the place, blow out the
lanterns and lock up. The Mexican girl,
Concepcion, had already gone.
The public room was empty of customers but the
front door was still open when the sandy-haired young man
entered. Israel pointed to the sign lying on the table
nearest the entrance:
"We're closed. I was just about to hang that up-was
"I'm powerful hungry," the young man said.
"Couldn't I see a bill of fare?"
"Isn't any," Israel informed him. "For supper
we serve salt pork, beans, biscuits and
coffee-and what's left is cold."
The sandy-haired fellow glanced at the open front
door. Nervously, Louis thought. Busy with the
broom, he still didn't miss the wood-handled bowie
sheathed over the young man's left hip. The stranger
was in his twenties, with a homely face. His
flannel shirt and trousers looked brand new.
Hardly a trace of dust anywhere. The shirt
bagged, much too large.
"Couldn't you rustle up a couple of biscuits?"
the young man asked. "I don't care if
they're cold-I'm plumb near starved."
Israel shrugged and headed for the kitchen. Presently
he returned, and set a plate in front of the
stranger. "You collect his money when he's
finished, Louis," he said as he left again.
The sandy-haired man wolfed two biscuits and was
starting on a third when he noticed the boy watching
him:
"What are you staring at?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Tend to your work!"
The abruptness of it-and the flash of color in the young
man's cheeks-alarmed Louis somehow. Ill at
ease, he glanced down at the pile of sweepings.
A horse clopped along the street. The sound
stopped suddenly. The young man whipped his head around,
staring through the door into the darkness. Perspiring all at
once, he swabbed his forehead with the back of one hand-
He started when another man appeared in the
doorway. A lean, severe-looking Army officer
in his late twenties. The officer's dark blue
fatigue jacket and light blue trousers were
powdered with dust. So was his face, which hadn't been
touched by a razor in several days. His reddish
beard, wrinkled clothing and fatigued eyes
were in marked contrast to the mint-bright barrel of the Army
revolver in his right hand.
"Evening, Private Pepper," the officer said. His
glance shifted to Louis, then back to the young man, who
looked as scared as anyone Louis had ever seen.
"How-how'd you track me so fast?" the young man
asked.
"Do you imagine it was hard with you on foot and me on
horseback? You had a good head start, but I
don't suppose I was more than half an hour behind
you by the time you got here."
"I-I know I didn't leave any trail-was
"Where else would you be likely to come but the mouth of the
Sacramento? I'd have shown up sooner but I had
to stop and ask questions. I just came from the store where you
bought those new clothes. You should have bought a hat
to cover up your hair, too. I knew people would
remember your hair if they didn't remember your
face-was A humorless smile curled the officer's!
mouth. "I'm becoming very experienced at chasing
deserters, Pepper. You're the third in as many
days- though the other two didn't get as far." He
gestured with
the revolver. "Come on, we'd better start back
to Monterey-was
The young man sighed and stood up. The officer turned
his head toward Louis:
"Sorry to trouble you, young man-was
Suddenly the deserter leaped to the side and flung an
arm around Louis' throat. The next thing Louis
knew, the long blade of the bowie was pressed against his
throat:
"I don't want to hurt this tadpole, Sherman.
But I will if you don't let me go."
"My God, Pepper, what's become of your
brains? You pull something like this, Colonel
Mason'll order a whole troop after you!"
"Talking won't change my mind," Pepper said.
Louis' heart hammered in his chest. He gulped
air through his mouth, feeling the deserter tremble. Any
sudden move might get him the bowie through the throat-
"Stand clear of the doorway," the deserter ordered.
"And put your revolver on the counter."
The officer remained motionless. Louis winced as the
point of the knife dug his throat:
"Sherman, you do what I say or I'll cut
him!"
A board creaked. Someone was creeping from the kitchen.
The officer's eyes jumped past the deserter,
startled-
The younger man jerked his knife hand away from Louis'
throat and whirled, cursing, just as Israel swung
an iron skillet.
Louis felt something warm and wet trickling down his
neck. The bowie had pierced the skin. Israel
tried to slam Pepper's head with the skillet-and
missed as the deserter sidestepped.
A look of panic crossed Pepper's face.
Off balance, Israel staggered toward him. Pepper
shot his knife hand straight toward the tall man's
belly-
Louis jumped, both hands closing on Pepper's
fore
arm. The deserter snarled, lifted a knee and
rammed Louis hard between the legs. The boy crashed
against the barrels supporting the counter, clutching his
groin and fighting back tears. Somewhere in the back
of the building, Amanda cried her son's name-
Israel regained his balance and darted forward again,
both hands locked on the skillet's handle.
Pepper jabbed with the knife. It raked the iron
bottom, struck sparks, skittered off. While the
officer shouted for everyone to clear away so he could
fire, Israel clenched his teeth, dodged another
bowie-jab and swung the skillet at
Pepper's skull-
Still dazed, Louis heard the frightful crunch-then
Pepper's moan. He saw the bowie tumble from the
deserter's hand and impale itself, humming, in the
floor. Pepper fell beside it, a stain darkening his
trousers. Covering his face with his forearms, Pepper
rolled his head from side to side, whimpering-
"What in damnation is going on-his
Louis!"
Her Colt's revolver clutched in one hand,
Amanda rushed toward her son.
"My deepest apologies, ma'am," the officer
said, leaning down to free the bowie and pitch it onto
the counter. "Things got just a trifle out of hand. But
the young man was very resourceful-was
"He's not hurt badly, Miz Kent," Israel
said as Amanda knelt, laid the revolver aside and
took Louis' head in her hands. Despite the
horrible pain between his thighs, the boy seconded the
lie:
"No, ma, not bad."
"Someone better explain why there are knives and
pistols and
fighting
in this restaurant-and damn fast!" Amanda
said.
The officer looked flustered. "I'm Lieutenant
Sherman, ma'am. Lieutenant William T.
Sherman, from the Monterey garrison. That fellow's
a runaway-was
"A deserter?"
"That's right. We're beginning to lose them at the
rate of one or two a day. I imagine it'll
get worse. The struggle between right, and six dollars
a month, and wrong, and a possible seventy-five or
hundred per day, is a pretty severe one-was
Sheathing his revolver, Sherman dragged the cowed young
man to his feet.
"You'll wish you'd never touched that boy, Pepper,
because the attack will go on the bill of charges." He
glanced at Israel. "Do you have any rope to tie
him?"
Louis lost track of what happened next, busy
fending his mother's hands and answering her anxious questions.
Yes, the man had seized him and pricked his skin and
kicked him but, no, he wasn't seriously injured;
Israel had seen to that.
"Well, you're coming straight back to bed," Amanda
declared. "I want you to take those clothes off so I
can look at you. Israel, you lock up.
Lieutenant-thank you for your courtesy, but I must
see to my son-Louis limped a little; the pain in his
genitals was still pretty fierce. The last he saw,
Israel and Lieutenant William T. Sherman
were lashing the prisoner's hands behind his back. The
youthful offender looked abject, his moment of crazed
courage long past. Nothing remained except a
doleful contemplation of the trouble into which his yearning for
gold had gotten him.
It drives people out of their heads,
Louis thought as Amanda helped him through the dark
kitchen.
It really does
-
He was stricken anew with fear for his mother.
The next evening, Louis lay rigid in his
curtained alcove, wakened from sleep by the harsh
sounds of an argument:
"If you stay here one day longer, you're a damned
fool."
"Bart-was
"Those are the only words for it-damned fool. It
doesn't take a biblical prophet to see
what's going to happen to this place. More and more
drifters-riffraff compiling into town-and
you're willing to expose your son to that kind of
existence?"
"Believe me, I've thought it over pretty
hard-was
"And what have you decided?"
"I've decided to stay."
"Jesus!
Louis might have been
killed
last night!"
"He wasn't, he came through just fine. He showed a
good deal of pluck, Israel said."
"Pluck isn't worth shit if it lands you six
feet under!"
"Bart, keep your voice down. Why are you so
angry with me?"
"Because I want to see you
safe!
We're sailing in the morning-come with me. I'll
take you and Louis-even that uppity nigger if you
insist-straight to New York."
"I thought you didn't approve of my going east."
"I don't. But I like the idea of your staying here
even less."
"Well, I won't go back without
money-and there's money to be made in San
Francisco. A lot of money. Now what about the
loan comf the primage you'll collect at the end
of the voyage? You can easily spare a thousand
dollars-was
"Am I supposed to do your damn shopping, too?"
"I told you I'd pay you fifteen percent on your
money if you would. That's twice as much as you get from
the cargo-was
"How the hell can I inform the Ball brothers I'm
loading a thousand dollars' worth of pick axes and
iron pans for a female acquaintance? It's against
company policy. Besides, they'd think I was out of my
head."
"They won't think anything because you won't tell
them. And you'll figure out a way to hide the extra
cargo, I know you will. Why are you so averse to profit
all of a sudden? You heard what Sam Brannan's
doing. You know you'll make your fifteen percent
half an hour after you bring in the shipment-was
Louis lay utterly still, disheartened by the severity of
his mother's tone:
"I've never had a chance like this. Never in almost
forty-five years. I'm in the right place at the right
time. I can make something of myself! For
Louis-was
"Pardon me if I say bullshit to that."
"Please,
Bart-was
"You're not thinking of Louis, you're thinking of that
damn printing company-and how good it'll feel to take
it away from Stova@u."
"I'm losing patience with-was
"Fuck your patience! It's true, isn't it?"
"May I remind you this is not a New York
dock? Your language-was
"Is no worse than what you indulge hi when
you're mad. Isn't what I said the gospel
truth?
Isn't it?"
Silence. Louis dug his nails into his palms and
shut his eyes, wishing they'd stop.
"I'm not going to argue my motives, Bart,"
Amanda said, very quietly. "I've never made any
demands on you before-was
"No demands?
What about all that damn investigation -?"
"You could have refused. I was very clear on that."
"You're saying I can't refuse this time?"
"Not if what we've been to each other
means anything-was
Louis wanted to cover his ears when McGill
shouted:
"So the account's finally due, is that it? The
whorehouse madam finally presents her bill for
services rendered?"
Silence again. Dreadful silence. What did
McGill
mean, calling his ma a whorehouse madam? Louis
knew what a whorehouse was-Yerba Buena had
one-but the connection with Amanda was a mystery as
impenetrable as the riddle of his unknown father.
Finally, he heard his mother speak in a whisper:
"That's absolutely vile. You promised you'd
never bring up what I told-was
"Christ, I know," he interrupted, sounding miserable
all at once. "I'm sorry. I truly am.
But I can't stand what's happening to you, Amanda!
All of a sudden you're acting like the rest of the
moon-heads in this town-thinking you can have El Dorado
in your pocket before snow flies in the mountains!"
"You're wrong," she said in a hushed voice.
"I'm not like the rest of them. I'm not going to the
mines. I've talked to Sam Brannan. I know
the odds. Men are staking out claims no
bigger than twenty feet on a side. Only one
in a thousand will strike anything big. There'll be many
more losers than winners. I can make a killing off
both."
"A killing
comy see? It's even affected the way you talk!"
"Bart, I am almost forty-five years old!
Sometimes I can't sleep at night, thinking of what
that means. I'm going to die. I'm really going
to die. But I swear, before it happens-was
"Now who's yelling?"
"I don't care! I won't throw this chance away!
Will you buy the merchandise for me or won't you?"
Louis was perspiring. He drew a slow, careful
breath, fearful of making the slightest sound.
"I shouldn't," McGill said. "I should cart you
away from here bodily-was
She laughed then. "Impossible, and you know it."
Through the curtain, Louis heard him sigh:
"Yes, I do. So I guess I'll help you.
But Jesus!-you sure do take advantage of a
relationship."
"Bart, I'm handing you an opportunity to earn
fifteen percent on your money! If you're smart,
you'll risk two thousand, not just one."
"I already reached the same conclusion."
He didn't sound overjoyed about it. Amanda was,
though:
"Oh, Bart, thank you, thank-
now
what are you angry about?"
"Losing my temper, goddamn it!" But at last his
voice had a smile in it. So did hers:
"Not typical of you, Captain."
"Only two things ever get me wrought up. Trouble
with the ship, and women."
"Any women?"
"No, sweet, just those I care about."
"How many does that include?"
"One. But she's damn near more than I can handle-was
Louis heard muffled sounds; the sort of sounds which
usually accompanied that funny custom of men kissing
women-the prelude, he surmised, to what animals
indulged in without benefit of hugs or kisses.
In some ways, Louis Kent wasn't overly fond
of Captain Bart McGill. The captain treated
Israel shabbily. But lying in the dark and listening
to the murmurous voices beyond the curtain, this was one
time he believed Captain Bart was right.
Because of the gold, Yerba Buena was changing.
It was no longer a pleasant place. Maybe not a
safe place, either. He'd seen some of the rough characters
drifting into town. He'd felt the young deserter's
knife against his own throat. He feared there'd be more
of the same in the months to come-
Right then, he altered his thinking about the east. It
might be better if they left California-
But they weren't going to leave. His ma had won the
argument-as usual.
The gold was changing her too, though. Changing her
into a new person. Someone even more forbidding than the
stranger who spoke of Boston. That he feared most
of all.
Christmas Among the Argonauts
"CONFOUND IT, AMANDA! Forty-eight thousand,
then."
"Not for sale, Sam," Amanda said, handing cups of
Thirty Rod to the miners elbowing Brannan at the
plank bar. "Lord knows why you need another piece
of property-was
"Not need, my dear. Want."
"Your wants should be well enough satisfied by the dozen
plots you've already bought. Not to mention that shipload of
carpet tacks which I hear you're selling to carpenters
at four times cost."
"Don't act so damn virtuous. Wouldn't you do the
same thing?"
"Of course. That's why pouring you a Christmas
drink is the limit of my generosity for the evening."
"One side, one side!" Israel yelled, pushing
past the crowd at the bar. He held two platters
of grizzly meat with side helpings of oysters.
Two more were precariously balanced on his forearms.
He was jostled and shoved, but he managed to deposit
the food on one of the tables. Out in the kitchen,
Felix, the recently hired Frenchman, was
screeching about the inhuman pace of his work.
Israel's expression made it evident he
didn't enjoy the duties of a waiter. But the
Mexican girl, Concepcion, had quit to work in
a bordello for much higher wages. He scribbled
a chit and flung it down. "Pay the boy
when you leave." He pointed an elbow at the
podium by one of the front windows.
Behind the podium, Louis Kent sat on a stool.
On the podium stood a quill and inkstand, a
balance and a set of weights. Immediately to Louis'
left, six-foot Billy Beadle lounged at the
front door, a big slung-shot conspicuously
displayed at his belt.
Billy kept watch on the men packing away food
and drink in Kent's public room. He was one of the
lately arrived Sydney Ducks-Australians
transported to San Francisco by a government
desperate to rid itself of the criminals in its
overcrowded jails. Bruises on Billy's
face testified to his fondness for brawling. His
size and obvious strength helped keep the customers
from sneaking out without paying-or from wrecking the place.
Virtually all the customers were miners down from the
diggings on a holiday, or would-be miners heading for the
camps. Hardly a one of them was sober.
The air in Kent's was heavy with tobacco smoke and the
aromas of its eclectic menu. The miners demanded
everything from the hottest Mexican chili to duck,
plover, trout and antelope. The stink of sweat
mingled with the more exotic odors; most of the miners were
none too concerned about their grooming.
As he struggled back toward the bar, Israel
reflected that white folks had always looked
pretty similar to him. That certainly was true of the
men who came down from the American and the Yuba and the
Feather and all the other obscure forks and branches
and intersecting creeks on which strikes were being made.
The men the newspapers called the modern
Argonauts tended to dress alike after a few
weeks in the diggings: flop-brimmed hats which they
never bothered to remove indoors; flannel shirts;
dark pants; heavy boots. Their individuality was
further blurred by an almost universal adoption of
chest-length beards. In the whole noisy, smoky,
smelly place, Amanda Kent was the only person
who looked distinctive and halfway appealing this
Christmas Eve in the year 1849. Of course she
was also the only woman.
At the bar, Brannan was saying, "You should realize
forty-eight thousand dollars is a damn generous
offer!"
Israel stopped, leaned over the exasperated
man's shoulder and said, "Don't you settle for
less than a hundred thousand, Miz Kent."
"A hundred thousand!" Brannan exploded. "Your
nigger's a bigger swindler than I am!"
Unexpectedly, that hurt more than Brannan's
use of the word nigger. Israel had made his remark
without thought. Now he realized he was unconsciously
being caught up in the mood of avarice that pervaded
Kent's these days.
He showed no anger at Brannan's term for a
colored man. With the exception of Amanda and
her son, every white person used it. He didn't like
it, but shrugging off a word was a lot easier than
avoiding outright trouble in San Francisco any
more. He thought he'd escaped that sort of trouble when
he fled Mississippi-
He walked warily wherever he went. Fear was his
companion again, just as it had been on the plantation.
There a man toted his cotton basket to the gin
house fearing he'd be whipped if he brought in even
a few ounces less than his quota. At the same
time he feared that if he brought in too much, he'd be
expected to deliver the same quantity the next
night-and would be whipped if he failed. Israel
had been free of that kind of constant fear for quite a
few years-and now it was back.
"Sam," Amanda said, "do you want some Christmas
whiskey or don't you? You're not going to buy
Kent's this evening or anytime. I told you last
month and again last week-the property isn't for
sale."
She said it with a charming smile. Yet the smile some
how seemed less genuine than the ones Israel
recalled from their first days together down south.
Amanda Kent was very alert, brisk and energetic for a
woman of her age. In fact she drove
her employees-and herself-twice as hard as a man
might have. And she always looked handsome in the bargain-
That was true tonight. Her hair was neatly done- though
turning grayer, Israel had observed of late.
Her dress of yellow taffeta was the sole spot of
bright color in the restaurant. She had chosen the
dress from the pages of a
Godey's Lady's Book
McGill had brought her. The dress itself had come
with the captain's most recent cargo. He was on the
lucrative New York-California freight
run now; three round trips since that regrettable
night over a year ago when Brannan had
returned with his quinine bottle full of gold.
At the moment McGill was eastbound around the
Horn. Israel
was
glad. He and the captain would never be friends. And
while McGill made an excellent business
partner for Israel's employer-and was also her lover,
he knew-he wasn't sure the arrangement was doing
Amanda any good.
Oh, she'd prospered-mightily. She'd realized
four hundred percent from her first investment in a
quantity of pick axes and pans. Then
she'd switched to lumber, which couldn't be milled fast
enough up in the hills to feed San Francisco's
construction boom. Kent's itself had used part of the
lumber, adding a second floor-a thirty-man
dormitory. For bed and breakfast, Amanda charged
twelve-fifty.
Like everything in town, the price was inflated. But the
hopeful, pathetically over-equipped arrivals from the
packets and clippers paid it without protest, staying
a night or two before they bought passage on a
river skiff, or set out on foot for the diggings.
Right this minute, through the ceiling, Israel could hear
one of the gold
hunters bellowing an exuberant celebration of his
future:
"Then blow, ye breezes, blow! "We're off
to Californio-was
Brannan refused the drink Amanda had offered.
"All right, Sam," she said. "I don't want
to be rude, but you're taking up space for a paying
customer." Shaking his head, Israel started on for the
kitchen.
"There's plenty of gold,
"So I've been told,
"On the banks of the Sacramento!"
The singer slurred the last notes into a whoop and a
couple of stomps that vibrated the flimsy planks
overhead. The mulatto's frown deepened. A
lunatic with no future except an imaginary one
that fumed out of a liquor bottle was of no consequence
to him. But Amanda was. And her behavior worried
him. She no longer had time for anything but business.
No time for the boy, for instance; Israel had taken
over Louis' lessons.
"Israel? Hey, chum!"
The yellow-skinned Negro turned in response
to the shout from Billy Beadle.
"There's a chap outside who'd like to talk to someone from
the establishment."
Israel pointed to Amanda. But she was busy filling
cups with Sixty Rod, the godawful whiskey that was
twice as strong as its counterpart, Thirty Rod.
A whiff of either was supposed to flatten the unwary
at the indicated distance; even around corners.
"See what the man wants, Israel," Amanda
called as Brannan jammed his silk hat on his
head and left.
With a sigh, Israel started for the front. He
overheard snatches of conversation. One miner bragged
he'd soon
see color on his claim now that he'd teamed up with
some partners and installed a long torn. Another
complained that it was a crime the way greasers could
walk the streets as freely as whites. Greaser was
a catchall term for the Mexicans, Peruvians and
Chileans pouring into the town along with Americans,
Frenchmen, Englishmen, Australians and even a
few Germans.
The remark put another scowl on Israel's
face. Then he reminded himself that he was a free
man. If he didn't like the situation in San
Francisco, he could always leave-
Yet he stayed, and would stay, because he was loyal
to his employer, as well as fond of her. Amanda
Kent was one of the few human beings who had ever
treated him as a person. To most of the others he'd
known during his thirty-two years, he'd been either
sub-human, or property, or both.
His wife Cissie, whom he'd married at age
sixteen in Mississippi, had been property.
He'd been forced to stand by and see her whipped when she
was pregnant with their baby. She'd brought in too
little cotton to the gin house, so the big boss ordered
a pit dug in the ground; a pit in which her bulging
belly fitted as she lay face down.
He was whipped unconscious when he tried
to interfere. When he woke much later, he learned that
Cissie had lost the child. She was sold off within two
months. No white person on the plantation had
expressed one word of regret to Israel, and he'd
never seen his wife again-
Amanda Kent wasn't that sort of white woman.
She was kind; thoughtful of others. At least she had
been until the damn craziness struck the whole
town-
One more example of it was waiting outside. In the
spillage of lamplight through the smoke-grayed
plate glass windows, Israel spied a young,
yellow-haired miner on muleback. Reeling
drunk. Armed with a pistol and a knife, too. A
bad combination.
At the door, Billy Beadle said:
"Don't know what the bucko wants, but he's got
fat saddle bags."
"So I see." As Israel stepped out to the plank
walk, Louis gave him a wan smile.
Isn't exactly the kind of Christmas Eve a
boy should have,
Israel thought.
He stopped at the edge of the walk Amanda
had installed at her own expense. "Something we can do
for you, mister?"
The stranger kept himself from falling by hanging onto the
mule's neck. He squinted at Israel:
"You a white man?"
Israel gnawed his lower lip. Christmas, he
thought sourly.
"That make a difference to you?"
"Well, if you ain't white, you sure as hell
ain't the owner of this place."
"The owner sent me out to ask what you want."
"Simple. I want a good swallow of Sixty
Rod-was
Puzzled, Israel shook his head. "Then bring in
the bags. You've got dust in them, haven't you?"
"Damn right I have. I been up at Sullivan's
Creek, pulling out a hundred, two hundred
dollars in every pan."
Israel rolled his tongue in Tiis cheek. If
the young miner was telling the truth, he was one of the
lucky ones; the few lucky ones. There were
supposedly fifty thousand men in the diggings; men who
had come by ship around Cape Horn, or over the
Panama isthmus with a change of vessels, or the
whole way across the continent in wagon
trains from Westport and Saint Jo back in
Missouri. Israel had heard that more than seven
thousand wagons had rolled toward California during
the good weather this year.
"You want a drink, come on in," Israel said,
still not understanding the delay.
The miner leaned forward. He would have tumbled
into the mud-it was San Francisco's rainy season
now comif Billy Beadle hadn't dashed from the
doorway and propped him up.
"For-was The miner belched. "comfora coon, you're a
mighty dumb one. I don't want to walk in and
drink. I want to
ride
in and drink."
Billy said with a grin, "I don't think your mule
would fit through the door with those bags hanging on him."
"I don't want to ride through the door," the young
man replied. "I want to ride through
that."
He jabbed a finger at one of the two glass windows.
Billy looked dumbfounded. Israel started back
inside; the windows were recent additions, and costly:
"You better find someplace to sleep, mister.
You're already dreaming."
"No goddamn coon's gonna tell me-was the
miner began, reaching for his pistol.
"None of that, chum," Billy exclaimed, seizing
the miner's wrist just as another voice interrupted:
"What on earth's taking you so long out here?"
Amanda stood in the doorway. The miner saw
Billy's other hand lift the slung-shot from his
belt, and all at once lost his urge to fight.
Grinning again, Billy took the heat out of the
situation: "Why, nothing much, Mrs. Kent. This
laddy just asked to ride through the window and have a drink."
"Ride through-?"
Amanda stopped, studying the miner. Thunderstruck,
Israel watched her smile:
"That's a pretty peculiar request. Why do you
want to ride through a window, young man?"
"Ain't ever done it before. Ain't ever seen a window
that big, either."
"Don't you have glass windows where you come from?"
"I come from a farm hi Illinois and, no, we
don't, "cause my poppa's poor."
"But that doesn't really explain-was
"Listen, are you the owner?"
"That's right."
"Well, we're making progress,
anyway. I wasn't get-tin" anywhere with the
coon." He swept off his filthy hat. "They
call me Flaxtop up in the diggings, ma'am-
"I don't give a damn what they call you-you
get!"
Israel said, reaching for the mule's bit.
"Calm down, Israel!" Amanda snapped. "If
you can't keep your temper, go inside."
Astonishment sapped Israel's anger almost
instantly. He rubbed his eyes. Lord, he was tired
of this upside-down existence, where you never knew what
to expect next. He was tired of working seven days
a week. He was tired of the noise in town-even on
Christmas Eve, shouting and laughter and piano
music poured from the plank and canvas and brick
hotels and gambling dens and brothels that spread out from
Portsmouth Square, lighting the peninsula with
hundreds of glowing lanterns. The night was so bright,
he could even see the masts of the abandoned ships in the
bay-seventy or eighty of them, left to rot at the
end of one-way trips from Panama or New
York. Their crews had rushed to the diggings right
along with their passengers-
It was mass insanity! And Amanda had fallen
victim to it. Why, she'd even considered
hiring four Chilean whores for the second floor
until he talked her out of it, convincing her it
wouldn't be suitable with young Louis on the premises.
As further proof of the way her wits had deserted
her, Amanda was actually treating the miner's request
seriously:
"You really want to ride through one of my windows?"
"I sure do. I struck paydirt and I want
to celebrate. I got the dust to pay for the
privilege-was He reached back to slap a
saddle-bag. "Plenty of it."
Israel headed inside. No doubt she was just being
courteous to the young fool-
He pulled up short at the sight of her face.
Lord God in heaven. She was
considering
it!
With a cool smile, she said, "Your fun won't come
cheap, Flaxtop."
"I guessed not, ma'am. How much?"
She pondered. "Seven hundred and fifty dollars
for the window-there's no plate glass manufactured
in the United States, you know. It's imported from
Europe. Add another two hundred and fifty for
general damage. The Sixty Rod will be
on the house."
Even Billy Beadle gaped. Israel performed
some quick calculations. Allowing for freight charges,
Amanda could order a new window from the east coast for
maybe five hundred; repair some broken
furniture for a hundred or a hundred and fifty.
Her terms were outrageous; but she'd presented them with
an absolutely straight face. His stomach started
to hurt.
"You're sayin' a thousand-?"
"One thousand," she repeated. "If that's too steep
for you-why, Merry Christmas."
She pivoted away from the miner. Israel marveled
at the way she bluffed. It worked:
"Hang on! I-I guess I can afford it. You
got yourself an arrangement, ma'am."
Amanda acted unruffled, as if what was happening was
an everyday occurrence:
"Fine. We'll give our guests a little holiday
entertainment with Their suppers. Billy, you carry those
bags inside. Weigh out the equivalent of a thousand
dollars. Flaxtop, you wait right here until I
move a few tables."
The miner slapped his mule's neck and uttered a
long, piercing yell. Louis appeared,
drawn by the noise. Amanda spoke to Israel:
"We're out of Thirty Rod. Walk over
to Dennison's
Exchange and see whether they'll let me have twenty
gallons."
"Sure they will," Israel said. "Your credit's
good all over town."
Amanda swept back inside. Billy Beadle
chuckled, started to unstrap the saddle bags. The
mulatto glanced at Louis
"You walk along with me to the Exchange."
The boy's face fell. "I want to see him bust
the window."
"I said you come along! It isn't fit for a youngster
to watch grown men act like fools-was Muttering
gleefully to himself, the miner paid no attention. "You
watch enough of "em, you'll start behaving the same
way. Come on, now-I'll need help rolling the
cask through the mud."
He said it harshly, still upset by the way Amanda had
taken advantage of the tipsy miner. He yearned
for the old days: Ye@cba Buena quiet and mellow
in the sun; a relaxed pace at the tavern; a few
slow-moving residents hoeing potatoes in the
square-
What the devil had come over her?
What was driving her?
He was afraid he knew the answer.
"Clear away, boys, clear away!" he heard
her shouting inside. "Move your legs, mister,
we've got a customer coming in by a different route.
Billy? Hurry up with those bags!"
"Come
on"
Israel said, with such a savage gesture that Louis
shied back. After a moment's hesitation, the boy
stepped down from the plank sidewalk. Instantly,
the mud hid the soles of his boots.
"You're gonna miss a real fine show, mister
coon," the miner said. Israel grabbed Louis"
hand and didn't look back.
I
mustn't let it twist me up,
he thought.
I've listened to every dirty slur ever invented for a
black man. I've watched the Hounds beat up
Frenchmen and rip down
the tents of the Chileanos on Alia Loma, and I
haven't let any of it bother me too much because
I'm a free man, I can walk away
any time I want.
Maybe I will. She's not the same woman any more.
II
Israel tugged the boy's hand, pulling him to the
left:
"Watch your step!"
Louis had nearly stumbled into the top of a cast iron
stove. The rest of the stove had sunk into the mud
produced by the December rains.
Neither man nor boy was much surprised by the sight
of the stove top. Discovering that charges for shipping
heavy freight to the diggings were astronomical, the
gold-hunters who came by ship discarded all sorts
of personal goods in the public thoroughfares.
Speculators who attended the beach auctions and
bid on the cargos of the incoming vessels sometimes had
to take every item in a shipment when they wanted only
part of the shipment. The unwanted merchandise was abandoned
in the same places the would-be miners left their
heavier belongings. Rotting sacks of flour,
expensive commodes, unopened cartons of dress
shirts-you could find damn near the whole residue of
civilization buried in the winter slime of San
Francisco's streets.
One of the stove lids lay in the mud just beyond
the sunken obstacle. Angrily, Israel
flipped the lid over with his toe:
"I bet when Jason and his Argonauts went
hunting the golden fleece, they never left a
trail of garbage!"
As the boy and the Negro crossed the square, the
noise remained constant. Men and women laughed in the
bars. A brass band blared
Deck the Halls
from the lobby of the Parker House. Barkers shouted from the
entrances of the gambling tents-
"Come on in,
Gentlemen, come on in and try to find the little joker!
Here's the place to get your money back!"
They circled around a bearded, wild-eyed fellow in
parson's weeds. Clutching a Bible under one arm and
exuding a smell of gin, the man bellowed at them:
"Divine services tomorrow morning! Eight sharp in the
tabernacle just a few steps up Kearny. Divine
services unless there's news of a strike tonight!"
"Thimbleriggers-cheap women-rumsots-
trash!"
Israel declared, his yellow face changing as he and
Louis passed from shadow into the blaze of lanterns.
Everywhere, men walked or ran or
staggered-going to perdition!
He guided Louis around a signboard on a pole
at the edge of a particularly sinister-looking
mudhole. The sign bore the words:
THIS WAY IMPASSABLE!
Below, in a rougher hand, someone had written:
not even jackassable
"You surely don't like San Francisco any
more, do you, Israel?" the boy said at last.
"No, sir, I don't. They say we have
twenty-five thousand people, and that's twenty-four thousand
five hundred too many. You no sooner blink an
eye than somebody reports one more camp opened
up, with fool names that are an insult to the English
tongue. Gouge Eye-Whiskeytown-Mad Mule
Gulch-Murderers' Bar-people've lost their
minds even when it comes to christening towns! Old
Polk should have kept his mouth shut."
"What's the president got to do with it?"
"Why, Louis, if President Polk hadn't
stood up when Congress opened its session a year
ago-was
As he spoke, his eyes were never still. He saw
half a dozen rats prowling over a heap of
garbage. Heard a passing miner make
reference to his color. A Peruvian in rags
loitered in the shadows, watching him and stroking the edge
of a knife across his thumb. Every time he ventured out
these days, it felt like Mississippi again. He
needed to arm himself.
comif he hadn't blabbed about the gold Colonel
Mason sent to the Philadelphia Mint in a tea
caddy, it might have been a lot longer-years,
maybe-before the country got excited about
California. Polk should have just gone out of office
quietly and let Taylor take over-but no, he
had to pop the cat from the bag. They say he always
wanted land. The whole continent under one flag. I
don't object to that, but I do object to him giving
the fever to every rascal, fool and failure on three
continents-was
Without a smile, Louis said, "I told you "most
a year ago that ma had a bad case. You didn't
believe me."
"I know. Proves how wrong a man can be."
"Know something?"
"What?"
"I don't like it either. I mean, here it is
Christmas and we don't even have a holiday pine with
some candles on it. And nobody's got time
to make presents-we're too busy fixing to serve
dinner all day tomorrow-was The boy sighed. "I try not
to think about it too much. Most of the time that's easy.
I'm so frizzled out from working, there's nothing on my
mind but sleep."
"We keep on this way," Israel said, "we're
liable to wind up the richest folks in the
graveyard."
"Not ma. She's tough."
"Tougher all the time."
"She wants to go to Boston something awful, I
guess."
Israel didn't answer. The boy only knew the
surface reason Amanda worked so hard. The
mulatto, on the other hand, had heard her speak at
length about
Hamilton Stovall-not only about how he'd gained
control of Kent and Son, but how he'd ruined her
cousin's life. He believed Amanda had kept that
latter part of the family's history from her son.
The man and the boy reached the large canvas tent whose
signboard read
Dennison's Exchange.
Like the other establishments around Portsmouth
Square, it poured noise into the Christmas
Eve darkness-and, from outside, it shone like one
immense lantern. Suddenly men yelled in the
distance; glass shattered.
Louis spun. "Oh my Lord, she really let him
do it!"
Israel refused to look. His face was as bleak as
his thoughts:
"It's that Stovall driving her. Stovall and those
books McGill brings in. She doesn't see
what it's doing to her, either
-
and what it could do to her boy.
To speak to Amanda on that subject would have been
overstepping. Israel could argue with her about the
advisability of women on the second floor;
even though that too concerned Louis, that was business.
But he didn't dare intrude in more personal areas.
After all, she was his employer-
A white woman.
Once, he'd practically been able to forget about that.
But gold had drawn men to California. Men who
bore hatreds. The source-the way they'd been
taught, or the lack of any teaching at all--
didn't matter. Either way, they were dangerous.
He'd begun to feel the fear again-
He heard the tipsy young miner, Flaxtop, saying
coon.
The memories tumbled one upon another. The crack
of the whip at the gin house. The feel of it flaying his
back while he clenched his teeth and struggled to keep
from crying out. Cissie's screams as she lay with her
belly in the hole, taking her punishment-
Confused and angrier than ever, he jerked Louis through
the entrance to the Exchange. His yellow face looked
thunderous in the hazy lantern-light.
He knew he was in a bad temper. Told himself
so- and that he ought to simmer down. He made an
effort- Then he saw who was on duty behind the bar.
I'll
The preceding year, San Francisco has been
plagued by ruffianism unusual even for a boisterous
frontier town. The source of the trouble was a group of
men once called the First New York
Volunteers-the last word hardly being appropriate
since most of them had been forced to join up or
languish in eastern jails.
The Volunteers had been shipped to California
to reinforce Kearny during the Mexican trouble. When
they arrived, the righting was over. The unit had disbanded,
and some of its members had drifted north a
few months after the discovery of gold.
In San Francisco, the men boastfully called
themselves the Hounds-because they roamed the streets in
packs, harassing women and foreigners with obscene
remarks and their favorite weapons: slung-shots
and metal knuckles.
The men professed an affiliation with a splinter
political party in the east, the American party, which
had sprung from an earlier group calling itself the
Native American Association. The title
capsuled the group's purpose, and that of the party which
emerged from it- to keep America the exclusive
preserve of those white Protestants who had been
born there. Members of the party had secret
rituals, passwords and handshakes- never revealed
when they were questioned: "I know nothing." An eastern
editor-Mr. Greeley, Israel believed it
was-had contemptuously christened the party
Know-Nothing.
For months, the local counterparts of the Know-Nothings
had occupied a tent headquarters at
Commercial and Kearny. The tent, its nickname
Tammany Hall
also borrowed from the east, was gone now; torn down as
the result of a public outcry when the
Hounds invaded Little Chile up on the hill called
Alta Loma the preceding July. The Chilean
immigrants had been beaten, their women raped, their
hovels demolished-and San Francisco had
finally risen in outrage. Amanda had contributed
fifty dollars to help organize a company of
volunteer peace officers who razed Tammany
Hall and drove the Hounds out of town.
Officially, they were gone. But some had come back.
One, a bald, blue-chinned man named Felker,
had found employment as a bartender at the
Exchange.
Israel approached Felker warily. He was
sure the man would recognize him. Amanda had
once used her Colt revolver to back down three
Hounds who tried to come into Kent's for a meal; she
wouldn't allow the hooligans on the premises. But
an offense to one Hound was an offense to all.
Felker was busy telling a story to a trio of
miners leaning on the bar:
"comand so the nun says to the priest, let's fuck
now, father, and you can hear my confession later."
Scurrilous jokes against Catholics were a staple
of the Know-Nothings. Two of the bearded miners laughed.
The third, dressed much like the others but standing
a little apart, fiddled with his whiskey cup. The man's
blue eyes registered his dislike of the story.
Israel stepped between Felker's cronies and the
loner. Behind him, Louis watched the conclusion of a
three-card monte game. The pale-skinned dealer
raked in a two-thousand-dollar bet from his glum
victim, whose loss the watchers cheered and
applauded.
Felker kept talking with the two miners. The lantern
hanging from the canvas directly above him cast an
oily light on his bald head. The thin, weathered
loner scratched his almost pure white beard and
studied Is
rael, then Felker, who continued to ignore the
Negro. Israel in turn scrutinized the miner from
the corner of his eye. The man's long hair showed a
few streaks of yellow among the gray. He was a
decent-looking sort. And Israel guessed he
might need help handling Felker.
He was correct. The bald man wouldn't even
look at him for the better part of two minutes.
Finally, struggling to contain the anger that had been
building within him during the evening, Israel slapped
a palm on the bar.
"Felker."
A slow, almost smug smile tugged up the corners
of the bartender's mouth. Behind Felker, Israel saw
a knotted rope hanging from a nail in one of the tent
poles. When patrons grew too rowdy, men who
tended bar used such a rope as a substitute for a
ship's cat.
"Merry Christmas," Felker said in a sarcastic
way. Israel started to dig in his pocket, then
remembered he was supposed to put the order on
credit. Felker misinterpreted the move, reaching
across the bar to fasten a hand on the mulatto's forearm:
"I know the rules around town say a nigger is
entitled to one drink in any public place. But the
rules are suspended when I'm tending the store."
Israel's hand clenched. He jerked free of
Felker's
grip.
"I came to buy twenty gallons of Thirty
Rod for Kent's. We're out."
"So am I."
His stomach starting to hurt again, Israel pointed to a
keg on a cradle "Doesn't appear that way."
"Empty," the balding man shrugged. "You try
somewhere else. Niggers give this place a bad
odor. 'Course, I have a pretty keen
nose. I can smell coon twice as sharp as any
hunting dog."
That brought a snicker from one of the two miners on
Israel's right. He knew he should leave. Perhaps
on a
different evening, he would have. But everything that had
happened tonight had made him testy.
"All right," he said. "But first I'll have a
whiskey."
"No," Felker said. "No, you won't."
"Israel, I think we'd better go along,"
Louis said.
His brow hot, Israel drew a coin from his
pocket. Felker seemed to be bouncing up and down,
almost expectantly.
"Pour me one, Felker."
"I said no."
"Pour me one or I'll pour it myself."
Dennison's Exchange grew still. The racket from
the street only heightened the silence as the mulatto
and the white man stared at one another.
iv
For a moment, Israel didn't believe what he was
seeing. Felker shrugged again, as if giving up.
The two miners had stepped back just a little
in case of a confrontation. The lone miner, hunched
over his drink as he had been ever since Israel
and the boy walked in, watched the bartender. Felker
wiped his hands on his apron, started to turn and reach
for a cup-
Israel's astonishment slowed his reflexes. He
wasn't prepared when Felker grabbed the rope from the
tent pole, whirled and lashed at Israel's
face.
The rope's knotted end nicked Israel's left
eye, made him yell in surprise. Blinded and
enraged, he shot his hands out to fasten on Felker's
neck.
Israel gripped hard, his height helping him lean
halfway across the bar. Felker squealed, hit at
him with the rope. Israel heard Louis pleading with
him to let go, then caught the sound of men rushing
forward. But the flick of the rope on his eyeball had
shattered his control. He choked Felker harder-.
The two miners reached for him. The loner stepped
away from the bar. Israel heard the cock of a
pistol, then the miner's voice:
"You two stay out. And that goes for everyone else.
Let them settle it."
Slobbering curses, Felker tried one more
slash with the rope, bringing it up and over his shoulder.
The end snapped against the hanging lantern, knocked
it off its hook, sailed it behind the kegs where it
broke and spilled oil that ignited a second
later.
"Jesus Christ, a fire!" one of the monte
dealers shouted as flame spurted up the canvas
wall.
The canvas caught almost instantaneously, the whole
rear wall of the Exchange turning to flame.
Israel held Felker's throat, taking
satisfaction from the way the man's eyes were starting
to water. He applied more pressure, the heat from the
canvas popping sweat onto his yellow face-
He wasn't choking Felker alone. He was choking
the drivers who had beaten his mother so that she died before
her time. He was choking the owner who had sold
Cissie. He was even choking old President
Polk, who had turned a sleepy little village
into a stink-hole-
Felker's eyes bulged. Time held still for
Israel, the hate in him almost intoxicating. The
fire reached the tent's side walls and ceiling. A
pole behind the bar became a column of flame,
gave way-
Louis shouted,
"Israel
-!" as the ceiling started to buckle.
Israel let go, shoved Felker backward against the
kegs. The bald man fell, flailing. The lone
miner seized Israel by the shoulders, pulling him
away:
"The ceiling's coming down-to "
The patrons had started a wild trample for the
street. Somewhere a bell began to clang. "Go on,
Louis!" he yelled, shoving the boy out of danger as
the miner leaped away too. Israel stumbled against a
rickety table
that collapsed beneath him, tumbling him to the dirt
floor-
A third of the canvas ceiling ripped and fell,
enveloping Felker. He shrieked and disappeared in
roaring flames. Lying on his belly, Israel
screamed too when scorching canvas struck the
backs of his outstretched legs-
"Burned that white man to death!"
"comown damn fault-was
"Get moving, get moving!"
The distant bell grew louder. Sobbing, Israel
dug in his elbows, dragged himself out from under the
canvas. His trousers smoldered, caught fire.
He rolled over, thrashing the backs of his legs in
the dirt. Overhead, another section of canvas
tore loose-
"Boy, help me!"
That was the lone miner. Israel felt hands at his
collar; vainly tried to focus his eyes. All he
saw were leaping tatters of flame and, deep in the
center, a charred, crawling thing that bleated like an
animal as it died, Felker-
Hands hauled him along. His head banged against the
ground. The ceiling glowed red-orange. He
wondered whether he was going to hell for murder-
The flames disappeared in total darkness.
When Israel regained consciousness, he was lying in
the mud of Portsmouth Square. He was dimly
aware of people milling against a backdrop of glaring
light. He heard loud crashes as the fire
swallowed frame and canvas structures near the
Exchange.
Bit by bit, his awareness returned-bringing pain that
consumed him from his thighs downward. He writhed,
groaning.
"Lift his legs, lift his legs! Where's that damn
lard they sent for-?"
He thought that voice belonged to the miner who had pulled
him out of the blazing tent. He felt hands on his
brow, then a cheek pressed to his forehead:
"You'll be all right, Israel. We'll get you
fixed up-was
The words grew incoherent as Louis broke down and
cried.
"Stand back! Here come the pumpers!"
If he hadn't been in such agony, Israel
might have laughed. San Francisco's fire
equipment was worthy of nothing but "laughter, and no
one had taken steps to remedy the situation, even though
people were extremely conscious of the hazard posed by the
town's shoddy buildings. He thought he saw
spokes blurring as men dragged one of the hand-driven
pumpers toward the conflagration. Was it the antique from
Hawaii, or the old wreck from the east that
President Van Buren had once used to water his
garden?
Odd,
Israel thought,
odd how your mind works when you're hurt bad
-
"I think we got him out soon enough," the lone miner
said, sounding far away. "I hope so.
Let's turn him-was
Israel screamed when men rolled him over, tore
away the remains of his trousers and began to smear
lard on his calves.
"Ma, ma-this way!"
That was Louis. With a great effort, Israel lifted
his chin from the dirt. Sure enough, elbowing and pushing,
there was Amanda-
Oh God,
he thought,
she's getting mud all over that pretty yellow
dress.
Unconcerned, she hiked up her skirt and dropped
to her knees beside him. Through his pain, he felt an
almost overpowering happiness. She didn't care about
her fancy dress. She cared about him. Maybe
he'd been too hard on her-
He started to cry, just like Louis. Even the agony of
hands patting lard on his legs didn't bother him
now-
Somewhere out of his field of vision, the lone miner
asked, "Ma'am, does this man belong to you?"
"No-that is-he works for me-dear God, Israel,
what happened?" She stroked the side of his face.
He felt the roughness of that old, worn
bracelet of rope. "Louis-someone-
tell me what happened!"
A half dozen voices babbled at once.
To Israel, the men around him were no more than
fire-etched silhouettes. But Amanda's face was
visible. He saw her flame-lit eyes widen when
the miner grabbed her arm.
"What's the matter with you, are you crazy? Let go
of-was
"Where'd you get this piece of rope, woman?"
"Damn you, let go!" She started to punch the miner.
"Where did you get it? What's your name?"
Curious, Israel thought, his pain so intense that it
actually numbed and soothed him and sent him drifting
back toward sleep. Most curious, the way
Amanda was staring into the dark where the miner must have been
standing. Her face had the strangest expression-
"My name's Amanda Kent. I don't see why
you-was
"Amanda-was
Very strange, how that miner sounded as if he were about
to weep too:
"I'm Jared.
Jared Kent-was
Israel heard no more.
To
See the Elephant
JARED ADAM KENT couldn't remember when he'd
celebrated a more remarkable and joyous Christmas
day.
He didn't feel the least bit tired. His
occasionally crippling rheumatism-a legacy from the
years of trapping with Weatherby in the cold streams
of the beaver country-hardly bothered him at all:
He should have been exhausted. He was already weary when
he reached San Francisco after the long ride from
the mining camp called Hopeful located all the
way up on the east branch of the north fork of the
Feather River. He hadn't slept a single
minute since glancing up outside the burning
saloon and seeing a woman whose face stirred a
memory; a woman whose wrist, circled by a worn
bit of rope, brought a miracle he'd never
dreamed he'd witness.
In the first hour after Amanda's mulatto had been
dragged from the flames, Jared barely said half a
dozen coherent words to his cousin. They'd wept and
hugged each other for a couple of minutes, but things were
too frantic for much more than that.
Amanda saw to Israel's removal to his
shanty behind the restaurant she owned. Then she
summoned a doctor. The sleepy physician
dressed and bandaged the Negro's burned legs.
He dosed the groaning man with brandy, assuring
Amanda that although Israel would suffer pain for a few
weeks, as well as the unpleasantness of skin
sloughing away, in his professional opinion
Israel would eventually be good as new.
With that problem attended to, Jared and his cousin spent
three quarters of an hour surveying the damage
done by the fire. It had leveled several blocks
surrounding the Exchange before being brought under control.
Booming gambling houses such as the Verandah and
McCabe's El Dorado had disappeared
into smoldering ashes. Had the wind been blowing in a
different direction, Kent's would very likely have
burned too.
Amanda introduced Jared to a man named Sam
Brannan who apparently owned a good deal of real
estate in the town. Brannan predicted San
Francisco could expect many more fires in view
of the building boom and the flimsy nature of most of the
construction. He suggested that volunteer fire
companies be organized, and better pumping
equipment secured. Amanda pledged
financial support of such a program. But Jared
somehow had the feeling her heart wasn't in the
promise.
Finally, toward midnight, they returned to her
place, to begin building a bridge of words across the
years since 1814. They talked all through the
night.
Now it was Christmas morning. Jared was relaxing in
a chair by a back room window, with Amanda's
handsome, swarthy young son curled up at his feet.
Jared wiggled his nose. "Smells mighty good,
Amanda. My, you've come a far piece in the world.
I've never met anybody else who had a French
cook."
Because of all the excitement, Amanda hadn't bothered
to change her mud-spotted yellow gown. She was
seated on the piano bench, hands in her lap, and he
had to admit she'd amply fulfilled the promise
of beauty she'd shown as a child. She was slender but
full-bosomed. Her dark eyes were as lively as
ever. And the gray in her hair seemed to enhance her
beauty, not detract from it.
Jared's mind could hardly hold all that she'd told
him in the breathless bursts of conversation before dawn:
Her life with the Teton Sioux. Her
marriage to a Spanish trapper. Her difficult
experience in Texas. The Mexican officer,
Cordoba-and Louis" birth. Then her migration
to California, and now sudden prosperity brought on
by the discovery of gold-
Still, all night long, he'd sensed she was holding
something back. At those times, her eyes had a hard
glint difficult to reconcile with the sight of the
happy, self-assured woman seated opposite
him, or the memory of the young girl he'd last seen
at Stone's River in Tennessee-
"Felix is a jewel," she said. "He came from
Paris. He keeps talking about going to the gold
fields, but I make it worth his while to stay here.
He's cooking something special for dinner. Eggs and
oysters. It's quite delicious, the way he spices
it. Oh, Jared-was Laughing, she hugged her knees.
"This still seems like a dream."
"If it is, I hope we don't wake up before
we eat. I'm damn near starved to death."
"We'll sit down the minute Billy finishes
nailing boards across the broken window."
From Jared's feet, Louis asked, "Could we sing a
Christmas carol first, ma?"
"Why, yes. Though with Bart gone, we've
no one to play."
"Who's this Bart fellow?" Jared asked.
Louis glanced questioningly at his mother. From the front of
die building, the steady beat of Billy Beadle's
hammer thudded. At six in the morning, Amanda had
taken what Louis said was a most unusual step.
She'd ordered the burly Australian to hang out a
sign announcing that Kent's would be closed the entire
day.
Still smiling, Amanda told her cousin, "His full
name's Barton McGill. He works for a New
York ship line. Captains one of their clippers.
I guess you could call him my gentleman friend-was
"He's from Charleston," Louis put in. "We
don't get to see him often."
"Well- Jared stretched luxuriously, then leaned
back in the chair. The mellow December sun
highlighted the few strands of yellow still visible in his
white hair. "comI'd be happy to have him here to share
this wonderful day. I wish my son were here too."
"A Methodist minister." Amanda shook her head.
"I can hardly believe it."
Jared's expression was tinged with sadness for a moment.
"I couldn't either when he first broached the idea after his
conversations with Reverend Lee. Then I got
to thinking. There's a peculiar streak on my side
of the family. Rebellious. The Fletcher blood,
your mother used to call it. I expect Jephtha
inherited it from me. So it was probably natural for
him to strike off in some unexpected direction."
"Where is your son, sir?" Louis had missed all
of the night's conversation.
"In Lexington, a little place in the Shenandoah
valley in Virginia. He and his wife Fan have
had four children so far. Three have survived. All
boys." He ticked them on his fingers. "Gideon
was born in forty-three, Matthew a year later.
Annabelle lived only two weeks in
forty-five. Jeremiah came along fourteen
months after that-was
"Is Jephtha happy in Virginia?" Amanda
asked.
Jared frowned. "If I read his letters correctly,
no. His last one came on a packet just before I
left Oregon. Gloomier than ever. It's the
chattel slavery question that upsets him. He's
loyal to his wife and her people- they're southerners.
And when the Methodist Episcopal Church split
over slavery five years ago, he stayed with the
southern faction. But what he sees of the
system torments his conscience. Of late,
unbearably."
"Well, we're a long way from those problems out
here," Amanda said. "Though one of these days, I
expect I'll be right in the middle of them." She
gazed at her cousin. "Eventually I'm going back
east."
Jared noticed the way young Louis began to fool with the
loose sole of one of his boots. The boy was
frowning. Amanda went on:
"I want to see our old home. That's one of the
reasons I'm working so hard to make money."
Jared flexed his ringers; examined his swollen
knuckle-joints. The hard glint had returned
to her eyes. It bothered him.
"You didn't mention that last night-was he began.
She shrugged, gazing past him to the sunlit window.
"It's something I decided a couple of years ago-
" Her stern look softened. "We can discuss it after
dinner." . Louis tried to re-direct the conversation
to a more agreeable topic:
"Was your wife really an Indian, cousin
Jared?"
"A Shoshoni," he nodded. "A fine woman.
She was called Grass Singing."
"That's a pretty name."
"I wish I'd been able to make a pretty life
for her-was
He cut off the thought, much as he'd cut off an
earlier frustration by leaving the failing farm in the
Willamette Valley in the late summer of
"48.
"comb all in all-was He spoke for his cousin's
benefit now. "comI have very few regrets. I sired
a son to keep the Kent name alive-without ever
imagining you'd be doing the same, Amanda. For a long
time, I made enough money to live just the way I
wanted. I loved the fur trade until my
partner, Elijah Weatherby, died. His passing
took some of the joy out of it-maybe because it made me
realize I was getting old. Then business dropped
off. I thought raising wheat in Oregon might be a
good thing to try. I was wrong there. Like my father, I
wasn't cut out to be a farmer-
A sadness touched him. His imagination showed him dim
pictures of the house on Beacon Street from which
he'd fled after setting fire to the printing house and
shooting the men who had helped Hamilton Stovall
steal Kent's. He could look back on all of that
without anger. Once, he'd harbored
hopes of revenge. But they had been burned out of
him by distance, and time, and his gradual acceptance of the
life he'd made for himself in a land he found
beautiful-
Aware of Louis and Amanda watching him, he
resumed, "I sold the farm when Oregon got the
news of the gold. I always did like seeing new
sights, and Captain Sutter handed me a perfect
opportunity. I tramped down the coast on foot
and went straight to his fort. There, I heard about a
strike in a new camp called Hopeful, so that's
where I headed. I've done pretty well, too.
That is, the Ophir Mineralogical Combine's done
well-was
Louis said, "Ophir what?"
"Mineralogical Combine." Jared grinned.
"Fancy name for a pretty grimy operation. There are
three of us in it. We each had adjoining claims
along the stream. The first men on the site agreed no
claim would be larger than a hundred square feet.
By putting three together and building ourselves a cradle
to speed up the processing of the dirt, we see more
color than we would if we worked alone. Color
means the yellow color of the dust or flakes," he
added in an aside to Louis.
Amanda inquired about Jared's partners.
"One's an Englishman. He was a draper over in
Liverpool. The other man's a little Baptist
storekeeper from Georgia. He came across the
mountains with a wagon train. He's the one who
slapped on the splendiferous name. He said that in the
Bible, in King Solomon's time, Ophir was a land
famous for apes, ivory, peacocks-and gold.
We're getting a fair amount of it, but we could
get a lot more if we could hire decent help."
Louis raised his eyebrows. "You mean some of the men
in the diggings don't have claims?"
"The ones that are too lazy. They'll pick up a
few dollars for day wages, then go on a
week-long tear. We've tried hiring a few
Pikes. Every one of them's proved to be worthless."
"What's a Pike, sir?"
"Originally it meant a fellow from Pike County,
Missouri. Now the name sticks to anybody with
small education and a big temper. If a man says
he's a Pike, you can be halfway certain he's
running from the law, too. There are a lot of men of
that sort in the diggings. They even make up tunes
about "em-was
Leaning back, he began to wave his hand to and
fro, smiling at Louis as he croaked in an
off-key way:
"Oh, what was your name in the States? "Was it
Thompson, or Johnson, or Bates?"
Louis clapped in delight. Amanda looked
impatient.
"Did you murder your wife,
"And then run for your life?
"Say, what was your name in the States?"
"I'll have to teach that one to Captain Bart-was
Amanda interrupted: "How much gold are you mining,
Jared?"
"Lately it's averaged out to near twenty-four,
twenty-five hundred dollars a week-was
He was startled by her look of intense concentration:
"You could wind up a millionaire."
"Sure-in about thirty years."
"Thirty! I calculate nine or ten."
"You forgot my partners. It's share and share
alike."
"Yes, I did forget that."
"The claim may peter out, too. A great many do."
She looked disappointed. What in the world was going on
inside her head?
Louis diverted him with another question: "Do you
work every day?"
"Every day except Sunday. It's not a matter of
miners being godly-just worn out. Sunday's actually
the wildest day of the week in Hopeful. Sometimes we
have dances-was
"Are there women in the camps?"
"Once in a while a female of-call it low character
comshows up and spends a couple of nights. If you
don't believe grown men can go crazy, you should be
there when a woman arrives. Women of that sort
aren't interested in dancing, though. For dances, the men
take turns tying ribbons on their arms and acting the
woman's part. But no matter what you do to liven up
the routine, camp life still gets boring as the
devil. My partners and I drew lots to see who
took the first holiday. I was lucky, I picked the
short straw. So I got to come down to see the
elephant. I've always wanted to see one
elephant or another," he sighed. "I guess
that's why I never really lived up to this-was
From his pocket he drew a tarnished medal, handing it
to Louis for inspection. On the obverse was a
design of a tea bottle and an inscription in
Latin. The reverse bore the words
Kent and Son
and a date-1810.
"Your grandfather gave me that," Jared explained. "It
was part of a fob, but the green ribbon's long gone.
The Latin means take a stand and make a mark."
But Louis was more interested in something else the bearded
man had said:
"There aren't any elephants in San
Francisco, cousin Jared."
"Oh, that's only an expression. From an old
story of the farmer who had read about elephants but
never set eyes on one. The circus came to a
town near his home, so he loaded his wagon with eggs
he meant to sell and drove in to watch the circus
parade. The elephant frightened his horse, the
wagon overturned, and all the eggs
broke. But the old farmer shrugged it off-'I
don't give a hang, I've seen the
elephant." It means living through a bad
experience. Or, the way some miners use it, just
satisfying your curiosity."
He retrieved the medal and slipped it back in the
pocket of his worn trousers.
"That's practically all I've done since
Weatherby and I went up the Missouri in 1814,
chase elephants. I suppose a man
could do worse, though-was
"But now you're a rich gold miner!" Louis
exclaimed.
"Not rich by a long shot, son. Not yet."
Amanda leaned forward. "What are you going to do with your
share?"
"Just enjoy it while I can. I've never had much
money. I'd like to take a trip back east myself.
See Jephtha and my grandsons-was
A stranger looked at him from her eyes:
"And Boston?"
"No, Amanda, that's past history."
"Maybe not." But she didn't amplify the
remark.
The back door opened. Billy Beadle ducked as
he entered, slapping his hammer against his thigh:
"When's that bloody frog going to serve dinner?
I've worked up a proper appetite-Amanda
rose. "I'll go ask him." As she started out, she
noticed the Australian frowning.
"Something wrong, Billy?"
"Nothing much," Billy replied with a too-quick
shrug. "Thought you should know that a couple of Felker's
chums wandered by while I was nailing-was
"Hounds?"
"Yes, ma'am. I've seen them before, though Fm not
familiar with their names. They passed a few remarks
about what happened to the little bast-excuse me,
Louis. To Felker. Seems they don't think too
kindly of any of us. I expect they're all
bluff and brag, though."
Jared pointed to the corner where he'd put down his
bag and his old Hawken rifle; he'd fetched them
from a cheap hotel where he'd taken a room before going
to the Exchange.
"I expect that'll handle them if they cause a
fuss." "I doubt they'd do it on Christmas,"
Billy said. "We can just relax and enjoy the
grub."
Jared chuckled, amused at the way California
slang had found its way into the Australian's
vocabulary. Billy Beadle was a convicted
thief, Amanda said. But he seemed a sunny,
even-tempered sort. "I'll stow my hammer," he
said. "And I'll prod Felix-Amanda and the
Australian left. Jared stretched again, feeling
drowsy in the sunlight. His knees had begun to ache
a little. But he was supremely content; totally
unworried about the dead man's friends.
II
They began the Christmas celebration with a discordant
but boisterous rendition of
Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,
which Billy Beadle directed with considerable
flourish. Then Amanda said:
"Louis usually offers the grace, Jared. But if you
don't object, I wish you'd do it-being the oldest'
of the family."
"Don't know whether that's a compliment or not," he
smiled, then bowed his head along with the others.
It took a while for him to collect his thoughts.
Even when he did, the words were hesitant:
"Lord God, this is Jared Kent speaking to you. I,
uh, mention the name because I haven't been one of your
most faithful followers. But I-we thank you for the
blessings of this holy day, most particularly because-was
He cleared his throat and knuckled his misting eyes.
"combecause you saw fit to re-unite the Kents, and for that
we are in your everlasting debt. We thank you for the
food of which we are about to partake, and for the kinship of
loved ones after so many years of-was
He couldn't go on for a moment.
"After so many years," he repeated in a whisper.
"Thank you, Amen."
Amanda slipped her hand over his and
squeezed, not letting go for a good long time. Jared
got himself under control and, smiling again, finally raised
his head.
Amanda nodded briskly to the cook who had crossed
himself at the completion of the grace:
"Felix, we're ready. Do your utmost."
He bowed low. "Madame Kent-that I have already
done. You shall see!"
He bustled out, returning with platter after platter.
The meal included his egg and oyster specialty,
salmon, wild duck with rice, loaves of bread
he'd baked before daylight, and plenty of rum and
French champagne to lubricate Jared's tongue and
deaden his rheumatic pains.
Amanda left once during the meal, to go out to the
shanty and see to Israel. While she was gone,
Jared carved himself a second slice of duck. The
slightly greasy handle of the knife slipped in his
hand. He nicked a finger. Louis ran for a bit of
clean rag while Jared sat pale as milk, his
stomach churning with the old, inexplicable nausea that
had plagued him since childhood.
He had never been able to look at a wound-his or
anyone else's-without being overcome by a few
seconds of paralyzing sickness. He'd
long ago given up trying to fathom why he was so
afflicted. By force of will he usually managed to keep
his reaction hidden while he waited for the infuriating
nausea to pass, as it did now.
By the time Louis returned with the rag scrap and
knotted it around Jared's finger, he was his old self
again. Amanda came in to report Israel was
sleeping comfortably.
Louis insisted on hearing Jared describe his life
as a trapper. He obliged, sprinkling the story with
anecdotes about the friends he'd made-his partner
Weatherby; Old Gabe Bridger; the bandy-legged
and pugnacious brigade captain, Kit
Carson-and examples of the humor peculiar to the
tough, often illiterate mountain men. He repeated
their jokes about the Platte River-"The only
water in America you have to chew."-and the spaciousness
of the country they roamed:
"Since an echo takes eight hours to come back,
you just shout "Time to get up!" when you go to bed. Then
of course there's the glass mountain-was
Louis was smiling but dubious.
"I've seen it!" Jared said. "A whole mountain
exactly like the lens of a spy-glass. You can look
through it and watch elk grazing twenty-five
miles away. But it's so clear, there are thousands of
dead birds around the base. They try to fly through it
and knock their brains out."
"Glass mountain or not," Louis said, "it sounds like
you've done some mighty exciting things."
"I've done what I had to do," Jared answered, with
considerable truth. He drained the rum in his cup,
gazed across the table at Amanda. "I never did find
your mother, though. Weatherby and I searched two whole
seasons, asking for her among the Teton Sioux-was
"They kept me out of sight whenever white traders
arrived. I never got so much as a peek at
visitors."
"I do recall a village where there was a brave
named Plenty Coups," Jared reflected.
"Weatherby and I visited it a year after I threw
in with him. No one said a word about a white girl in
the tepees. My God- " He shook his head.
"If we'd only had sense enough to search a little on the
sly-was
"We were probably closer than we knew,"
Amanda agreed.
"At least we didn't spend all our lives without
seeing each other. I was plain lucky to draw the first
holiday-was
"And we're delighted your mine's a success,
sir," Billy Beadle said, toasting their visitor
with a cup of champagne.
"Delighted and envious!" Felix growled from his
place beside the Australian. "I should leave the
kitchen! Go to the diggings-was
"You'd have a hard time," Jared advised him. "It's
sad to say, but the Americans are pretty
intolerant of foreigners."
"The same is true here, sir," Billy
remarked. "I often wonder if it's a national
disease-was
"Sometimes the behavior of Americans does make
you think so," Amanda said. "I do get astonished at
how easily people forget that everyone in this country is a
foreigner-except the Indian."
"I would be happy to take my chances if I could
find gold," Felix declared.
"Not many do," Jared said. "I'd guess ninety
percent of the men in Hopeful will end up poorer than
when they chased out here. I suppose I should count
myself fortunate. At the rate the Ophir's
producing now, it won't make me wealthy by the time
I die. But at least III be comfortable."
"Comfortable enough to go east to see Jephtha-was
Amanda began.
Unaccountably annoyed, he hedged:
"At this stage, it's no more than a thought-was
"A good thought. Louis and I could go with you. We could
visit your son, and then Boston."
Louis" cheerful expression vanished. He
snatched a slice of bread, tore it in two and
stuffed a half in his mouth. Jared shook his head:
"Talking about Boston is pointless, Amanda. I have
no desire to go there."
"I think you'll change your mind."
She didn't say why, though; just gave him an
odd, challenging stare. Her face looked chalky in
the pale
orange light suffusing the room. Jared again had the
feeling she wanted to tell him something. He almost
urged her to it. But she stood up suddenly,
murmuring that the coffee pot was empty.
Felix jumped to his feet. "I will go,
madame-was
"No, you sit still." Before she turned away, Jared
saw that hard glint in her eyes.
He frowned and plucked a crumb from his beard,
wondering sadly whether they could ever be genuinely
close again. As he well knew, time and
hardship changed a person. It seemed to have changed
her.
Yet he felt there was more to it. She was
inexplicably tense; expectant-
I'm getting old,
he thought.
I'm seeing phantoms where I should be seeing only
a capable, grownup woman who can't help being a
stranger in many ways
-
But he wasn't convinced. She was hiding something.
What was it?
Gazing at the curtain falling into place across the
kitchen door, he asked himself whether he truly
wanted to discover the answer.
III
It was well after dark. A whale oil lamp glowed
on the small table next to Jared's chair by the
window.
Louis was already tucked into bed in his alcove.
Billy Beadle had gone off to sit with Israel.
The doctor had called at five, saying Israel
would begin to experience a good deal of pain soon, and
would need liberal doses of alcohol throughout the
night. Felix had departed to circulate
among the celebrants in the saloons. Even on
Christmas, San Francisco had resumed its
revelry.
Jared yawned, sleepy from the huge meal and the rounds
of rum and coffee afterward. Amanda entered; she'd gone
to settle an argument between two of the
paying guests upstairs. He marveled at the
expert way she handled the long-muzzled Colt's
revolver-
She replaced the revolver on its pegs, then
moved to a shelf of books he had noticed earlier.
She drew one down and handed it to him.
Puzzled, Jared examined the stamped spine.
"Napoleon and his Marshals,"
he read aloud. "If you're recommending this to put
me to sleep, I don't need it."
She ignored his wry smile: "Look at the
title page."
He turned the first couple of leaves.
"My God! Kent and Son."
Amanda leaned over him, pointing:
"The date, Jared. Ten years ago."
His hand shook as he closed the cover. Now he
understood what had caused her tension. He felt as
if he'd walked to the rim of a chasm; a
chasm from which he'd retreated years ago. The whale
oil lamp made her eyes glare with a fierceness he
found frightening.
"Where-where did you get this, Amanda?"
"From a trader down in the pueblo of Los
Angeles." She pointed to the shelf. "Captain
McGill has brought me others since then." She
took hold of his shoulder.
"Stovall rebuilt the company!"
Jared's head lifted, his eyes revealing his confusion.
"I wonder if Jephtha knows. He attended
divinity school in New England. He might have
seen some books with the Kent imprint-was
"Entirely possible."
"If he did, why didn't he write me?"
"To spare your feelings, perhaps. He might think it was
wiser to let the past stay buried. He might
assume nothing could be done about it. That's where a
minister and I would disagree. I believe something can and
should be done."
Fingers still trembling, Jared laid the book aside.
He covered his eyes with a palm; whispered:
"I knew there was something you were waiting to tell me.
I could feel it all day-was
He dropped the hand to his lap, massaging
the enlarged knuckles. The peace of Christmas had
left him, replaced by a chaotic churn of emotion.
He saw images -
The deck of the frigate
Constitution
on which he'd sailed when he was still a boy.
The hateful, foppishly handsome sixth lieutenant,
Hamilton Stovall, who had tried to make him a
party to shameful male degeneracy.
He saw Stovall aim a pistol in the smoke that
hung over the frigate after its battle with
Guerri@ere;
saw the defensive slash of his own cutlass sever a
cannon's breeching ropes.
He saw the cannon rolling free, and Stovall
falling against it; he heard StovalTs shriek as his
hands, then his right cheek struck the searing metal of the
still-hot gun-
And he saw the morning when Hamilton Stovall,
swinging a cane, had strolled into Kent's with his
general manager to announce that he'd won the firm
by cheating Aunt Harriet's husband at cards and
dice-
He didn't want to ask the question that fairly
screamed in his mind. But he did:
"Who's operating the printing house now? Stovall?"
"His employees."
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
A long silence. He covered his eyes again.
"I must say, Jared, I expected a stronger
reaction."
"What kind of reaction?"
"Interest. Anger."
He shook his head. "Indulging my anger made a
shambles of everything. I knew I had to begin a new
life or I'd always be a prisoner of the old one."
He drew a breath. "Forget Stovall. I have."
"How could you?
He took what belonged to us!"
"In another life-another world. I'll never see
Boston again."
She whispered, "I will."
"Is-is that the real reason you're working so hard out
here?"
"Yes. Ever since I found the Headley book,
I've worked for nothing else. Jared-was
She turned and walked slowly toward the piano
bench. As she sat, her hand brushed the treble keys.
A wild, jangling burst of notes
filled the lamplit room, then slowly died away.
"comHamilton Stovall is still alive. Living in
New York City-controlling the company from
there-I've had Captain McGill make
inquiries. He's ruined the firm. It publishes
outdated reprints and scurrilous books that run
counter to everything our family stood for. I've got
to bring Kent and Son back into the hands of its rightful
owners!"
"Not for my sake. I don't care any more."
Her mouth thinned. "You don't care that Stovall's
let you believe you were a murderer all these years?"
"Let me believe-his What do you mean?"
"Do you remember the man you shot at the printing
house?"
"The man I killed? Walpole? Yes-was
"You didn't kill him."
"What?"
She rushed to him, kneeling and gripping his arms:
"He didn't die. He's alive today-just as
Stovall is! Stovall probably laughs about it.
Jared, believe me. Captain McGill confirmed
it-Walpole is
alive.
Isn't that reason enough to fight for the company?
And
hurt Stovall if he gets hi the way?"
His emotional defenses broke. Hate seethed through
him-fully the match of the hate he saw in his
cousin's eyes.
IV
At last, terrified of where the discussion could lead,
he fought back his rage:
"No, Amanda-no. I'm done with Stovall. I
buried the past-was
"You can't bury the fact that you're a member of the
Kent family!"
His mouth wrenched. "Hardly an outstanding one-was
"If that's how you feel, now's your chance to change
things!"
"I don't think you and I are talking about the same
kind of accomplishment-was
"What the hell does that mean?"
Jared drew the medal from his pocket; held the
obverse toward the light:
"I remember your father speaking to me before I went out
on the
Constitution
the second tune. He talked about the Kents always
taking the high road. The road of cause.
Contribution. Commitment-I think those were the words he
used. If so, I haven't lived up to them. But at
least I've lived so I'm not ashamed of myself-was
"By God, I don't see any shame in taking
what's ours!"
"But you talk about hurting Stovall at the same
time-was
"He deserves it! If he tries to block us,
let him suffer!"
Jared shook his head. "I don't want anything like
that on my conscience. I'm satisfied with what I
finally made of my life. I married a good
woman. I earned a living honestly. I fathered a
boy who angered and disappointed me when he went his
own way-then I finally realized it was a worthy
way. In Boston I was-I was headstrong
comvindictive-was
The medal disappeared as he clenched his hand.
"I've tried to live differently as a grown man.
I don't want to go back to the past! As if we
ever could-was
"We can. And it's our duty."
"Not mine. I'm an old man. Fifty-one-was
"An old man? Or a weak one?"
Stunned, he stared at stared as she knelt
beside him:
"I don't think I know you any more, Amanda."
She pounded a fist on his knee, not realizing the pain
it caused:
"I only want what's rightfully ours! We've
both lived too long with too little-was
"What is it you're really after? Stovajl's money?
Stoall's life-?" His
"I want
justice,
goddamn it! I want Kent and Son! For myself-and
my boy."
"And you don't care what you do to get it?"
A brief silence. Then:
"No, I don't."
In the crucible of memory, Jared saw the face of
Hamilton Stovall on the-day the printing house
burned. He saw the white silk bandana hiding
StovalPs scarred flesh, and remembered his own
intense rage-
But trying to undo a wrong more than thirty years
old was futile. Futile and destructive. He
saw the latter very clearly-on Amanda's own face.
His anger left him again. Gently, he touched his
cousin's forehead:
"Don't do it. Trying to hurt Stovall, you'll
only hurt yourself. And your son. Do you notice how
he looks at you when you talk about Boston? He's
afraid of you- just as I was afraid of my father before
he disappeared -"
He pressed her cheeks with both hands:
"Amanda, I beg you-don't go back."
She jumped up, whirling away?
"God, you've turned spineless!"
Grieved, he shook his head. He stood up;
took a step toward her. Darkness seemed to close
in from the corners of the room. He thought he heard a
foot fall outside; probably Billy Beadle
walking in the yard-
"Not spineless. Sensible. The more you hate, the more it
poisons y-was
"Oh, yes," she broke in, "I've heard that
pious little sentiment before. From Captain McGill,
among others. Spare me!"
"Amanda-was
His shoulders lifted. Some of the age seemed to drop
from him; his blue eyes grew nearly as fierce as
hers.
"comI'm afraid this is going to be a short
reunion."
That finally gave her pause:
"Short? Why?"
"Because I don't want any part of rebuilding the
Kent family in the way you propose to do it."
"Jared,
Jared
-!" She came to him, speaking more calmly. "I
only want to see the family live again!"
"There's nothing wrong with that-except the price you
intend to pay."
"I had hoped you'd pay your share."
His eyes narrowed. "With what I'm taking from the
claim?"
"Yes. In a year or two we could rent a decent
house hi the east. Find that law firm whose name I
can nev-was
She stopped, her eyes flicking to the glass beyond the
lamp.
"There's someone out this-
Jared, move away from the window
-"
Her rush to push him came too late. Two
pistols exploded in the back yard. He heard
glass shatter an instant before he was slammed forward
against the piano, struck in the back.
Amanda screamed. Louis burst from the alcove-
"You stay in there, Louis!"
comand Jared dropped to his knees, trying to grip the
leg of the piano. He was short of breath. His spine
hurt. The skin beneath his flannel shirt was warm and
sticky-
"Sneaky, murdering
bastards
-!"
He heard Amanda's voice from afar; she'd run
outside. Her revolver boomed once, then again.
In the dormitory upstairs, men shouted questions at
one another. Billy Beadle yelled in the yard, but
the words made no sense.
He lost his grip on the piano leg, struck the
carpet, his beard twisted under one cheek. His eyes
filled with tears of pain. Peculiar, disconnected
thoughts tumbled in his mind:
Too much cold water gets every trapper one day-
I'm old-
Oh, God, I hurt
-
"Cousin Jared?"
That was Louis. He tried to answer. The pain was
too consuming. He fainted.
vi
Voices. Faces. Indistinct. Hard
to identify.
"comsome of Felker's cronies, I don't doubt.
Bloody scum! They got clean away in the
dark-was
Who was that? He struggled to focus his eyes. He was
lying hi the shadow of the walnut table. Above him, a
blurred figure hi the lamplight, he finally
recognized Billy Beadle.
Amanda spoke:
"Billy, you run for the doctor. Run like hell!"
The Australian vanished. In his place Jared
saw his cousin. But he was only marginally aware of
her. His mind distracted him:
So this is how it ends. Unexpectedly
-
at the wrong time
-
with too many words unsaid
-
too many things undone
-
He cried his son's name; fought to sit up-
Amanda knelt. Her cool palm pressed
him down. He thought he detected tears in her
eyes. An inner voice spoke with bitterness:
At least she has enough heart left to weep.
Then he thought of the claim-the Ophir Mineralogial
Com-
Com
-
The last word eluded him.
What would become of his share?
He knew. The knowledge only sharpened his fear:
I've given her exactly what she shouldn't have
-
"Don't," he said in a barely audible voice.
Amanda shook her head; shook it so hard, tears
flew from her eves. He wasn't speaking loud
enough.
She rested her cheek against his. How warm her
lips felt through the tangle of his beard-
"What did you say to me, Jared?"
"Said-don't take-the Ophir gold-was
"No, that belongs to your son."
"But he's-not worldly, he probably-won't
want-was
He had no strength to say more.
"I'd never take it, you know that, Jared,"
she said, grief jumbling the words together. "But if
Jephtha will permit me, I-I'll be the-the
steward-of it-was
I know why. DON'T!
Pain shot upward through his neck into his head. A
heavy haze obscured his sight of Amanda. He
realized she was still on her knees, asking another
question.
Through the roaring in his ears, he finally deciphered part
of it:
"comattorneys."
"What?" The sound emerged as a guttural. His
lips moved again, slowly: "What?"
"The name of the family attorneys-Boston-can't
remember-was
Merciful God, how terribly he hurt! If
only he'd drawn the long lot-never come to San
Francisco-he might have seen his grandsons-
But not Amanda. Why were things never clear-cut? Why
was there darkness and this unbearable pain? Why hadn't he
been given time to persuade her to abandon her scheme
for-
"Jared, please-tell me the name!"
Don't, Amanda. Thafs not the comway your father
wanted you to live
-
"Jared, you're my blood kin.
You've got to tell me!"
His lips jerked; a whisper:
"Ben-was
"What? Jared, try.
Try!"
"Ben-was He spoke it as separate words. "Bow."
"Benbow. Benbow-yes, oh God, that's it!"
Was he wrong to tell her? The question savaged him as
he arched his back and cried aloud, afraid because the
lamplight had grown so dim.
Was he wrong?
Was she only planning to do what needed to be done-his
No. It would harm her. He didn't want her
harmed. He loved her. He tried to tell her as
she leaned her cheek against his again, their tears mingling:
"Jared, oh Jared, don't die, we're all that's
left to bring the Kents into the world again-was
Againagainag
wailed the echoes in his mind. The pain was lessening;
the dark deepening. One last, clear
thought eradicated his fear, now that he realized even
fear wouldn't help him:
I have to go, Amanda. All of us have to go
to see the
elephant.
The Man Who Got in the
Way
THE TWO MOUNTED FIGURES
were dwarfed by the immensity of the dripping spruces and
pines. A gray haze, not so thick as fog and not quite
rain, hid the slopes of the Sierras they'd last
seen at sunset the preceding evening. The mules
struggled over the rocky terrain. Israel, leading
the way, frequently had to resort to quirting the
animals.
Most of their gear was packed in bags that bulged from the
flanks of his mule. His trousers bulged as well.
His legs were still wrapped in bandage".
Although the mulatto's burns could have" been far
worse, they'd nevertheless caused him considerable
suffering. He'd never complained once-but the pain had
shown on his face from the first day he'd hobbled out of his
shanty and taken half a dozen steps before halting in
the center of the back yard, sweating and drawing deep
breaths.
Amanda had been watching from inside. Israel
resumed walking in a moment or so, wincing each time
he put weight on his feet but clearly
determined to reach his goal. He'd finally come up the
steps into the back room. Even though he'd made
rapid progress since that first passage across the
yard, walking was still difficult for him. Riding
muleback was much less of a strain.
"Israel? How much further, do you think?"
"I calculate a mile or so. Unless we took
the wrong fork a while back."
"I surely hope not. I'm worn out."
"So'm I. And the Sabbath's supposed to be a day
of rest!"
The shod hoofs of the mules rang against rocks on the
barely discernible trail. From their right drifted the
purling of water, a stream hidden by the murk. Only
by copying down the most explicit directions at
Sutler's had they been able to wind their way up to this
branch of the Feather.
Amanda's statement to Israel was no exaggeration.
They'd been on the way from San Francisco six
days now, making slow progress because of their
unfamiliarity with the country. It was a trip she'd
decided they must take, hardship or not.
But she'd be thankful when they reached their destination.
Winter dampness seeped up the sleeves of her
fleece-lined coat and penetrated the
fabric of the jeans trousers tucked into her stout
boots. Her thighs hurt from the bouncing and scraping
of the saddle. With her hair pinned up beneath a
flop-brimmed wool hat, and the holster of her
revolver showing beneath the bottom of her coat, Amanda
hardly resembled a woman. Nor did she feel
much like one.
Since the dark of Christmas night, a kind of
daze had enveloped her. Even now, more than three
weeks into January of the new year, 1850, she
hadn't entirely freed herself of despondency.
To find Jared with such abruptness, then lose him just as
abruptly, and all within a space of twenty-four
hours, had been the profoundest sort of shock.
She had wept over his body for nearly an hour after
the breath went out of it. It was Billy Beadle, she
learned later, who finally pulled her away. She'd
been hysterical. She didn't remember.
She was ashamed she'd behaved that way. She'd always
prided herself on her strength. But flesh could only
bear so much, and that one Christmas day had strained
her physical and mental resources almost to the
breaking point.
In the days that followed, she'd alternated between
periods of depression whose only
antidote was a stiff drink and the security of her
bed, and other periods of almost frantic activity.
During the latter, she tramped San Francisco
with Billy, asking in the saloons and gambling
halls for information about the identity of the men who had
shot her cousin.
That the murderers were cronies of Felker's she
didn't doubt. But the disbanded Hounds proved to be more
than close-mouthed. They were elusive. Every known
member of the group had vanished suddenly, perhaps fearing
civic wrath of the kind that had caused the destruction
of the Hounds' headquarters.
Amanda offered five hundred dollars for information, but
got nothing more than a few useless scraps: this man
had been seen playing cards with Felker; that one had
accompanied him on a tour of the brothels. One man
mentioned was at last identified as one of the pair
who'd spoken to Billy on Christmas morning.
He too was gone. The guilty had fled along with the
innocent. Amanda soon realized she'd probably
never locate the two who fired the fatal shots.
That wasn't the only cause of her troubled state.
Jared's burial in San Francisco's crude
hillside cemetery had been an ordeal.
The mourners were few. Amanda; Israel;
solemn-faced Billy; Felix; and Louis.
Only their nearness, and her own vow not to surrender
totally to despair had made it possible for her
to endure the brief service. She'd hugged Louis
to her side, her other hand clutching Jared's fob
medallion. As the earth rattled on the plank
coffin, she closed her hand tighter and tighter on the
medal's edge, using the physical pain to deaden the
pain of her heart and her mind-
Afterward, she found herself constantly wishing Jared had
been given a few more days at her side. She
remembered his eyes during their argument just before the
pistol balls shattered the window. He had looked
at her with surprise-sorrow-and finally with loathing-
Or did she only imagine that?
Accompanying her depressed feeling was an almost
abnormal awareness of the hampering effects of age.
She'd been conscious of gradual changes for
several years. Her energy seemed to drain away before
a day was half done. She was frequently wakeful
at night. Routine tasks sometimes looked too
formidable until she rested a bit. For a week or
two, she dwelled on this deterioration in a morbid
way, unable to stop thinking of the ultimate end of the
process.
The heightened sense of her own mortality brought on
intense self-questioning. However briefly, perhaps Jared
had
seen her more clearly than she saw herself. Perhaps her
d@etermination-the determination that had burst inside her
like a long-smoldering fire when she first saw the
Headley book-had become a ruinous influence.
She'd long believed it was right to plan and work and
save in order to go back to Boston. She thought the
Kents' past and her son's future demanded it.
Yet recalling Jared's eyes and his dying plea for
her to leave the gold alone, she doubted.
Was she letting the fury of wounded family pride
warp her?
Or was she on the right course?
She didn't know.
But when it struck her that she should at least look after
Jared's interests up in the diggings, she didn't
put the idea aside. Instead, she immediately informed
Israel that they were going.
Louis had received word of the forthcoming trip in
somber silence. To add to the gloom of the departure,
she was worried about Bart McGill. The morning
she and Israel set out, his ship was seven days
overdue. He'd often spoken of
hundred-knot winds that created an extreme
hazard on the Cape Horn passage-
Now here she was, winding up a muddy track beneath
sodden trees. She felt more than a little out of her
element. How ridiculous for a woman almost
forty-seven years old to go traipsing into the gold
country like the very fools she'd once condemned.
Someone had to settle Jared's affairs, though-
To whose benefit?
was the immediate response of her questioning conscience.
Confused again, she took comfort in remembering what
she'd once told Luis Cordoba about the
Mandan's vine to paradise. A human being did
what seemed necessary and right, and left it to someone else
to judge whether the sum of thousands of such decisions
equaled a life lived with honor, or the lack of
it. If her plan to recapture Kent's, tainted
as it was by her hatred of Stoall, was impure-why,
so" was life itself. Despite Jared's warnings-and
Bart's-she would go ahead. She had in effect made
that choice the moment she informed Israel about the
journey.
A sudden change in the irregular clopping of the
mules' hoofs drew her from introspection. Ahead,
between two great shoulders of granite,
Israel had brought his mount to a halt.
"Guess we've arrived safe and sound," he
called. He pointed. "There's civilization."
Amanda grimaced. Just beyond the mulatto, a hanged
man dangled from the branch of a tree.
The corpse twisted as the rope unwound slowly. The
tree limb creaked. A young man, Amanda saw as
she rode up beside Israel. A young man with a
black beard and distended eyeballs and flesh
discolored by death.
She wondered what his crime had been-and what
heaven's verdict on his life would be. The earthly
decision was unmistakable.
The two mules clopped by the hanging tree to a
place where the trail again descended. Listening, she
heard a fiddle scraping
Old Dan Tucker.
The camp itself was still invisible in the mist.
They rode on till they came to a crudely lettered
sign on a post driven into the ground:
welcom to Hopeful
Another sign-rather, the sheared-off top section- lay
discarded nearby. Amanda leaned forward to read what had
been painted on the board:
War! War! I War! I I The
celebrated Bull-killing Bear
KIT CARSON
will fight a Bull to the Death on Sunday the 15th
inst. at 3 p.m.
The rest was gone. Somewhere ahead, a gun went off.
Men shouted. Her shoulders felt heavy. Foolish
old woman, she thought.
Then she recalled the fob medallion in her
pocket, and sat up straight. Two more shots
exploded. She said:
"We may be sound, but who knows how safe?"
She unbuttoned her heavy coat; laid her right
hand on the bolstered revolver. Israel fell
back to let her take the lead as the mules
negotiated the muddy track that led toward lanterns
now visible as smears of yellow in the murk.
III
Even in San Francisco, Amanda had seldom
seen such a confusion of humanity as she did that
Sunday morning.
Hopeful straggled for more than half a mile along
the bank of the Feather's branch, hemmed in on the
landward side by nearly perpendicular hills covered
with dark firs. The camp consisted exclusively of
improvised housing-tents, scrap-lumber
hovels and even a number of large packing cases
from which the sides had been removed. Inside one of
these, a man lay reading. In another, a couple of
bearded miners played cards.
Amanda kept her hat brim pulled down as she and
Israel rode along the main street. She saw
no women anywhere. Men milled aimlessly on either
side. Most were white, but here and there she spied a
darker face; a Mexican; a Chilean. Two
stocky youngsters appeared to be Kanakas from
Hawaii. Most of the miners were dressed as Jared had
been-heavy coats and trousers. There was an almost
universal display of mustaches and chin whiskers.
Being hatless, Israel immediately attracted
attention. A group lounging outside a tent
identified as Sacramento Tom's started pointing.
One man lobbed a stone. Another shouted:
"Ain't no claims for niggers here!"
Israel went rigid. Amanda laid a hand on his
arm. He swallowed and gazed straight ahead.
Inside Sacramento Tom's, the fiddle-scraper
swung into
The Old Oaken Bucket. A
man approached Amanda's mule, weaving. He
doffed a filthy felt hat:
"Welcome, pilgrim! You don right, comin'
to Hopeful. We're takin' it out of the ground with
jackknives-
Head down, she didn't respond. The man
shrugged,
executed a half-turn, unbuttoned his pants and
began to urinate in the mud.
On Amanda's left, three bearded fellows were
carrying a wounded man out of another gambling tent,
to the amusement of a small crowd. Had this been the
source of the shots? She heard one of the watchers
yell to someone in the tent:
"Frenchie, you be in miner's court at five sharp.
The court'll decide whether Dick provoked you.
That is-was A glance at the wounded man being borne
away. "com
ft
Dick's still alive to state his case."
A somewhat larger tent on the right announced itself as
The Bear Flag Palace.
From all the lanterns burning inside, some positioned
above others, Amanda realized an enterprising soul
had somehow rigged an upstairs section for the hotel.
Immediately beyond the Palace, a general store-another
tent-was doing a brisk business. Out in
front, a shirt-sleeved clerk waved a pair of
boots to half a dozen customers:
"Cowhide, double-soled, triple-pegged and
guaranteed waterproof. Fit your road-smashers
exactly! Who's going to start with a bid of two and a
half ounces? Do I hear two and a half ounces
of dust-?"
"You hear three!"
"Three and a half!"
"Four!"
Before Amanda passed by, the boots sold for nine
ounces of dust. She admired the auctioneer's
audacity.
She was so intent on watching the auction's conclusion,
she failed to see another man, more tipsy than the
first, who came lurching toward her mule from the left.
He stumbled against the animal. The mule brayed,
bucked-and Amanda went toppling off.
She struck on her right side, sinking three or
four inches into the ooze and gasping for air. Her
cheeks and forehead were splattered with mud. Israel
tried to control his nervous mule as Amanda gained her
knees. She
grabbed for the top of her head. Her hat had fallen
off-to The tipsy gentleman, pink-faced,
middle-aged and bearded, gaped:
"God bless us all, a woman! Madam-was He
extended a pudgy hand. "Otto Plankveld,
late of Albany, New York. Allow me
to assist you-was
"No thanks, I'm all right," Amanda said,
jumping up and jamming her hat on her head-too
late: "A woman! The Dutchman's got a
woman-to " "Ah, he's just blind drunk again-was
"No, you are. She's standin' right out there!"
Instantly, men rushed toward Amanda from both
sides. The commotion spread, attracting others from
up and down the street. The damp air grew so
full of alcohol fumes, she might have been
inside a distillery.
Poor Otto Plankveld was promptly elbowed
to the rear of the crowd. Hands reached out. Teeth shone in
sudden grins:
"Hey, dearie, you a workin' girl?" "How much for a
toss in bed?" "How about in the mud? Is that
cheaper?" "Hell, she ain't no whore, she's too
damn old-was
"Yeh, but she's got her nigger bully with her-was
"Gentlemen," Amanda began, not a little alarmed by the
ring of jostling, inebriated men, "I'm
looking for the Ophir-was
Before she could finish, a particularly foul-smelling
fellow with a long white streak down the center of his
sandy beard grabbed her left arm:
"The Ophir boys can wait a while to take their
turn. There ain't another creature in Hopeful
that's got what you got-was
With his other hand, he reached for her crotch. She
jerked out of his grip and took a hasty step
backward.
"Hey, Pike, leave her alone, we seen her
first!"
The man paid no attention, his smile fixed and
ugly.
The portly Dutchman had squeezed his way up
front again. He stepped between Amanda and the man
identified as Pike. Not his name, probably,
Amanda thought, recollecting Jared's remarks about the
type.
The Pike shoved Plankveld:
"Back off, you fuckin' little sausage-eater."
"No. Can't you see she is a lady?"
"Shit, why would a lady come up here-less it's to do
business?"
"You've swilled too much liquor,
Pike. She's a lady. You got to treat a lady
decent. Especially on the Sabbath-was
"I'll Sabbath you, you two-legged jackass!" the
Pike said in a slurred voice. He shoved
Plankveld hard.
The crowd surged back as Plankveld staggered,
then righted himself. Amanda intervened:
"Stop it! You've both drunk too much. I'll
thank you to get out of my way."
Plankveld almost retreated. The bearded Pike
refused, grinning as he faced the German. He
wriggled his fingers, an invitation for the other man
to attack.
Amanda's mule had wandered to a spot just beyond the two
antagonists. The crowd closed in again. Israel,
still mounted, was behind her. The only way to reach her
mule was to remove the two drunks from her path:
"Did you hear me?
Stand aside."
The Pike called her a filthy name.
Muddy and exhausted from the long journey, her temper
was short. She saw the quarrelsome Pike as an
infuriating obstacle. She started to yell at him.
Before she could, he reached for Plankveld's neck.
The German tried to fend him off. The
Pike's arms were longer. He locked hands on
Plankveld's throat, yanked him forward and
drove a knee into his genitals.
Plankveld cried out. The Pike flung him into the
mud, laughed. A few watchers applauded. The
crowd, completely ringing Amanda, Israel and the
mules, grew larger
every second. The Pike raised his right boot and
brought it down on the German's temple.
This time Plankveld screamed, the right side of his
head driven deep into the mud. Amanda shot her hand
toward Israel, snatched the quirt from the
mulatto's hand. Just as the Pike started to boot the
German a second time, she laid the quirt across
the back of his neck:
"Now will you stop and get out of the way?"
The Pike stood up to his full height. A hand
darted to the back of his neck where the quirt had
drawn blood. Amanda's palms started to sweat.
Whimpering, Plank-veld tried to crawl away.
The Pike faced Amanda. "Well, ain't the little
bee got a sting-was
Israel kneed his mule forward to block the
Pike's lunge at her. The bearded man pounded
both fists into Israel's ribs. With a
yell, the mulatto slid off the side of his mule
just as Amanda had done, landing on his rump in the mud.
Someone flung a handful at him, smearing his face.
Almost at the same moment, the Pike stabbed a hand
under his tattered coat and pulled a pocket pistol,
a cheap copy of the popular large-caliber weapons
built by the Philadelphia gunsmith Henry
Deringer.
"I got me a sting too, woman-was
Behind Amanda, men yelled and scattered.
Perhaps if she hadn't been so tired and so furious
at having been stupidly balked in the middle of the
main street, she might have reacted in a different
way; tried to reason with the Pike. But he was mad and
so was she. His right hand lifted for a shot at close
range. She saw the man not just as a witless bully
but as a symbol of everything that stood between her and what
she wanted-
The Pike pointed the stubby muzzle at her eyes.
She darted to one side, freed the revolver from her
holster while the Pike tried to correct his aim.
Because he'd been drinking, his forearm shook. He
closed his other
hand over the one clutching the pistol, squinting as the
muzzle steadied-
Amanda extended the revolver to the full length of her
arm and fired.
The reverberations of the shot died slowly. The pocket
pistol slipped from the Pike's hand. He dropped
to his knees, astonished at the reddening hole
drilled in his flannel shirt between the lapels of his
old coat.
He lifted his head and stared at Amanda for one
gruesome moment. Then his eyes shut. He fell
face down in the mud.
Someone exclaimed, "By Christ, she killed him
outright!"
Amanda whirled. "He was going to kill me!"
"He was too drunk to shoot straight. He'd have
missed you sure-was
"And I was supposed to take a chance on that? No
thank you!"
Men surged around her, shouting. Israel shoved them
back:
"Get away! You get away from her-to " He bent
to whisper, "Keep the gun handy, Miz Kent. We
may need it before we're out of here-was
A violent argument erupted between factions hi the
crowd. Some claimed Amanda had committed
coldblooded murder, others that she had
only defended, herself against a man who would have done
murder himself. Her right hand was shaking so badly, she
could barely hold the Colt's.
Israel slipped an arm around her shoulder. A
man demanded she attend miner's court at five.
In the midst of the yelling, Plankveld picked himself
up and tried to out-shout the others:
"Nein,
no court! He attacked her! A worthless Pike
comeverybody knows he had a terrible temper-was
"I'll be in court!" Amanda said.
"Walk with me," Israel whispered, cradling her
against him and easing the revolver from her hand. "You bring
the animals, will you please, sir?" he said
to Plankveld.
The red-cheeked German nodded, grabbing the reins of the
two mules. Amanda felt the unsteadiness of
Israel's gait; he was favoring his left leg,
the one burned worst.
Faces swam around her; glaring eyes; mouths
bawling this or that point in connection with the argument. She
and the lanky yellow-skinned man took two steps;
then two more. They could go no further.
Israel raised the revolver.
Oh God, he's forgotten to revolve the
cylinder. What if they notice
-
his
Israel spoke politely to the men hi front of
him:
"We're looking for a claim called the Ophir and
we'll be obliged if you permit us to go on our
way."
Ugly grumbles. Israel swallowed again, glancing
around the ring of miners. He adjusted his grip on the
revolver he was holding at waist level. Several
men eyed the barrel apprehensively.
"I'm asking you all to stand aside," Israel said.
"Shit," a man grumbled, "the Pike ain't worth
gettin' killed over. Let the nigger through, you
boys."
"Thank you," Israel said quietly. The men
fell back.
Dizzy for a moment, Amanda closed her eyes.
"Come on," Israel whispered.
"Hurry-I got the mules," Plankveld said from
behind them.
"I can walk," Amanda said. "You ride,
Israel. I know your legs are hurting-was
"Be that as it may, just lean on me till
we're clear- thank you, gentlemen, thank you-
He led her past the miners and out into the open. After
they'd gone a short distance up the street, he
relaxed a little:
"Well, we got out of that. For the moment. Sure
wish you hadn't killed that fellow-was
Infuriated, she wrenched away:
"He was aiming that hide-out gun straight at me!"
The mulatto's sad gaze accused her. "Yes, but
it holds only one ball. Those men called it
right-the Pike was full of whiskey, and wobbly. I
think you could have dodged him."
"That's not your place to say!"
Israel glared suddenly:
"Miz Kent, don't you forget-I don't have any
place
except the one I pick."
"All right, all right-I'm sorry."
"Never seen you so riled as when you pulled the
trigger-was He sighed. "Guess it's too late
to do anything
now."
She held back a retort because she knew he was
right. She'd lost control; aimed for the Pike's chest
when a leg would have served. But her pent-up
anger and her desire to reach the claim had pushed her
beyond reason. She was terrified to discover that she was
capable of such irrational rage when she was opposed.
III
The Ophir Mineralogical Combine was a plot of
ground thirty feet long and ten deep along the
excavated bank of the stream. Plankveld led them
to the claim's boundary, stopping near a large tent.
A piece of mining equipment stood on a sandbar
three yards out from the bank. Constructed of wood, it
resembled an oversized child's cradle. A long
chute jutted from one end.
The bedraggled German handed the reins of the mules
to Israel, who kept shifting his weight from foot
to foot. Amanda's revolver was back hi the
holster, but she still felt the after-effects of the
shooting-which apparently had already been forgotten by most
of the camp.
Fiddle music and laughter drifted down to the
claim.
"Madam," Plankveld said, "take my
advice. Do not go alone anywhere in Hopeful today."
"Why not?"
"Scurrilous as he was, the Pike had one or
two friends."
"All right, I'll do as you say. Israel will come
to court with me. Where is it?"
"The Bear Flag Palace."
"At five. Thank you for helping us, Mr.
Plankveld. I'm sorry you got dragged into a
scrape because of me."
"The Pike-Armbruster, I think that was his real
name-he was known for his bad ways-was The German
picked at a gob of mud in his beard, then aimed a
thumb at the lamplit tent. "Those boys won't be
too unhappy over what happened. The Pike worked
for them four days, got drunk and smashed up their
cradle. Cost Mr. Nichols plenty to buy
lumber for another-was
"Mr. Nichols is one of the partners?"
"Ja,
one of the three. Just two left now. Another, Mr.
Kent, he went down to San Francisco and never
came back. Too bad, you know? The Ophir,
she's one of the best. Starting to produce close to a
thousand dollars a day-was
Amanda caught her breath. The tent flap lifted:
"I say-someone there?"
She turned to confront a spare, rather handsome man of
about thirty. He was bearded and dressed like
the other miners. But one touch distinguished him-a bright
sash of scarlet silk.
She answered the query in a voice still a bit
unsteady:
"Yes, my name is Amanda Kent-
The man's debonair smile faded. "Kent, did
you say?"
She thought of Jared living with guilt all his days.
She thought of the man who had caused that guilt. And
suddenly, her own guilt over shooting the Pike
vanished. She spoke with authority:
"That's right. A third of this claim is mine."
IV
Francis Pelham, the former draper from the
British Isles, and Joseph Nichols, the
rotund little Baptist from " Georgia, welcomed
Amanda into the tent. Nichols brought a basin of
water and a few rags. After she'd cleaned her face
and hands, they listened to her story. At the end,
Nichols shook his head:
"I'm sorry indeed to hear of Jared's demise,
Mrs. Kent. You have my most sincere sympathy.
Your cousin was a straight sort."
"Can't say the same for that rascal Armbruster,"
Pel-ham remarked. "We took him on
and later regretted it."
"So Mr. Plankveld told me," Amanda said.
The interior of the tent was crowded with shovels, pick
axes, three cots, crates, a small stove and a
table with a crooked leg. A set of balances rested
on the table. Amanda saw no evidence of gold.
She asked about that.
"We have a sort of community bank in Hopeful,"
Pelham explained. "Each miner pays a share
to cover the wages of the clerk and three guards who work
eight-hour shifts. Three other chaps watch the
guards so they're not tempted. As you discovered, the
atmosphere in this camp borders on the
unbalanced-was
"Damnation!" Nichols jumped up from the crate on
which he'd been sitting. He squashed his palm against
his left leg just above the knee. Then he blushed:
"I beg your pardon for the profanity. We're all
afflicted with the quicks and slows."
"Joseph means fleas and lice," Pelham said.
"Are you sure I can't warm a biscuit for you,
Mrs. Kent? You look a trifle pale."
"I'm fine," she lied.
"And nervy," Nichols said. "I 'spect you
realize by now that you risked your life coming
here."
She shrugged. "I had no choice. I heard from
miners in San Francisco that any man who gets
killed or disappears forfeits his claim."
"Entirely correct," Pelham returned with a
precise nod. "We had all but given Jared up
for lost. I share Joseph's grief at his
unhappy end."
"Well, that's past," Amanda said.
"Would you perchance like some coffee?"
"I'd like some whiskey if you have it."
"We do-for medicinal purposes," Nichols told
her.
Pelham grinned. "And the Sabbath."
Nichols poured. No mention was made of
refreshments for Israel, who'd been standing
silently ever since the four entered the tent.
Nichols gaped as Amanda downed the half cup of
liquor in four swift swallows.
The alcohol was cheap and raw. It hurt her throat
and stomach at first, but quickly began to exert a soothing
effect. Feeling a little stronger, she said:
"Israel might like something-was
She didn't miss Nichols" frown. The
mulatto noticed too. Amanda realized
he was thinking of her welfare when he refused to turn
the remark into an issue:
"Thank you anyway, Miz Kent, I'm not
hungry or thirsty."
Amanda nodded, addressed the partners:
"To business, gentlemen. I came here principally
because my cousin has a son in Virginia. I'll
probably be going to visit him soon-was
"You wish for Joseph and me to buy out your cousin's
interest?" Pelham broke in.
"No, I don't. I intend to take over Jared's
third."
Pelham frowned. "Absentee ownership is not too
practical. Every partner must share
in
the work-was
She turned her head toward Israel, who was standing
near the table. Despite the condition of his legs, his
posture was erect. Amanda suspected that was
probably for Nichols' benefit. She knew what
the effort must be costing the mulatto.
"Israel has agreed to act as my
representative," she said.
Joseph Nichols scratched his nose. "Well
now, ma'am, I ought to caution you about one
thing. Nigras don't receive a very cordial
reception in the diggings-was
"Do they anywhere?" Israel asked. Nichols
looked flustered.
"Mr. Nichols," Amanda said, "My cousin told
me you're from Georgia-was
"That's true."
"Do you object to working with a man of color? As an
equal?"
After a moment Nichols replied, "I can't
pretend I've ever done it before. On the other hand,
the Nichols family doesn't support the idea
that slavery is an immutable institution, or even a
good thing. Not all southerners do, you know. Too much
fuss about cotton at the expense of everything else
has caused the south to lag badly in
manufacturing-was
"I should clear up one point," Amanda interrupted.
"Israel is a free man. He'll return in
a few weeks and work as hard as either of you. For that,
he'll be paid a percentage of my cousin's share."
"Joseph-was Pelham confronted his partner. "Can you
accept a colored man?"
Amanda shook her head. "There's no question of
acceptance.
I'm asking how Israel will be treated by-was
"Please, Miz Kent," the mulatto broke in.
"Let him answer. If this is to be a going
operation-Piqued. Nichols said, "It
is
a going operation." "All right." Israel replied
calmly. "Then if it's to continue as one, we have
to be honest about how we feel
toward each other. I'll do my portion of the hard
labor, that I promise. But I won't sleep
outside, or take my meals anywhere but right here."
Nichols reddened again. "I must say you're mighty
assertive for a nigra-was
"You'll get used to it."
"Freedom
is
the law in California," Amanda said. "I assume
you know the new government down in Monterey adopted
an anti-slavery clause in the state constitution
-?"
"Yes," Pelham said, "though we were frankly
too busy to vote on the constitution. Not that I could,
of course-I'm still a citizen of Her Majesty's
country. But I do think it's remarkable that
California declared itself a state before your
federal union did so-was
"The question remains," Amanda said, "will Israel be
welcome, or are you going to cause problems for him?
If you are, you'll have problems with me."
Unsmiling, Francis Pelham answered,
"Based on Armbraster's fate, Mrs. Kent,
I would take that for granted. The decision is really
Joseph's."
Nichols scratched his armpit. Shook his head,
rose and walked to the coffee pot. Painfully
conscious of everyone watching, he poured a cup.
Then, slowly, he walked back to Israel.
"It'll take some effort, but I guess I can get
used to it." Abruptly, he thrust the cup forward.
"You sure you're not thirsty?"
With a grave smile, Israel said, "I believe
I am now."
"Then here-help yourself."
Israel took the cup. "Thank you, Mr.
Nichols."
"You all have any name besides Israel?"
"I don't," the mulatto admitted. "Some
slaves adopted the last names of their masters but I
refused."
Nichols looked startled: "You a
runaway?"
"Many years ago. I was born on a plantation.
My
papa was a white man. My momma never told me
his name. She hated him, I guess. I ran away
first chance I got. Is any of that important?"
"No, I 'spose it isn't-was
"Definitely not," Pelham said. "We've no
time to dwell on past history, we're too
bloody busy. It requires four men to work a
claim efficiently, you know. Two must dig, a
third must alternately shovel the dirt into the
hopper of the cradle you saw outside, and pour in
water. The fourth man rocks the cradle to filter
the dust and flakes down the chute. The gold is
caught behind the chute's transverse riffles, while
the water and mud wash on-was
Israel nodded: "I'm familiar with placer mining,
Mr. Pelham."
"Ah, but Joseph and I don't want to limit
ourselves to placer mining." He began to speak with more
animation, waving his cup as he paced back and forth.
Amanda decided she liked the cut of Jared's
partners. Israel too was interested in what the
Britisher had to say:
"We're drawing a fine profit out of the claim now.
We can do better if we can ever hire a dependable
helper."
"Better than a thousand a day?" Amanda asked.
"In my opinion, yes."
Nichols said, "I heard Chinee boys are showing
up in some of the camps, Francis. Hard workers.
Maybe we'd have better luck with one of them-was
"And I wouldn't feel so outnumbered," Israel
said. Nichols actually chuckled.
"A possibility," Pelham agreed. "My
point is this, Mrs. Kent. If there is
abundant gold in and along the rivers of
California, it follows that it must wash down from
somewhere. The Mexicans are undoubtedly correct
when they speak about a
veta madre."
"A mother vein?"
"The boys around here call it mother lode," Nichols
told her.
"Go on, Mr. Pelham."
"Men are already striking off for the slopes of the
Sierras. The land's for the taking-no one's quite thrashed
out the laws of ownership as yet. Separating gold from
the quartz rock will require heavier
equipment, however-was
"You've studied the subject, haven't you, Mr.
Pel-ham?"
"I have. I did not leave my relatives-the city
where I was born-and the pittance I earned in the
drapery shop in order to enjoy a holiday in
America. I came here for a purpose."
"Excellent."
"As soon as Joseph and I-was
"And Israel," she said.
"Quite so. As soon as we can lay up sufficient
funds and hire trustworthy chaps to work
this
claim under the supervision of one of us, the other two
will go to the mountains. As you undoubtedly know, the size
of claims is settled by the common consent of those who
arrive first. It's my plan to locate a promising
site no one's discovered, and set the limits
to suit ourselves." Pelham smiled. "Naturally
we'll require your approval of such a venture,
Mrs. Kent. But I gather from your remark of a few
moments ago, you would not be averse to a speculative
expedition-?"
"I wouldn't. If there's more money to be made, I
insist you go."
"Capital!"
"The one thing we aren't going to do," Nichols declared,
"is squander gold from here
or
the mountains on alcohol, games of chance and
traveling prosti-fast women," he amended,
beet-colored. "Like Francis, my home's a
long way off-and not worth going back to,
either. A big combine from Atlanta put up a
general store four times the size of the mine and just
half a mile away. Drove me out of business.
I suffered the miseries of the damned on the Overland
Trail. I dosed myself with gunpowder and Dr.
Zoril's cure-all medicine and wore one of those
blasted asafetida bags to prevent the cholera.
Until I got used to the stinking alkali water,
I thought a chamber pot would be my life's
companion. We never saw an Indian-not one-but I
was always scared of being murdered by some fool handling a
gun without knowing how. One man in our train thought he
heard an Indian whoop, jerked his rifle out of the
wagon barrel first and shot himself to death. Why, there were
guns popping day and night-to "
"I've heard the overland route is trying," Amanda
said.
"Disillusioning would be more like it. I had to throw out most
of the heavy goods I freighted from Georgia
to Missouri with the last of my savings. I dumped a
Franklin stove, a pile of furniture-anyone
can find California just by following the trail of
abandoned bedroom suites! But I got here,
by heaven. I carved my name on Independence Rock,
crossed the mountain ranges and even survived the
stench of the rotting carcasses of horses and mules that
collapsed in the Humboldt Sink. After all I
went through, I'm not going to behave like that stupid
Armbruster, throwing his dust away as fast as we paid
him. I don't mind telling you we had some fierce
conbobberations concerning his errant ways-was
"Conbobberations?" Amanda repeated.
Amused, Pelham said, "Arguments. If it's
English they speak in this part of America, they're
jolly well inventing it more quickly than I can learn
it. However, Joseph addresses a valid point.
I've observed that those who strike it rich, as the
saying goes, need more than a spot of luck.
Success requires ample perspiration and a
diligent, scientific approach. We can control
those two
factors. If we also have luck when we
move to the higher elevations, we could all be
exceedingly wealthy. At very least, this claim alone
should keep us comfortable for a long time."
"Comfortable isn't good enough, Mr. Pelham. I
prefer rich."
He saluted her with his cup. "We shall do our best
to shower you with gold, dear lady."
"My cousin's son is a preacher. I don't think
he'll have much use for it. But I do, believe me."
At that, Israel stared down into his cup,
visibly unhappy.
Amanda stood up. "Do they serve dinners at that
so-called hotel on the main street?"
"The Bear Flag?" Nichols said. "You
bet-pretty good ones."
"Outrageously over-priced, though," Pelham
added.
"I'll pay the bill, so let's not worry about
price. Since I have to be there for court at five,
we might as well go up to the hotel now. We can
eat and discuss more of the details of this-was
She noticed Nichols studying his muddied boots.
"You're not hungry, Mr. Nichols?"
"Ma'am-was A quick glance at Israel.
"complease, now, don't anyone be
insulted, but the Bear Flag has a policy comt
is-was
Scarlet again, he stopped.
"Joseph means they don't serve persons of
color," Pelham said quietly.
Weary as she was, Amanda still spoke firmly:
"I think they'll suspend their policy-was She
moved her right hand to the butt of her holstered
revolver. "com just about as quickly as that jury of miners
will clear me when I tell my story."
"God save me," Pelham grinned, "you
are
a determined woman."
"Miz Kent usually gets whatever she goes after,"
Israel said. A second later he added,
"Sometimes that can be downright harmful to a person."
He didn't mean the remark as a joke. Amanda
knew she should call him down for it. With Nichols
present, she concealed her anger and didn't.
That Israel spoke the truth was a risk she'd
already accepted.
The Parting
CAPTAIN BARTON McGILL hauled back his
right foot and kicked the rock he'd stumbled over:
"Son of a
bitch!"
The rock went skittering; down the path that led to the
top of the semaphore hill. A few steps above
him, Amanda waited, her face hidden by her
bonnet.
"My," she said as he joined her, "you're in a
fierce temper."
"Are you surprised? I go away for three and a
half months-was He linked her arm in his. They
resumed their climb toward the ramshackle house and the
wooden signal tower perched on the hilltop. "comand
when I come back, nothing's the same. I waited
two hours for the lighter from shore!"
"You just made the mistake of anchoring on the day the
mail boat arrived, Bart."
"Ship," he grumped. "Mail ship."
A fragrant cigar clenched between his fingers streamed
smoke into the clear air of early evening. For
February, the weather was unusually warm and
beautiful. He took a puff of the cigar, asked:
"How often are they sending that steam monstrosity out
here?"
"Twice a month."
"Never seen such crowds! Kicking, punching each
other-must have been a couple of thousand people in
those lines at the Post Office."
"You can turn a nice profit if you get a place
at the front of a line. You can sell it to someone
else for twenty-five, sometimes fifty dollars."
They circled the side of the hill about fifty feet
from the summit. On the front porch of the house, the
elderly man raised the arms on the semaphore
tower to signal when a ship was sighted sat rocking
slowly. A paper in his lap snapped in the wind.
Bart's gray eyes searched the soft gold sky,
then the shadowed hills across the channel to the north.
He didn't want to look behind him. He didn't
care to be reminded of what he'd seen when he
stepped on shore: masses of people; pack animals
and every sort of wheeled conveyance; new buildings of
raw pine or red brick-the only word for it was
chaos.
What pained him most were all the abandoned ships in the
harbor. It was unconscionable that worthy vessels
should be left to rot. Their crews had succumbed to the
lure of the diggings. Bart's own officers were standing
armed guard on the
Manifest Destiny.
He'd threatened to whip and chain any man who
attempted to jump ship.
The changes in San Francisco were only part of
what troubled him, though. Certain changes in
Amanda's situation comand in his own state of mind-were
equally responsible. Feeling dour, he was sharp with
her:
"That all you can think about these days? Profit?"
She wheeled to face him, her dark eyes catching the
western light. He marveled at how lovely she
was. She possessed a beauty no girl of
sixteen or seventeen could hope to match. She was
assured, not gawky; calm-spoken but purposeful.
Secretly, he admired her strength, though he
wouldn't have admitted it. Her strength was one reason
he feared he'd lose her-
He realized he was extremely nervous. He had
been worrying about this moment ever since the harrowing
passage through the Strait of Magellan. For a time,
he'd
thought
Manifest Destiny
was going to founder and break apart in the violent winds and
towering seas.
They'd run against the gale six days and six
nights. Even now he could hear the roar of the waves
smashing over the bows; feel the bite of the
ropes that held him lashed to the helm.
He'd fought the storm as if it were a human enemy,
dogged by a conviction that his luck had played out, and
he'd never reach San Francisco. But he
refused to give up. Finally, the clipper escaped
the worst of the weather.
Although he'd already been awake seventy-two hours
straight, he'd sprawled in his bunk for another
two or three, thinking. Sorting out what he wanted
of life and what he didn't. He reflected that
perhaps only the prospect of imminent death could force
a man to arrange his affairs. Lying there with the cabin
lamps unlit, he'd reached a decision.
The freight-laden clipper arrived in San
Francisco harbor nine days behind schedule.
He'd been on shore since noon. He'd yet
to speak to Amanda concerning the decision. He was fearful
she wouldn't care about it. Besides, she had much to tell
him about the past weeks-
And now the walk had taken a bad turn. Alone with
her, away from the rowdy town, he'd hoped to tell
her what was on his mind. Instead, just a moment ago,
his nervousness and uncertainty had prodded him to make
a remark better left unspoken.
She tugged off her sunbonnet as she
faced him. Evening sunlight set her dark hair
ablaze.
"Bart, that was unkind."
He studied the cherry-colored tip of his cigar:
"Mentioning profit?"
"No, what you implied about me."
"Maybe so, sweet. But you have a look you didn't
have last time I was here."
'I told you-a great deal has happened."
She leaned against him, letting him feel the curve of
her body. The contact somehow heightened his
uneasiness. He felt exactly like a callow
boy, angry with the world because he expected it to reject
him-
He tried to smile:
"I found that out the minute I walked into Kent's and
Felix informed me Sam Brannan was the new
owner. How much did you squeeze out of him?"
"I asked ninety thousand. Firm. He complained but
he paid. It's prime real estate."
"That uppity nigra of yours told me he got himself
a last name, too."
"Why shouldn't Israel adopt a last name? He's
a free man. And he'll have a responsible
position, helping to manage the claim-was
"Israel Hope." Bart shook his head. "The
whole world's haywire. Niggers naming themselves after
mining camps-Billy paid off and gone chasing up the
Yuba-your cousin showing up from Oregon one day and
getting shot the next-was He fixed her with an
uncompromising stare. "And you weren't there when the
lighter tied up at the pier."
"I've already apologized for that. I had to sign
papers with Brannan."
"Well, it makes no difference."
"You sound as if it does."
"What the devil's my opinion worth? I'm just a
common sea captain-was His bitterness grew
uncontrollable. "I've never owned a speck of
gold. And believe it or not, I've never killed
a man."
Amanda stiffened. "How did you learn-?"
"Israel."
"He had no right-was
"Oh, don't score him for it. He was only
recounting what happened in the camp. Besides, it'll be
all over San Francisco soon. Someone from
Hopeful is bound to come down here and talk about it."
"There's no reason why they'd-was
"There certainly is. Most women don't
know which end of a gun to pick up, let alone how
to shoot one. Have you decided what you're going to say
to Louis when he finds out?"
"That I'm not guilty of any crime! The miner's
court brought no charges against me. I can explain the
shooting to him-was
"For his sake, I hope so."
Bart turned away, glowering down at the sprawling
town. Lanterns beginning to wink in the dusk softened
its jumbled look. Westward, darkness was thickening
above the channel. A fog bank hid the horizon.
The air was growing chilly.
He was ashamed of the things he'd said. Yet he'd said
them, hadn't he? Hell! He ought to head back for the
clipper this instant. The confusions of shore life were
too much for him to handle any longer. Ferocious as the
tides and winds could be, they were antagonists a
man could understand, and master. Here, he understood
nothing-not how to deal with the demons that drove Amanda,
nor how to control himself so he didn't hurt her.
And he
had
hurt her-to the point where she couldn't even summon
anger:
"Would you care to listen to my side of the
shooting scrape, Bart?"
"No. The Pike got in your way. And nothing-no
one-is allowed to do that, correct?"
She shook her head. "It sounds like you don't think
much of me any longer."
Bitterly: "I think more of you than you'll ever
realize. That's why I wish I'd never helped you
find those books, or asked those damn questions. Now you
won't stop until you own Kent's again. I
suppose that means you won't be coming back here-?"
She avoided his eyes. "I haven't decided."
"You don't fib very well, sweet"
Her cheeks darkened.
"You going straight to Boston?"
"No, Virginia first-to visit Jared's son.
He deserves to know what happened to his father."
"You could write him."
"I considered it. That sort of news isn't easy
to deliver in any fashion. But I think I can
soften it better in person."
He had no comment. After a moment, he said,
"Suppose you get all your humanitarianism out
of the way and approach Stovall and he refuses
to sell-what will you do then? Aim a gun at his
head?"
"You're unreasonable. And very unpleasant, I
might add!"
She spun to gaze at the thicket of bare masts in
the bay. He all but abandoned his plan to discuss
what he'd decided after surviving the storm.
"I plead guilty to unpleasant," he said. "But
not to unreasonable. Putting your personal crusade
aside, you still don't know what you're getting
into by deciding to settle hi the east."
"I know very well."
"Permit me to disagree. There's real trouble
brewing. Has been ever since that damn Democrat
from Pennsylvania tried to tack his anti-slavery
proviso onto the Congressional bill for money
Polk could use to negotiate with Mexico."
"I've heard some people actually approve of Mr.
Wil-mot's proviso."
"Nobody down south approves of it! Wilmot
tried to violate the 1820 compromise line.
Tried to make sure slavery would be banned in any
new land acquisitions, north
or
south. The proviso passed in the House, but the
Senate voted it down, thank God. Still, ten
state legislatures in the north endorsed
it. Not that it makes much difference to me personally, but
I'll be flogged if I can
see how the federal government has any business
interfering with the rights of states, new or old. There's
no such thing as a state surrendering a little bit of her
sovereignty. Just as old John Randolph of
Roanoke said thirty years ago, that's like asking a
lady to surrender a little bit of her cha/y."
"It was my impression you avoided thinking about
politics, Captain McGill."
"Who the hell can avoid it when everybody on the
east coast talks of nothing else? The hotheads
on both sides of the Congress are screaming because of
Wilmot. Someone's got to settle the question of
slavery in the new territories. And figure out a
better system of enforcement for the fugitive slave
laws. It better happen soon, too."
"The newspapers on the last mail packet said
Mr. Clay proposes to work out a compromise of
some sort."
"Yes, he's supposed to introduce a flock of
bills to calm the abolitionists
and
the secessionists-
The last word brought a sharp glance from
Amanda.
"That's right, the southerners are raising that threat again.
The damn fanatics in the north are driving them
to it! You'll be drawn into it if you go back.
Nobody can stay neutral-was
Now it was her turn to sink a barb:
"Except at sea?"
"I'm not ashamed to say I've retreated. I
don't want any part of such quarreling. It never
decides anything, it only hurts people. I hope the
situation doesn't get worse, but I'm afraid
it may. Zach Taylor was a capable soldier, but
as a president, he's a failure. So it's up
to the Congress to resolve the differences peaceably."
"Peaceably?" she repeated. "What other way is
there?"
"There's war."
"Oh, Bart, the states would never fight over-was
"Slavery? Don't you be too sure. There's a
terrible
violent streak in this country, Amanda-your own
experiences should prove that. In New York, just
last spring, the mob nearly tore down the Astor
Place Opera House comthe one you can't walk
into unless you wear kid gloves-was
"I think I read a short item about that. I
don't recall any mention of the cause."
"A ridiculous feud between Forrest, the American
actor, and Macready from England. The feeling against
the high-toned Mr. Macready boiled over when the
Opera House booked him hi
Macbeth.
The city called out more than three hundred
police-the militia-even artillery and cavalry.
There were thugs packing the theatre comand thousands milling
in the streets. Why, Christ, before it was over, water
hydrants were knocked open, the pavement was torn
up and chucked through the Opera House windows-more than
twenty got killed, and about a hundred and fifty
wounded. The police arrested that Judson fellow-the
one who writes those pieces against foreigners under the
name Ned Buntline-for trying to set fire to the
building-while it was still occupied! They dragged him
away screaming, 'Working men! Shall Americans or
English rule?"' If people will behave like maniacs
because an English actor spouts his lines on a
U.s. stage, just imagine what they might do over
the nigra question. I sometimes think we were immortal
fools to start this country with a revolution. It's
helped put a stamp of respectability
on violence ever
since."
Amanda had no answer for his assertion. Maybe
he'd broken through her unspoken confidence that she could
deal with any problem, no matter how large; deal with
it and overcome it-without being harmed by it. He pressed
his momentary advantage:
"If those Congressional compromises are put to a
vote, I've heard Calhoun may go
to Washington, sick as he is. He knows the
situation's desperate-he and
Webster and Clay and the other big thinkers. A big
thinker I surely am not. But I'm content with my
life because it lets me stay sane-no, you hear me
out. You're a good woman, Amanda. A strong
woman. But there's another part of you that's dangerous.
In some ways you act like the windbag
abolitionists-you've somehow got it in your head that
you're one of those avenging goddesses of the Greeks
or the Romans, I forget which-I read about them at
the academy when I was no more than Louis' age.
But the difference between you and one of the furies, sweet,
is just this. They lived forever. You can't. You can be
injured. Back east, you'll have to take sides
politically. On either side, you'll be
putting yourself in jeopardy. And you've already done it
by declaring war on Stovall. So you're doubly
vulnerable. I read some Bible when I was a boy,
too. I remember St. Matthew. Jesus in the
garden of Gethsemane-was
He gazed at her, hoping the meaning wouldn't be lost:
was "All they that take the sword shall perish with the
sword-" his
The wind murmured in the silence. The darkness was
lowering rapidly. It muted the ugliness of the town below
comb not the determination in her eyes:
"I'll take my chances."
"Yes-unfortunately-was He tried to smile.
Failed. "That's the kind of woman you are."
"Why won't you understand, Bart-?"
Unconsciously, she touched the rope bracelet.
"Jared's death made it impossible for me to turn
back. I would never have wished him murdered. But
once it happened, I accepted it-and decided
to make the most of it. I'll never have the same kind
of opportunity."
With considerable cynicism, he said, "You're
certainly counting on your cousin once removed
wanting no share of what belonged to his father."
"He's a preacher. I don't think
he'll be interested.
Besides, all I intend to ask of him is the use of the
money for a while. He'll be rewarded. Eventually
I'll give Jephtha Kent ten times what he'd
earn otherwise. I've discovered how to use money
to make money-was
She brightened then, her head lifting as she whirled
to face the dark eastern sky:
"Try to look at it from my side, Bart. Even
apart from wanting to own the company again, it's exciting
to think of going home. There's so much I've never
seen. The cities. Fine houses and those huge
factories they say are springing up everywhere. I
want to ride a horse-car and a railroad-I'll
have to educate myself, too. Learn good manners, and
how to dress properly. And teach everything to Louis-was
"Staying out of the way of the political trouble all the
while? It can't be done. I especially don't
think you can do it."
"Why not?"
"Just the way you are."
"Would you mind explaining that remark?"
"For one thing, you have a peculiar liking for nigras-was
Amanda bristled: "And which side were you on during the
Astor Place riot, Captain
McGill?"
"What?"
"You sound like you might have joined the thugs trying
to keep the American stage for Americans only!"
"Nonsense. I never take sides. I was still in the
Atlantic, thank God. Besides, I was just using that
as an example of the way people in this country knock
each other in the head over any trivial-was
"I wouldn't call the slavery question trivial."
"No, I expect you wouldn't. You treat that damn
Israel like an equal."
"I treat anyone I respect as an equal! I
always have. It didn't matter whether it was a Sioux
dog soldier, or a Mexican officer, or a
black man-was
"God," he muttered, "you do have an inordinate
fondness for inferior sorts."
"Such as my grandfather? You're absolutely right.
My grandfather Philip was one of those
inferior sorts
- he was nothing when he came to this country. A
penniless bastard boy. But he thought America might
offer him something Europe couldn't then. A chance
to succeed because of what he could do, not what he was.
I'm of the opinion this country stands for that.
And if my attitude means I'll get involved
in this political furor you're so afraid of, then
I guess I will. But first of all, I'm going
to bring the printing house back into the family."
Bart shook his head. "You won't listen to reason
on any subject, will you? Do you really imagine
StovalTs going to sell out to someone named Kent?"
"I thought of that. For a while, I'll use my
married name."
Bart's cigar had burned out long ago. With a
grimace of disgust, he flung the stub into weeds beside
the path. He noticed the old man on the porch of the
house watching them, roused from his doze by their loud
voices.
A sense of desperation filled him then. He was
convinced Amanda was charting a course much more dangerous
than she was able to recognize. He had to stop her
if he could. There was one possible way. He'd
glimpsed death in the seas of the Strait of
Magellan, and reached a decision. He
had
to tell her-
"Look, sweet," he began, "I think I've
said a lot more than I should have about your personal
affairs-some of it in a pretty nasty
way. I apologize."
Her expression gentled. "Accepted-if you'll
accept
mine."
He waved that aside. "We've wandered pretty far
from what I wanted to say this evening. I told you about
the storm we struck rounding the Horn-was
"Yes-Lord, I was frantic with worry when the
clipper didn't arrive on schedule-was
"You aren't the only one whose life has changed. I
thought we were all going to die before we outran that blow.
When we got through it, I realized it was time to make
some changes of my own-was
He reached for her shoulders and pulled her against him,
inhaling the fresh-scrubbed scent of Her skin. His
fingertips moved lightly down her back.
"I thought a good deal about what I wanted. I
decided what I wanted more than anything was you. I
don't mean just occasionally. I mean all the time-was
He hugged her impulsively, and for a moment, silent
in the wind, they savored the closeness. The dark had
engulfed the semaphore hill and hidden them from the
old man watching.
Finally Bart resumed:
"I'm about to say something I never imagined
I'd say to another female after I got rid of the
one who played hob with my life for twelve
years-was
A hesitation.
"I love you."
She clasped him tightly. "Oh, Bart-you
probably won't believe it because of the way I
scold you for some of your notions-was
"Scold me!" He managed a chuckle. "Lop
my fool head off with a verbal ax, you mean-was
"You hush and let me speak."
"All right."
"I love you too."
Stunning, unexpected joy welled inside him.
Emotion made his words halting:
"I-I hardly see how it could be possible. God
knows I'm not perfect. Tonight I've demonstrated
that amply-
"A woman doesn't ask for perfection and love in
the same package, Bart. To love you, I don't
have to agree with every word you utter-was
"Some men expect that of their women."
"Well, you know better than to expect it from me."
He chuckled again. "I surely do. I reckon
that's one of the reasons you stick in a
fellow's mind-was
Holding her close, his fears of rejection began
to seem groundless. He went on with rising
enthusiasm:
"If what you say about loving me's the gospel
truth, Amanda-was
"It is."
"Then don't go back. Stay here with me. Away from
the stump speakers and the wild-eyed philosophers and
comall the things that can hurt you. Even though
California's filling up, we'll be safer than
we would be in Charleston, or New York. I'll
make a good life for you. For your boy, too-was
He wiped his eyes. When she spoke again, her words
and her tone told him she didn't yet understand all
he was attempting to say:
"You work out of New York, Bart-was
"In the desk in my cabin, there's a paper I
drew up three days ago. My resignation.
I'll hand it to the Ball brothers at the end of this
voyage. The next time I sail to California,
it'll be for good. I can find a captain's berth on
one of the coastal packets, I know I can-was
Again that affectionate merriment in her voice:
"My, it must be love if you're willing
to learn to pilot one of those hateful steam ships-was
"To be with you I'd do damn near anything. Marry
me, Amanda-was
He held her waist and poured out all the longing that
had grown within him after the perilous passage:
"Marry me."
She drew in a breath; she was astonished:
"I had no idea you meant to propose-was
"What's so strange about it? People marry all the
time!"
She kissed his cheek. "And I love you all the more
for asking me. But-was
He pulled back, cold and fearful all at
once:
"The answer's no?"
"I have an obligation, Bart."
"An obligation to what? To some Lathi on a cheap
piece of metal?"
"Please don't say that. I wouldn't have shown you
Jared's medallion if I thought you'd make
sport-was
"I'm
not
making sport! I'm trying to save you from what you're
going to do to yourself!"
"It's my duty to go to Boston. I came from a
family that-was
"A family that's nothing any more. Nothing! Your
splendid
family
consists of one Methodist gospel-shouter and one former
owner of a Texas whorehouse-was
He could almost feel her wrath like a physical
blow:
"You certainly have a very peculiar way of
demonstrating your affection, Captain McGill."
"Amanda-was
"Do you enjoy being cruel?"
"I'm trying to show you the truth! I care about what
happens to you!"
He spun arid stalked off into the high grass, hands
clenched at his sides.
He'd suspected from the first that she'd refuse him.
That was why he'd been so nervous. And now her
refusal had unleashed rage again. He hated her
strength almost as much as he hated his own lack of
self-control-
He stood with his head down until his trembling worked
itself out. Then, over his shoulder but loud enough for her
to hear, he said:
"I've botched everything tonight. I'm sorry. I
truly am, Amanda-was
He heard her footsteps in the grass. Felt her
body against the back of his blue sea jacket. But
something in him was dying. Not responding to the clasp of
her arms
around his waist from behind, nor to the press of her cheek
against his shoulder:
"I understand why you're upset. You risk a
lot-including pride-when you propose to a woman.
I only wish I could say yes-was
His last hope died then; died and disappeared as
completely as the house and tower had disappeared, only
a short distance above on the hill's black
summit. He blinked a couple of times, then pried
her hands from his waist. He didn't want to let her
know how much he was hurting. He tried to banter:
"All right. If there's anything a man should avoid,
I reckon it's a committed woman-was
"If what you say about the east is true, I
don't think you can stay uncommitted either."
"You just watch! Five thousand miles from New
York, I won't be worrying about anything except
course and cargo."
"No, you're talking differently than you
did a couple of years ago. You're much more
conversant with both sides of the political argument."
"The hell I am!"
"Then, you thought men who championed states' rights were
fools. A while ago, you said the federal government
shouldn't tamper with those rights. Maybe you've taken
sides yourself. Unconsciously-
That fueled his wrath all over again:
"Never.
Never!"
"You
are
a southerner-was
"I'm a seaman-period. The only territory with a
claim on me is the deck of a clipper!"
He stepped away from her, unwilling to discuss the
subject further. She'd pointed out something of which he
was totally unaware, and it had shaken him profoundly.
He practically barked the next sentence:
"It's time we went back." Then-with a faint undertone
of threat: "I've got a business offer to think
over."
"An offer? You didn't say anything about-was
"No point in mentioning it earlier. I thought I'd be
berthing out here from now on. Since I won't
be, this other proposition has a lot to recommend
it. Gentleman approached me just before I weighed
anchor this trip. The manager of the New York
office of the Royal Sceptre Line."
"Sounds like a British firm."
"It is. Headquarters in London. Most of their
trade's with Africa and India. Guess I've
built a pretty fair reputation with Ball
Brothers-Royal Sceptre offered me a mighty
handsome command on a brand new clipper, the
Prince Consort.
Might be just what I need to get me away from the
mess in this country. "Specially since there are no
personal reasons for staying-was
"Would you be based in London?"
"Yes."
Unhappy, she fell in step beside him, letting him
speak again when he was finally moved to it:
"Concerning your own trip, Amanda-I trust you
don't have any thought of traveling on
Manifest Destiny -"
"Why, yes, I do."
"You know there isn't passenger space."
"What about your cabin? You've offered it before."
"Not this time. It-it wouldn't be good for either of
us. You find passage on another ship."
A silence, interrupted only by the crunch of their
steps on the path.
"Will I see you in the east, Bart?"
"Can't say for sure."
"Does that mean you're going to England?"
He didn't answer.
Negotiating a steep place, she hung onto his
arm for support. He almost pushed her hand away.
He smelled the night breeze. It was cold, and
carried a salt tang. Already most of the lamps of the
town were
haloed by fog. But the hateful noise-the music, the
braying laughter-grew steadily louder as they
descended.
"Bart-was
"What?"
"Will you at least stay with me while you're hi San
Francisco?"
"Maybe it would be better if I didn't-was
"I want you to stay. I want us to have that much."
"We could have a lot more."
"I know. I'd say yes in a minute if it
weren't for-was
"The family," he finished. "I guess
I'll never appreciate what that family means
to you. But I'll say this and be done. A family
feeling as strong as yours is a curse, not a
blessing."
"You're wrong," she said. "It's both."
II
Amanda, Louis and Israel saw him off four days
later.
The visit had been strained and anticlimactic,
because the parting had really taken place on the
semaphore hill. Their two subsequent
attempts at lovemaking had been perfunctory.
One hadn't even come to completion because something not merely
physical shrank his flesh before they were half done.
And yet he stayed, unwilling to surrender his last
hours with her even though she was occupied with other
matters-packing, purchasing tickets on another
vessel, buying Louis a proper traveling
outfit. He'd actually seen more of the boy than he
had of Amanda.
To fill the time, he taught Louis the fundamentals
of playing the musical instrument he'd brought him as
a birthday present. Louis was quick, and seemed
to welcome the diversion. He obviously didn't
relish the idea of leaving San
Francisco, though he never said so
directly. But he attacked the music lessons
with such ferocity that Bart knew the boy was troubled.
He suspected Louis was just as conscious of the new
hardness in his mother as were any of the adults around her.
In a couple of days, Louis could blow
Oh Susannah!
with only a couple of sour notes, though he
absolutely couldn't remember the proper name of the
instrument comaeolina-and settled for the easier one, mouth
organ.
One afternoon Bart sent out to the clipper for a similar
instrument he'd bought for himself. They perfected a
pretty fair duet on
Sweet Betsy from Pike.
But the session was strangely cheerless. Neither of them
ever laughed aloud.
The morning of Bart's departure was gray and
gloomy. He was going home with the holds of
Manifest Destiny
only scantily filled with hides. All the
profit these days came from the westbound run. The quicker
the clipper returned to New York for another
load of freight, the better.
Trim and tall in his best blue jacket,
black neckerchief and peaked cap, he said his
farewells one by one:
"Israel-was
He forced himself to grasp the other man's hand and shake
it. The mulatto looked startled, then pleased.
"comI count on that new last name to bring you good luck
in the diggings."
"Thank you, Captain Bart. I'm mighty glad
to be getting out of this wicked, overcrowded town.
Hopeful isn't a capital of virtue, but at
least they christened it sensibly."
Bart glanced past Israel to Amanda. She was
wearing the yellow taffeta he liked. At the moment
she was fussing with the sleeve of Louis" new coat.
The boy was sprouting. He was almost thirteen;
slimming down as he grew taller. His dark eyes
were a mirror of his mother's but his swarthy skin and jet
hair echoed the man who had fathered him in Texas.
So Amanda wouldn't hear, Bart said to Israel:
"I don't think much of her going east, you know."
"Gathered that. I don't either."
"We finally agree on something."
"Indeed we do."
Smiling without feeling it, he moved on. He
extended his hand to Louis:
"Take care of your mother."
"I'll try, sir. Are you going to come visit us?"
"Don't see how I can. I don't know where you're
planning to settle."
Uneasily, the boy glanced at Amanda. "I'm not
sure myself-was
"Besides that," Bart said, "Til probably be out
of the country."
He took the last two steps with great effort.
Amanda started to reach for his hand. He noticed the
old, worn rope bracelet-little more than a few
frayed strings now comand quickly brought his hand up to the
brim of his cap in a small salute.
She looked at him, surprised and saddened. But he
couldn't touch her. He couldn't or he'd break.
"That was a very decent thing you did for Israel," she
said.
He shrugged. "I try to make a conscientious
effort not to be a son of a bitch all the time. God
keep you safe, sweet."
"Bart-please. Don't cut it off this way. Come
find me in the east."
"I'm sure that wouldn't be difficult. Given your
money and your ambition, I'm sure that after a couple
of years go by, you'll be well known.
Eminent, in fact. Unless-was
Unless that man Stovall is more than a match.
Fights you
-
and wins
-
"Unless what?"
"Nothing."
It could go either way, he decided. She was smart,
sturdy and strong-willed-more of the goddamned Kent
family inheritance!
Unexpectedly, he saw tears shining on her
cheeks:
"Bart, I beg you-come find me. Just-to say
hello -"
He was unintentionally curt:
"Doubt that'll be possible. Right now I feel
pretty favorable toward that offer from Royal
Sceptre-was
And I don't think I'd comwant to see how you've
been hurt.
Or how you may have hurt others
-
"Goodbye, sweet."
"Bart-to "
He spun away as she cried his name, stalking toward
the end of the creaking pier where the lighter waited.
As he climbed down the ladder to the bobbing boat, he
kept thinking of the ominous passage of scripture that
had come to mind on their hilltop walk. It fit her
perfectly. She was too determined; too unwilling
to moderate her stand or limit the means she'd use
to achieve her goal. In a way, she was like the
zealots-the fanatics-in the north and south who were
surely going to bring destruction down on the whole
nation one day-
An oarsman spoke to him. He didn't hear.
He was listening to an inner voice.
Put up again thy sword into his place: for all
they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.
in
Aboard
Manifest Destiny,
Barton McGill immediately turned command over to his
first mate and sailing master, with orders that the clipper
depart as soon as possible. He went below.
In his cabin he opened the drawer of his desk and
drew out the resignation he'd labored to phrase
properly. He was satisfied with the language. He
intended to submit the letter the moment he
docked-but not for the same reason he'd written it.
With a shake of his head, he returned the resignation
to the desk and opened the locker where he stored his
whiskey:
To make room for the bottle on the desk, he
cleared away his log and the one Kent and Son title
he'd purchased in New York-some sort of
trashy romantic novel.
A Frenchman's Passion.
The unknown author had adopted an obvious, and
ridiculous, pseudonym-Mrs. A. Penn.
Yet a clerk had informed him, disdainfully, that this
latest offering of the once dignified and prestigious
Kent house was attracting thousands of readers,
principally feminine. Bart had somehow balked at
taking the book ashore, and now he flung it on the
deck.
He poured a drink, downed it, poured another and
shucked off his jacket. He took his boxed
aeolina from one pocket. With his sleeves rolled
up and the bottle for company, he started playing the
central melody of the Chopin fantasy in C sharp
minor. Because of the sunless day, the cabin was dark. He
sat with his back to the windows that overlooked the
abandoned ships in the bay, letting the
music speak his grief and his fear for the woman he
loved.
The
Journal of
Jephtha Kent, 1
850: A
Higher Law
January the 17th.
A most disagreeable dinnertime. Captain Tunworth
and my mother-in-law present, but neither ate more than a
few morsels, preferring to fulminate against
President Taylor. They condemn Taylor as
a traitor to his class, and his state, because of his
easy compliance with the will of certain northern
Congressmen under whose influence he has fallen.
Chief among these hated advisors is Seward of
New York, who takes an inflexible stand on the
slave issue.
Prodded by the northerners, Taylor leans toward
admitting California to the Union under the constitution
which the state has already adopted, viz., the constitution
prohibiting slavery. If this happens, the
"South's Sentinel," ailing Calhoun of South
Carolina, predicts the cotton states will leave
the Union. Captain Tunworth is all
in favor-not surprising, since he is the master of
twenty-nine ill-treated bucks and wenches.
So deep has the ideological chasm become, I
find even my own modest table in Lexington
divided. I listened in dismay as my dear Fan
hotly seconded her father's views. I think she and
Tunworth noticed my silence.
If there is to be peace in our household, I dare
not speak what is in my soul. As the preceding
pages of this private book will attest, I am coming
all too close to complete rejection of Mr.
Calhoun's claim that the idea of freedom for the
blacks originates in "that blind,
fanatical zeal which made one man believe he was
responsible for the sins of others; and which, two
centuries ago, tied the victim that it could not convert
to the stake."
Christ teaches that I
am
the keeper of my brothers and sisters, whatever their
color. But am I "blind and fanatical?" I
pray not.
The Methodist Episcopal Church, South, will not
permit me to voice my convictions, or even my
doubts, from the various pulpits to which I
itinerate up and down the valley. But even more
saddening is my growing fear that should I present even
a single counter-argument to the Captain at my own
table, my dear wife would look upon me with vexation
and, yes, even anger.
January the 29th.
God has let the merciful light of His compassion
shine! A way out of the nation's awful dilemma may
exist after all-
In surprisingly temperate conversation with Fan before
she retired this evening, I won a concession from her.
She agreed that the omnibus legislation which Mr.
Clay is bringing to the Congress may offer the last,
best chance of averting strife and disunion.
Though she has grown increasingly partisan, Fan
yet recognizes the urgency of a program of
compromise. If we are to continue to enjoy
tranquility throughout the nation, the dispute over
fugitive slaves must be resolved. So must the
status of the new western lands, which have been thrust
into great prominence as a result of the discovery of
California gold-an event, I should judge, which
has forever altered the course of the country by generating a
gigantic migration-thus inevitably filling all
the territory between the Mississippi and the
Pacific.
Under old Clay's various legislative
proposals, California would be admitted to the
Union as a free state. The New Mexico and
Utah lands would be organized as
territories, but without reference to slavery. The
boundaries of Texas would be settled, and her debts
assumed. Slave auctions in the District of
Columbia-an odious sight to diplomats from
foreign nations-would be prohibited, though slaves
already present would not be tampered with-this as a sop
to Maryland, which ceded the land for the District.
Finally, Clay offers one great bone for the south-a
fugitive slave law which will at last be supported
by vigorous federal enforcement. Any person found
guilty of aiding a runaway black would be fined and
imprisoned. An escaped slave apprehended in
the north would not be granted a jury trial
to decide his fate, nor be permitted to testify in
his own behalf. A federal official would have power
to settle questions of ownership, his fee being five
dollars if he decides for the slave, but ten if
he decides for the master.
It is the continual escape of slaves-and a lack of
effective redress-which most rankles men
such as the Captain. Perhaps Clay's bill will
pacify them. But I do not believe any law will
hamper the activities of certain other persons in
our district-of white color-who, in secret and at
the risk of their lives, assist blacks in reaching the
north. No law will damp the fervor of these
"conductors of the under-ground railroad."
But at least Clay's compromise may exert some
soothing effect upon those who talk publicly and
thoughtlessly of secession.
March the 9th.
The momentous debate in Congress occupies the
minds and fills the conversations of most people throughout the
valley and, it is my impression, in the north as
well. Two days ago, with the galleries packed and the
chamber overheated to nearly one hundred degrees,
the eloquent Webster of Massachusetts
rose and spoke for three hours in reply to Mr.
Calhoun. The substance of Webster's impassioned
plea for accord was reprinted today in a newspaper which
reached our house from Richmond.
The hour is late, Webster said. Men of good will must
reach an accommodation or there will be disunion and war.
The senator stated-rightly, I think-that "peaceable
secession" by the southern states is a
contradiction in terms-
Impossible.
March the 15th.
How vile and bitter are the attacks upon Webster
already! Having boldly stood for the principles of
compromise, peace and Union, he is scorned
by radical elements of the northern press as "the
lion turned spaniel." He is accused of
"fawning on the masters whose hands he licks for the
sake of the dirty puddings they might choose to toss
him."
To a congregation with whom I was visiting, I lauded
the senator's courage in risking his reputation and,
indeed, his treatment by posterity. I found about half of
those gathered agreeing that Webster had taken a noble
stand. But there are also those who resist all
compromise. They will neither forget nor forgive the
bayings of the abolitionists who accuse the south of being
"one great brothel where half a milion women are
flogged to prostitution."
Alas, the president himself, who should be the foremost
spokesman of the cause of Union, favors a more
limited program than Clay's. He is
jealous, they say, of Mr. Clay's renewed
notoriety! How mean and petty are the
ambitions and angers of some men in high places!
March the 31/.
A giant has perished. The news was flashed
to Richmond and brought on from there-yesterday, Calhoun
succumbed to a lung sickness.
Against the advice of friends and physicians alike,
he went to Washington earlier this month to address the
Senate on Clay's proposals. He was so
enfeebled, he could not speak aloud. He sat huddled
in a blanket in the chamber's dreadful heat while
Senator Mason read his remarks.
Calhoun could not embrace the Clay legislation
wholeheartedly. He believed the north has made
the south its hapless victim, abusing its people and
abridging their rights-and it was in response to this stern
view that Senator Webster pleaded for three hours.
When I first read of Calhoun's reaction, I
reflected again on the unfathomable purpose of
God in creating a race of colored men. Without the
existence of such a race, the old "Sentinel" might
never have veered from the position he took in Congress
nearly forty years ago, when he championed an
improved system of national highways and waterways
with the cry, "We are under the most imperious obligation
to counteract every tendency to disunion!"
But the presence of the black man upon this continent comand
Calhoun's conscience, which not even the most rabid
northern agitator dared call into question-slowly worked
its change. Just before he fell out with Old
Hickory over the Nullification issue, he had
already replied to Jackson's toast on Jefferson
Day-"Our Federal Union! It must and shall be
preserved!"-with one that expressed his own
conviction-"The Federal Union comnext to our
liberty most dear." After that, he swung ever
closer to his final position-that slavery had somehow
been vindicated as "a good-a positive good" and that
any other view was "moral and political evil."
To the end, he was a Unionist-but not at any
price.
Captain Tun worth is fond of quoting
Calhoun's remark during the debate on
Wilmot's Proviso-"I desire above all
things to save the whole; but if that cannot be, to save the
portion where Providence has cast my lot." In his
last appearance in the hall he loved, a sickly
figure listening to another man read the outpouring of his
heart, he remained true to his principles.
Shamefully, I cannot claim to have emulated him,
except in these pages. I grow more and more
circumspect in my remarks to Fan. She will
grant that Clay's compromise offers the one chance of
averting a separation of the sort which sundered my Church.
But like Caloun, she will not admit there is any wrong
in holding men and women in bondage. I fear
to dispute with her because Gideon, Matthew and
Jeremiah are in her constant care, I am gone a
good deal, and she has stated without qualification that
she will not permit the boys to hear any of my "softness
toward the nigra."
April the 10th.
Seldom have I heard invective to rival that which
Captain Tunworth directs toward Seward of
New York. During the March debate in
Washington, the Whig senator referred to "a
higher law than the Constitution, which regulates our
authority over the domain." Nothing worse could have
been said to inflame southerners, who insist the
Constitution protects the rights of slave owners because
of these words:
"No Person held to Service or Labour in one
State, under the Laws thereof, escaping into another,
shall, in Consequence of any Law or Regulation
therein, be discharged from such Service or Labour, but shall
be delivered up on Claim of the Party
to whom such Service or Labour may be due."
How I weary of hearing the Captain parrot that
passage! It is the foundation of his belief that the
federal government must assist in returning escaped
slaves.
True, the word "slave" is not mentioned. But the
Captain says the meaning is unmistakable.
The failure of the abolitionist politicians to heed
the clause-plus the passage, in some northern
states, of those disputed "liberty laws" forbidding
recapture of runaways-has led to the controversy
which Clay's new fugitive slave proposal would
hopefully abate. Clay's bill would in effect
enforce the Constitution to the letter-
But while men are struggling for peace, Seward
rants
x
of a law "higher" than the Constitution!
Seward, many say, has presidential ambitions.
If so, he has destroyed himself with his statement.
He has placed himself permanently among those the
Captain villifies as "no better than mad
dogs."
In truth, Seward was already very nearly classified
that way because of his membership in the Whig
party. When Calhoun fell out with Jackson, he
promptly joined the new Whigs, a faction
opposing Old Hickory's autocratic
behavior. The faction took its name from the English
party which traditionally fought against the unlimited power
of the king.
For a time, the Whigs served the interests of an
uneasy alliance of southern gentry and northern
businessmen. They sought to curb the mounting power of the
Jacksonian Democracy, which draws its strength
from, and has become increasingly dominated by,
persons of lower social standing. The factory
class, as Captain Tun-worth calls it.
But the Whigs have also come to be dominated and controlled
by a certain segment of society-namely the
abolitionist element. This drove Calhoun to abandon
them and rejoin the Democracy. Thus by his party
affiliation, and most assuredly by his statement about
"a higher law," Senator Seward has conjured a
ghost which will hover close to him for years-and thwart
whatever ambitions he might harbor"
April the 14th.
Returned from the circuit to find- again-no letter from my
father.
Two of mine, sent to him in care of the
postal office in Sacramento, have gone unanswered.
His last to me from California, written in
September, stated that he was journeying to a remote
area in the hope of locating a profitable claim.
I have heard nothing since.
I thought my father's decision to leave Oregon would
refresh his spirits and provide him with a new
opportunity much needed since his farming efforts
came to nothing. Now I think my enthusiasm may have
been ill advised. Spent the better part of an
hour praying he is safe and well.
April the 27th.
Damp weather has brought on a fever and confined me
to my bed. The household is disturbed again because of the
escape of a prime buck, Amos, belonging to a
neighbor of Captain Tunworth.
The Captain raged in our parlor for an hour this
afternoon, his voice carrying up to the bedroom. He
believes the operatives of the "freedom rail
road" aided Amos in his flight. The Captain will
join the effort to recapture him.
April the 29th.
Some thirty miles above Lexington, the runaway
was caught by a party of armed men which included Captain
Tunworth. They came upon Amos wandering
south instead of north. The illiterate slave had
grown confused because the inclement weather hid the heavens
and made it impossible for him to locate the North
Star. Being incapable of reading written directions of
any sort, he was following the star. When it was lost
from view, he blundered straight into the arms of his
pursuers.
All this I learned when Captain Tunworth
returned tonight. He could not refrain from coming to my
room to inform me of the details. He first described
the crude pass, with the signature of Amos" owner
forged, which the slave had been carrying. Every black out
after nightfall must have such documentation of his right to be
abroad, or he becomes immediately suspect.
The Captain and his associates interrogated
Amos for nearly four hours, using all manner of
inhuman persuasion, since it was obvious a
literate person had provided the fugitive with the
forged paper. My father-in-law said he and his friends
suspect Syme, who operates a small granary
on the outskirts of Lexington. Syme is a
Connecticut Yankee by birth. He inherited the
granary from a relative. He has been heard
to remark in public that he loathes the "peculiar
institution." In an effort to make Amos
confess the name of his abettor-Syme or someone
else-the slave's owner ultimately resorted
to-
It sickens me to attempt to put the actual words
on this page. They are an abomination to my sight, and
to the eyes of Him who sees all. I will state the
despicable truth as decently as I can:
Captain Tunworth's neighbor employed a long
knife. It was applied to the private parts of
Amos, destroying his manhood and, soon after, his
life. He bled to death without revealing the identity of
his benefactor. May God have mercy on him, and
on his master-
On Captain Tunworth, too. He sees nothing
wrong in such base cruelty. He swore that if
one of his blacks ever escaped, he would pursue him
to the ends of the earth and punish him. Unable to contain my
wrath, I ordered him from my room.
Approximately an hour later, when I called
to Fan and poked her to bring the boys up to say
goodnight, she refused.
May the 5th.
Itinerating again. I have been unable to banish the death
of Amos from my thoughts. It has had a profound
effect upon me, beyond all description.
Last night, when I rose to offer a meditation at
prayer service, I felt as if a mighty hand had
seized me, shaking from my lips a condemnation of the
cruelty perpetrated against the runaway.
A dozen in my congregation promptly left. Those
who remained were obviously stunned and unsettled by the
interjection of a secular subject, though afterward,
three were bold enough to approach me and whisper their
belief that I was right.
I fear repercussions but cannot shrink from them. Some
Voice other than mine spoke from within me. I think
the Almighty has finally decreed that I shall keep
silent no longer.
May the 9th.
Household atmosphere most unpleasant following
my return today. Fan has removed herself to a
separate sleeping room. My sons barely speak
at all; I fear she has harangued them in my
absence-
Too grieved to write more.
May the 11th.
While doing an errand this afternoon, I was accosted
by Syme. He is a small, unpleasant-looking
man with a pocked face and nervous eyes.
He greeted me cordially enough. But then
he began to speak in a curiously guarded way about
my recent remarks at the prayer service, which are
fully known in Lexington. I can tell from the
hostile stares of those I previously called my
friends. Twice I have been stoned by small boys-no
harm done, though both incidents deepened my
sadness.
A transcript of Syme's words could never be used
against him, so carefully and obliquely did he
speak. Yet his meaning was unmistakable:
Should my conscience dictate a more active
participation on behalf of the enslaved blacks of the
district, he would assist in finding "a means for
expression of my will."
I rebuffed him. My affairs are troubled enough without
embroiling myself in conducting runaways to freedom.
He tipped his hat and departed, his manner as
contemptuous as that of my father-in-law-though for an
entirely different reason.
It becomes increasingly clear that a man of
moderate views can find no peace in Virginia.
Perhaps he cannot anywhere in the nation.
June the 3rd.
Unable to write a line for three days. Immense and
stunning surprise fell on our house,
coupled with immense grief.
My father is dead. Foully murdered in
California. The news was conveyed by a visitor who
has since departed just as she came-swiftly and
forcefully as a summer storm. It was my cousin
once removed, a handsome, splendidly-dressed
woman of middle years-the very woman for whom my father
searched for so long. Her unexpected arrival, all
the way from California in company with a
thirteen-year-old boy of dark complexion and almost
Latin appearance, plunged the household
into confusion.
She arrived in a carriage secured at
Norfolk. She brought much luggage, but there was no
hired driver; she handled the reins herself. She goes
by the name Mrs. Amanda Kent de la Gura, having
been married to a Spanish fur trapper; the father of
her son Louis, I presume. She did not
specify.
She began her visit in a mood of cordiality and
sympathy, relating how she had discovered my father
by chance in the city called San Francisco. She
described the manner in which he lost his life at the
hands of some local toughs. She then stated she was on
her way to Boston, but her exact plans
were presented in only the sketchiest detail. I
gathered she has some desire to buy back the
family printing house, of whose existence I told
her I knew.
During those first remarkable hours, Fan had the good
sense to conceal all hints of the tensions which have divided
our family. She treated my cousin once removed
and her somewhat willful boy in a friendly and gracious
fashion. Regrettably, Captain Tunworth was
not so courteous when he called unannounced.
In ten minutes, he and my cousin developed an
unconcealed dislike of one another. Mrs. de la
Gura chanced to mention that she had employed a
runaway slave in California, which caused the
Captain to launch a diatribe against those who
harbor fugitives. My cousin's retorts were
caustic. If not an outright abolitionist, Mrs.
de la Gura obviously approaches that
persuasion. The Captain departed in foul temper-and
Fan's restraint was visibly tried.
She abandoned politeness entirely next morning,
when our guest put forth another revelation. Before his
death, my father apparently became a partner in a
modestly successful gold-mining enterprise. I
am heir to his share.
Mrs. de la Gura, who prior to leaving
California appointed a representative to act in
her stead, urged me to permit her to continue managing
my father's interest. I told her I had no
experience in business affairs, and so would be willing,
provided any monies due my family were
scrupulously accounted for. She assured me of it,
promising that if she were given leave to administer my
father's share of the claim, my sons would benefit to a
greater extent than if I were to take an active
role.
So strong and lucid a case did she
present-remarkable on two counts; she is a
female, and no longer young comt I of course
consented. This produced an awful argument from Fan.
In my cousin's bold and forthright manner, she saw
some fancied scheme to deprive our sons of what
is rightfully theirs.
At last, after much stormy language, I was forced
to demand Fan's silence. I then signed a paper
giving Mrs. de la Gura authority to act on
my behalf. For the remainder of the visit, she and
Fan were decidedly hostile to one another.
Mrs. de la Gura is a person not easily
opposed, that much was clear soon after she
arrived. She repeated more explicitly her
determination to see the printing house restored to the hands
of the founding family. In this pursuit, she said she
would require the use of the California gold. Fan
construed her words as glib fraud. Nothing I said
would change her mind.
Before my cousin departed-having assured me she would be
in touch when she was permanently located- my wife
and I had yet another reason for disagreement. It was
caused by an ugly scene which marred the farewell.
My second son, Matthew, six, owns a pet
toad of repulsive mien and phlegmatic
disposition. The boy Louis wished to examine the
creature. Matthew, in one of those contrary moods which
seize children from time to time, did not desire to have his
treasure handled by anyone else. He
refused-politely at first, then more vehemently as
Mrs. de la Gura's son continued to insist.
Finally the latter snatched the toad from Matthew's
hand comwhereupon my son burst into tears and the toad
hopped into the shrubs, never to be seen again. When my
cousin struck her boy's cheek to admonish him, his
eyes glowed with fury, and I thought for a moment that he
might strike her back.
He did not, fearing her, I suppose.
But she was visibly upset by the young man's
behavior. I cannot help but observe that he only
imitates the behavior of his mother, who descends upon
a person like that storm of which I wrote, and sweeps
all away before-
When the carriage had departed, Fan berated me.
I was so exercised that I could barely keep from
speaking unChristian words in reply.
I wanted to console Matthew over the loss of his
pet but he would not admit me to his room. As a
result of my cousin's visit, I am more than ever
an outcast in my own home.
June the 29th.
Today I received a communication from my bishop. I have
paid dearly for my discourse at the prayer service.
The bishop chastised me for speaking against the cruelty
of the death of Amos. My remarks were in violation of the
ordinances of the Methodist Episcopal Church,
South. The bishop reminded me that the Church is
apolitical, concerned only with the saving of souls, not
the freeing of physical bodies from bondage.
In his closing paragraph, he removed me from my
itinerancy.
July the 5th.
President Taylor died yesterday, from
ingesting too much iced water and a large quantity of
cherries. The stomach ailment struck him after he
participated in a celebration of our nation's
Independence in the capital. Mr. Fillmore
has already been sworn in.
On hearing the news of the president's death, I
almost
wished a similar fate might befall me. I am
a pariah in my Church, my own house, and throughout
Lexington. Only Christ's ever-present and
strengthening hand enables me to endure the tribulation.
July the 21/.
I can find no employment-no means of supporting
my family. Fan and I fell into another terrible
argument because of it. I refused her demands that I
make a public retraction of my statements
concerning Amos, and seek the bishop's forgiveness.
My wife, became as a stranger to me, spoke
words about my character whose bitterness I cannot begin
to capture on paper. She accused me of robbing my
own sons by giving control of the gold claim to Mrs.
de la Gura. I confess without shame that I left
the house with tears in my eyes.
My son Gideon was scything weeds in the yard. I
spoke to him and he turned away. I
suspected that Fan had been speaking against me, but this
day I saw the proof.
As I stumbled from the yard, I cried silently,
"Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me!"
When I realized it was not to be, I was shaken by a
mighty wrath-and only with the greatest effort did I
pray the remainder of Our Lord's appeal-
"Nevertheless not my will, but Thine be done."
I tramped the countryside until dark, pausing
once to fall on my knees and clasp my hands.
Humiliated by my anger against the Lord, I
admitted my sin in prayer.
Despite the day's anguish, my convictions
remained firm. I vowed I would neither flee
Lexington nor the proximity of my family, in the
hope that love and the bonds of Christian marriage
would restore me to Fan and the boys. I love her,
I thought. I love them. Yea, I love those who
scorn me, for that is Christ's way.
A short while later, at dusk, I returned
to my home in the hope of effecting a
reconciliation. Fan ran out to meet me in the
yard. She told me there was no place within her
house for a traitor. She then brought out a few of
my belongings and, when I requested it, my
Bible and this book.
And so I crept away again, to the residence of a man
in Lexington who I hoped would display Christian
charity comthe good Doctor William White, pastor
of the First Presbyterian congregation. He has
permitted me to sleep in a hut on his property.
By moonlight, seated in the hut's doorway, I
scribble out these lines-feeling for all the world
exactly like a felon, and praying that the cup indeed
may pass; that time may heal the injuries of the
dispute with Fan, for whom I still find love within my
heart.
But I will not effect reconciliation at the price of
recantation. I have pondered long on what I was
moved to say at the prayer service. I believe the
Lord revealed His truth when he spoke with my
tongue. Amos was a child of God just as much as any
white man. If that be heresy, let me suffer for
it; yea, let me burn!
Later.
I feel the Lord's presence. A voice whispers
what I would have called unthinkable a year ago-
There is, as Seward said, a higher law. God's
law of love and justice for all His creatures; a
law which men have perverted.
Believing that helps ease my pain somewhat. I have
been tardy in taking my stand. I will follow the
heedings of that inner voice even to the gates of
Hell.
September the 10th. I
am reduced to penury-living in a hovel and tending the
stables for the smartly dressed young cadets at the
Military Institute. I am an outcast among
those I sought to serve. Only Dr. White's
merciful intercession enabled me to remain in
Lexington at all, gaming for me as he did this
lowly position. Captain Tunworth has assumed
responsibility for the worldly needs of Fan and the
boys-and is providing for them more handsomely, I am
sure, than ever I could on my slim stipend as an
itinerant preacher.
It is an irony that my cousin once removed, would
I but make the effort to locate her, could rescue
me from this wretched state by virtue of my father's
gold. Yet I am not willing to take steps
to contact her. To throw myself upon her mercies would be
to deny the dictates of my conscience-
So I wear rags. Subsist on the coarsest of
fare. Perform menial work while enduring the jibes of
some of the cadets. I know I am considered
the worst sort of fool coma self-condemned martyour.
I also suspect that many in Lexington wish I would
leave. I am conscience made visible. A pricking
thorn. That is why I will not go. My resolve has
become as a stone. I answer to God and His Son
Jesus Christ and Their higher law, and to no others.
September the 11th.
Only my faith gave me the courage to endure an
incident which transpired this afternoon. I saw Fan and the
boys on the grounds of the Institute, bound upon some
social errand or other.
Little Matthew would have spoken, but Fan pulled him
sharply away and struck his hand when he resisted.
Gideon showed no expression whatever; I believe
he knows it would not please his mother if he recognized
me.
Jeremiah, four, is too small to do
so-especially as I am an unkempt, threadbare
figure-no longer the same man physically or
spiritually that I was a mere six months ago.
I watched them until they passed from view. Not
even Matthew would look back.
September the 12th.
A professor at the Institute informed me this
morning that California has been admitted
as a free state. After much struggle and many
portents of failure, Clay's program is at
last being maneuvered through the Congress-largely with the
help of a senator who belongs to the Democracy,
Douglas of Illinois, whose support had not
previously been counted on.
Old Webster is now in Fillmore's cabinet,
Secretary of State. Clay, exhausted, has
gone to Rhode Island to rest. Neither can directly
engage in the legislative battle. But Douglas
has seen the danger, and responded to it- If the
rest of the compromise bills can be passed, perhaps the
Union can be saved. That now appears more likely
than it did at the start of this tumultuous season.
Autumn is coming to the valley. The coloring of the
countryside, the hue of change, reminds me that men
too must undergo change. So I have done, by speaking
my beliefs and enduring the consequences.
I do not hate those in Lexington who abuse me
openly or in private-the cadets; Captain
Tun worth. I pray for reconciliation. I
pray the Union may be preserved, though I am
frequently pessimistic. I fear the issues are
too deep and divisive for Clay's compromise
to bring more than a temporary tranquility.
Later.
The voice of the higher law spoke to me again. I cannot
remain passive in my protest-though I will be
circumspect, so that I may be useful to the Lord for
many months to come.
Tomorrow, I will seek out Syme and reveal my
willingness to help him perform the secret work I am
convinced must be done.
Book Three:
Perish With the Sword
The
Legacy
OUTWARD BOUND FROM Boston harbor, the
gigantic six-masted steamship belched smoke from
her stack. Louis Kent, watching from the port rail
of
Yankee Arrow,
a much smaller coastal steamer, nearly lost his
broad-brimmed wide-awake to a sudden gust of
wind. He caught the hat as it tumbled off his head,
then exclaimed:
"I can't make out her name. But I see the
British
A few steps further along the rail, clutching her
parasol with one hand and her spoon bonnet
with the other, Amanda turned to her companion, a
broad-shouldered, six-foot Negro in his early
thirties. He had a prominent nose, deep eye
sockets that accentuated the darkness of his eyes, and
skin of a lustrous bronze hue. His long hair,
neatly trimmed at the line of his collar, tossed in
the wind. He was faultlessly dressed in a frock
coat and strapped trousers whose elastic bands fitted
under the soles of polished-boots.
"Is that one of the Cunard steamers, Mr.
Douglass?" Amanda asked. She and Louis had
made the gentleman's acquaintance on the voyage
up from Norfolk comhe had boarded at
Philadelphia-and had dined at his table, despite
the purser's whispered suggestion that they needn't
segregate themselves in that fashion. Amanda had
remarked tartly that the other white passengers were the
ones segregating themselves-foolishly
comsince the gentleman was delightful and
provocative company.
"No," Douglass answered in a mellow voice.
"I believe that's a sister ship of the
Great Britain.
A competitive line. At the end of my lecture
tour in '47, I came home on the
Great Britain.
She's screw-driven-just like that one. Those masts are
an innovation too. All but one's hinged. They can be
lowered to the horizontal for less wind resistance and
greater speed.
Great Britain
brought me to America in just under thirteen days."
Amanda marveled: "Thirteen days from Europe.
Imagine! It seems machines are changing the whole
world-was
Mr. Douglass smiled in a rueful way. "Every
part of it except the most important. The human
mind. Two years ago, I was the only male
delegate at the conference on women's rights in
Seneca Falls. Afterward, I said publicly that I
agreed with the ladies attending the conference-society
does discriminate against women. The good folk in
Rochester treated me as if I were twice a leper.
Leprous once for being black, leprous again for daring
to suggest women are entitled to equal treatment under the
law. Those Rochestarians thought I was crazy!
There's not much a steam engine can do to change
attitudes of that sort, I'm afraid."
"I still don't see why she carries sails,"
Louis said, absorbed by the sight of the huge
ship putting out to sea. He'd hooked his elbows
over the rail and was hanging onto his wide-awake with
both hands. He looked smart in his trim black
jacket, vertically striped railroad trousers,
button boots and dark green cravat.
"For the same reason we do," Douglass said,
gesturing to the masts of the
Arrow.
He spoke loudly because of the thump of the
Arrow's
engines and the steady roar of water spilling down from her
enclosed paddlewheels amidships. "To conserve
coal-and the engines-when
there's a fair wind," he explained to the boy.
"To provide motive power if the engines fail."
He settled his white summer top hat on his
head. "We'll be at the pier shortly. I'd
better go below and sign that book for you, Mrs. de
la Gura."
"I thank you for that, Mr. Douglass-and for the
pleasure of talking with you during the voyage."
Amanda smiled as she said it. But she was decidedly
uncomfortable in the four-foot-wide skirt of
crinoline and the flounced, stiffened muslin petticoat
beneath. Summer-weight the materials might
be. But all the clothing was a burden to someone
accustomed to the more casual dress of California.
Still, she was determined to get used to wearing what was
proper. She looked quite attractive in the
expensive outfit. Her hair was done in the style
that had been popular for more than a decade: parted in
the center, with the sides drawn down and beneath the ears and
pinned up in a bun in back. Mercifully, daytime
fashion permitted her to go without the annoying
ready-made side ringlets held in place
by cumbersome combs. The ringlets were mandatory in the
evening.
As Douglass started away, she added, "I do
hope I may be able to make a donation to your paper
soon."
The black man turned back, pleased. "A
shortage of money is the constant plague of
The North Star.
Without the help of friends, my paper would never
survive, and my message could never be spread so
broadly. As it is, I spend too much time
running from city to city presenting lectures and
soliciting donations. Your contribution would be very
welcome. An address reading Fred Douglass,
Rochester, New York will bring it to me-was
"I'll remember."
As Douglass disappeared down a companionway,
Amanda turned toward the panorama of Boston, a
murky jumble of piers, hills, residences, and
commercial
buildings that poured smoke from tall chimneys into the
already gray air of the late June morning.
"I'm not sure all those factories are as great a
boon as everyone claims," she remarked to Louis.
"Look at the dirt they spew into the sky."
The boy was more interested in their departed companion:
"Is Mr. Douglass really famous, ma?"
"Louis, I've reminded you before-it's time you began
saying mother."
The dark-eyed boy scowled. "What's the difference?"
"One sounds more genteel than the other. And to answer
your question-yes, Mr. Douglass is just about the most
famous runaway slave in America. People pack his
lectures."
"Then why wouldn't anyone else sit with him in the
dining room?"
"Because he's a black man."
"But he's very nice." His scowl deepening, Louis
surveyed the passengers along the rail. "People should be
whipped for treating him that way."
Amanda said nothing. The remark about whipping disturbed
her. Louis was beginning to display some less than
admirable traits. She recalled the dreadful row
with Jephtha's son over a toad during their visit
in the Shenndoah Valley.
She tried to recall when she'd first become aware
of the boy's aggressive attitude. In
California, she decided. Soon after she told
him of the shooting in Hopeful. She'd taken pains
to explain that the man had threatened her, but it was the
fact that she'd killed him that seemed to make the
greatest impression on Louis. Quite a few times
since, she'd noticed him watching her with a
speculative expression.
Now, while his attention was diverted, it was her turn
to study him. He was handsomer than Cordoba. Yet
he seemed to lack the Mexican officer's softening
humanity.
On the long voyage from San Francisco, she'd
finally told Louis about his father. The experience had
been harder on her than it seemed to be on him.
He'd asked a few questions about Cordoba's
appearance and character, and accepted Amanda's statement that
the officer was an honorable man whom she'd loved.
She deliberately refrained from cautioning
the boy about mentioning his illegitimacy to others; he
had no friends with whom to discuss it, and she was afraid
that undue emphasis would lend it an unhealthy
importance it shouldn't have.
Louis hadn't brought up the subject since that one
and only discussion. In many ways, the boy was an
extremely private person. Not surprising,
since she'd been occupied with so many other things these
past few years. And would be in the weeks and months
to come. She wondered whether their new life in the east
would be good for him-
A bit too late to think of that, she reflected.
Still, his words about whipping put her on guard. If
she were required to perform any unpleasant actions in
connection with Hamilton Stovall, the boy must never
become aware of them.
The pilot maneuvered
Yankee Arrow
through the crowded harbor. Amanda felt just a bit
intimidated by the great city rising before her. She was
angered by the reaction. Here she was, about to step
ashore to begin a new life just the way her grandfather
had done eighty years ago, and her gloved hands were
trembling!
Despite her anxiety, she was
fascinated by the sprawl of the city, the gush of smoke
from the manufacturies, the crowded confusion of the
docks becoming visible off the bow. Boston, like the
other cities she'd glimpsed on the trip, seemed
to symbolize the wealth, the power, the human energy and
inventiveness of the industrialized east. In all her
wears, she'd never seen anything that even resembled this
part of America.
There were nearly twenty-five million people in the nation
now. Population, according to Mr. Douglass, had grown
at an unprecedented rate of thirty-six percent
in ten years. And there appeared to be no limit to the
mechanical genius of the country's citizens.
For two decades, McCormick's reaper had
been improving the productivity of the farms. Three
rival inventors -Howe, Wilson and Singer-were
vying to produce a device for mechanized sewing.
She'd overheard a man on the steamer discussing a
fellow named Otis, who proposed to build some
sort of oversized box to lift and lower passengers
within a shaft inside a building. The man had made
an extravagant prediction: structures as
tall as eight, ten or twelve floors would be
commonplace if Otis succeeded.
The marvels were by no means limited to the
large and spectacular. In her cabin, Amanda had
a half-dozen samples of a remarkable little invention
called a "safety" pin, perfected only a year
ago. The sharp end was springy, and hid away within a
small metal cap when the pin was fastened.
She was both fearful and excited at the idea of
creating a place for herself in this restless, fast-changing
society. It would be an important place,
too. She had the means. In her portmanteau, she
carried the document Jephtha had signed, granting
her the right to administer the California claim-
For a few moments she pondered the sad enigma of the
Reverend Jephtha Kent, a pious,
haunted-looking young man who scarcely resembled his
father. Something was seriously wrong in Jephtha's
family; she'd sensed that all during her visit.
Perhaps it was friction over the slave problem.
Jephtha's petite and attractive wife had
made it clear she was a partisan of the system. His
father-in-law, a detestable rogue named Tunworth,
had been even more outspoken; positively
vitriolic. But Jephtha himself had
given few hints of his own convictions. To Amanda that
suggested he didn't feel free to voice them.
Having secured what she came for, she'd
been glad to leave the tense household.
Thoughts of her cousin once removed reminded her of
Bart's warning about the stormy political situation
here in the east. She had seen another tangible
example aboard the
Yankee Arrow:
the public shunning of a noted man who happened to be
black.
Perhaps the socially generated turmoil was one more
reason she felt uneasy. She didn't want
to be drawn into it. And yet, quite without realizing she
was
being drawn in, she'd taken Louis to sit with
Douglass in the dining room. No great damage
done by that-snickers and glares could do her no harm.
But she'd have to be careful of any deeper
involvement. It could divert her from her purpose.
II
With her autographed copy of the
Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass
tucked under one arm, Amanda waited impatiently
near the open door of a private office at Benbow
and Benbow.
Yankee Arrow
had let down its gangplank less than
an hour ago. Clerk's pens had stopped scratching
the moment she and Louis walked into the dusty-smelling
outer room of the law firm.
She was still conscious of eyes turned her way.
Louis raised his head at the sound of faraway thunder.
At the open door, a clerk was speaking to the invisible
occupant of the private office:
"coma Mrs. de la Gura, sir."
A somewhat high-pitched male voice snapped
back, "The Benbows have no clients by that name. If
she insists on seeing someone, refer her to one of the
junior partners-was
Amanda stepped forward. "If you'll excuse me-was
The clerk had to move or be bowled aside. "comI
insist on speaking to one of the senior partners." She
stopped in the doorway. "Is your name Benbow?"
At an ornate desk in front of a wall
bookcase jammed with reference volumes, an
elderly man with thin white hair and pale skin
swung his spectacles back and forth from one hand.
He studied his visitor disapprovingly:
"Yes, madam, I'm William Benbow,
Junior."
"Well, I'm not precisely a client as yet.
But before we finish our interview, I will
be. Now if you'll dismiss this young man, I'd like
to discuss my business-was
Benbow flung down the spectacles. "See here!
I am preparing an important brief. If you
insist on seeing me, make an appointment for sometime
next week."
Amanda shook her head and walked into the gloomy
office:
"You don't understand, Mr. Benbow. I've come all
the way from California, and I don't propose
to wait. I'm Gilbert Kent's daughter."
William Benbow, Junior, was seized with a fit
of coughing. He groped for a crystal water jug and
overturned one of the tumblers before he poured and gulped
a drink. It was a full minute before Amanda was
sure the old man wasn't going to faint away.
Turning to the clerk, she said, "You may go." She
took hold of the door and pushed to make certain he
would. Louis grinned and darted into the office before the
door shut.
in
"Incredible," William Benbow, Junior, said
at the end of Amanda's rapid summary of her
history-the portions of it she cared to reveal, that is.
"Absolutely incredible. You do resemble
your father. At the time he died, my father- " A
gesture toward a dour portrait on one
wall. "comwas his attorney. I was still clerking in the
outer chambers." The lawyer wiped his eyes with a
kerchief, replaced his spectacles. "You mentioned
business comif it has anything to do with your gold
claim, I should advise you that the Benbow firm has
no expertise in that
area."
Amanda replied, "No, it has nothing to do with the
California property. I may need your help with a
simple real estate transaction."
Benbow looked a trifle crestfallen: "Real
estate?"
"I assure you, Mr. Benbow, if you serve me
capably in this small enterprise. I'll
probably have a good deal of work for you later on."
"You plan to stay in the east permanently?"
"That depends on a number of factors we
needn't go into right now. Are you familiar with the house
my father owned on Beacon Street?"
"Quite familiar," Benbow nodded, his manner growing more
cordial. "My father took me there to visit on
several occasions. A handsome residence-was
Louis was seated in a chair beside his mother's.
He scraped the toe of his boot on the carpet.
Benbow frowned, as though the noise had interrupted his
train of thought. Amanda noticed that Louis stared right
back at him, without so much as a blink.
"Who lives in the house now?" she asked.
"Why, let me see-was Benbow thought. "A family
named Wheeler. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wheeler.
He's a furniture merchant. He and his wife have
owned the home for nearly twenty years, I think."
"I'm asking because my father once kept certain
family mementoes in the house. I'm anxious
to see whether they might have survived..the items would
be of no intrinsic value to another owner-but there's
always a slim chance they weren't discarded. Would you
imagine the Wheelers would let me inspect the
property? Search the "attic, and the cellar?"
"Doubtful. Wheeler's an arrogant sort. His
wife is quite conscious of her fancied social
position."
Amanda smiled without humor. "You're saying they
might not permit some strange woman from the west
to prowl through their house?"
"Yes, you've put it accurately. I doubt very
much that they would."
"Would you guess that items that might have been
stored in the house would still be there?"
"I've no way of knowing, Mrs. de la Gura.
Wheeler and his wife are antiquaries. I'm told
they've packed the place with art objects purchased
on tours of Europe. That may indicate a
penchant for saving things-but it's still thin evidence on which
to base a positive answer to your question."
"Then the only way to answer it is to buy the
house."
Benbow's spectacles, swinging in his hand again, fell
to the carpet. "You want to live in it?"
"No, I just want to go inside."
"You-you've certainly chosen an extravagant
means of entry!"
"I don't think so. The location of the property still
makes it valuable, I assume-was
"Very definitely."
"Then it's a good investment. I'll be happy to have the
house back in the family. After I inspect it, you
can lease it to someone else."
Benbow was speechless. Annoyed, Amanda said:
"I'll be glad to pay. whatever fee you require,
Mr. Benbow. But I want you to approach the
Wheelers and tell them you have a purchaser for the
property. How much is it worth?"
"Why-why, I suppose-in that area of town-forty
to fifty thousand-was
From her reticule Amanda drew an envelope, and
handed it across the desk. "Inside, you'll find a
bank
draft representing the sale of some real estate in
California. The sum of ninety thousand dollars.
I'm prepared to pay up to seventy thousand for the
Beacon Street house, though if you can get it for
less, so much the better. You must stipulate that
nothing stored in the house when the Wheelers purchased
it is to be removed. Nothing comno matter how
worthless the object seems."
Benbow retrieved his spectacles, pulled the
draft from the envelope and examined it, shaking his head
and blinking. Amanda frowned:
"What's the matter? The draft is perfectly
good-was "Of course, of course. I am
only-only-was "Shocked at my way of doing
business?" "To put it mildly."
"Time is precious to me. I'll call on you tomorrow
to learn whether you've been successful."
"Tomorrow?"
Benbow gasped.
"Certainly." Amanda drew one of his
old-fashioned quills from the inkstand; wrote on a
slip of paper. "You'll send a representative
to the Wheelers this afternoon, I assume-was She tapped
the quill feather on the slip. "You can reach me
here-the American House- should you get a favorable
response at once."
"Very well," the lawyer gulped. He nearly
dropped the envelope containing the draft. "But
please take this. I'll feel more comfortable if you
deposit it with a bank. I suggest the Rothman
Bank on State Street-where your father had his
accounts. Ask for the president, Mr. Joshua
Rothman. He's the grandson of the founder. I -I
think you'll find he has some important information for
you-was
Thunder rumbled again, louder this time. "What sort of
information?"
"I would prefer you learn that from him," the lawyer said,
still acting stunned.
iv
Mr. Joshua Rothman was a slim, dark-haired
young man with graceful hands and thoughtful dark eyes.
Behind his high-backed chair, rain spattered the
windows of his private office.
The office was conservative, as befitted an
important Boston bank, yet opulent. Thick
carpeting deadened sound. The marble top of Rothman's
desk showed not a speck of dust. Wood paneling
reflected the bluish light of the gas jets hissing
within wall-mounted glass bowls. Until today,
Amanda had never been in any building with gas
illumination, though her hotel, the American
House, boasted that it had installed gas fixtures
in its rooms and upper halls in 1835.
From beyond a heavily carved door came a sudden,
rapid clicking. Curious, Amanda swung toward
noise.
"My apologies for the racket, Mrs.
Ken-Mrs. de la Gura," Rothman
corrected. "That's a private telegraph
wire. The bank maintains constant contact with
Wall Street. Where large sums are involved,
fast and confidential communication is important."
The young banker rose, walked to the door and opened
it. He said to Louis, "You're welcome to go in and
watch the operator."
Louis shook his head, clearly unhappy at being
trundled from office to office. Joshua Rothman
shrugged, closed the door and strolled back to the
desk where Amanda was seated.
"I only wish my grandfather Royal were here to greet
you in person. He often spoke of the Kents-and with great
fondness. The publishing house your grandfather founded
has added luster to Boston for a long time."
"I have the impression absentee management has
dimmed that luster quite a bit."
"Hamilton Stovall, you mean? Yes, his
orientation is comhow shall I say it? More blatantly
commercial than that of the Kents. You know, I've always
been curious about the loss of the firm to Mr.
Stovall. There's still a fanciful tale that the
transfer came as a result of a wager-was
"The story's correct," Amanda said. "My mother's
second husband was cheated by Mr. Stovall. In a
gambling game."
"Is that a fact. I never believed it. I do know
the printing house burned. I heard the fire was
started by- ah, but forgive me for bringing up an
unpleasant subject."
"It may be unpleasant, but it's the truth. My
cousin set the fire. He died in California. That
part of the past is closed."
The banker nodded without replying.
"I'd like your opinion on something, Mr. Rothman.
Suppose that in a few years, I were
to accumulate a substantial amount of money from the
mining claim I described. What are the chances of
my purchasing Kent and Son?"
"I would say excellent."
Relief swept over Amanda as the young man went
on:
"The firm earns a decent return, I'm told.
But Mr. Stovall has a reputation for being more
interested in the current balance sheet than in
long-term stability and growth."
"He milks the company, in other words."
"Exactly. He does the same with his steel
factories. He's in his mid-fifties, but he's
still quite preoccupied with-ah-call them worldly
pursuits. He's not a favorite of the lending
community because he gives too little attention to sound
management. He prospers only because the domestic
market for steel is voracious. Since he
devotes even less time to the publishing operation, I
should imagine he'd be happy to dispose of it if he
could realize a profit."
With never a flicker of change in her expression,
Amanda stored away the bits of information about
Hamilton Stovall-including the hint of
licentiousness in Joshua Rothman's
choice of the words
comworldly pursuits.
She stored the information away just as she'd already taken
note of the use of a private telegraph line.
"Very good," she said. "The draft I handed you for
deposit should convince you I'm serious about purchasing
my family's former home-wellea8I'm every bit as
serious about buying Kent and Son."
"I don't doubt you for a moment, Mrs. de la
Gura. But you needn't delay making an offer
to Mr. Stovall."
For the first time since entering the busy bank, Amanda was
genuinely surprised:
"What do you mean?"
"Rothman's has enjoyed a peculiar relationship
with the Kents over the years. The bank has been the
steward of certain assets of your late father of which you
are probably unaware."
"What assets?"
"Have you ever heard of a cotton spinning firm in
Pawtucket, Rhode Island, called the
Blackstone Company?"
"Never."
"My grandfather Royal, your father, Gilbert Kent,
and a number of other local men founded the
Black-stone Company in 1803. It's still
operating. Very successfully, I might add. For
certain reasons of his own, your father preferred that your
mother not be aware of his investment of one hundred thousand
dollars in the firm-forgive me if this is offensive
in any way-was
"No, go on," Amanda said softly, a strange
expectancy gripping her.
"Your father, in short, took steps to protect a
portion of his estate by placing his Blackstone voting
stock in
the bank's keeping. Your mother drew income from, and
controlled, only the printing house."
Immediately Amanda understood why. The way in which
Harriet Kent's poorly chosen second husband
had gambled away Kent's made her father's decision
wholly comprehensible.
"Rothman's has long since assumed there were no
Kent heirs," the young man went on. "Nevertheless,
we have administered the Blackstone shares as if there
were. Contrary to much popular opinion, bankers are
not thieves. You are the recipient of your father's
legacy- which has grown to be worth a great deal of
money."
"How much money, Mr. Rothman?"
"At current market value-conservatively-six
million dollars."
"Oh my Lord, ma! Six
million?"
Louis burst out. She was so overcome, she quite forgot
to correct his use of the word ma.
The initial shock passed in a few moments. But not
her awareness of the stunning possibilities opened by the
young banker's announcement. While the rain ticked
at the windows and a glare of lightning paled the
gaslight, she collected her thoughts. She said
finally:
"For the time being, Mr. Rothman, I want the bank
to continue administering the shares."
"Certainly. The dividend income will be credited
to your new account."
"I'll also want to inspect the Blackstone
Company."
At that, he looked dubious:
"If you wish, I can arrange it. But not even the
male stockholders go there very often. It's a
noisy, unwholesome place-a typical factory,
I'm afraid."
"But I own part of it-was
"Yes, a substantial part."
"You said it's voting stock-?"
"It is."
"How can I cast intelligent votes if I've
never seen the business? What it does, or how?"
"Why-was He smiled in an admiring way. "You
can't, obviously. I'll be happy to schedule a
visit at your convenience."
"Excellent. I'd appreciate your doing two
other things for me. First, approach the owner of Kent
and Son regarding a purchase. Operate through
Benbow if you wish, but above all be discreet. I
don't want it known that I'm a member of the
family. Mr. Stovall might not be willing
to sell to a Kent. He harbored quite a grudge against
my cousin. That's why he took the firm away in the
first place."
"So I remember hearing," Rothman murmured.
"We can make the proposition this way-you are a
woman of means who seeks to diversify her
business holdings. At all times, we'll refer
to you by your married name."
Amanda smiled. "You're very quick, Mr. Rothman.
We'll get along splendidly, I think."
"I think so too. But I wish you'd call me
Joshua."
"Very well-Joshua."
"You mentioned a second request-was
"Mr. Frederick Douglass is in Boston
to present a lecture at the Park Street
church-was
"My wife and I plan to attend." His glance said
he was testing her political sentiments.
"I met him on shipboard, and I promised him a
donation. Send him a draft for one hundred
dollars, drawn in my name so he knows I kept
my promise."
"With pleasure." He started to make a note, then
noticed her upraised hand. "Yes?"
"A week from now, send a second draft to him in
Rochester. Don't identify the donor."
"Is the sum also a hundred dollars?"
"Five thousand."
"Your generosity's commendable. But why give so much
anonymously?"
Amanda's face looked oddly pale in the
gaslight. She framed her reply with care:
"Two reasons. One, I don't think the
purpose of charity is to earn public approval
for the donor."
"Nor do I-though many people wouldn't give a
penny to any cause unless they were honored for doing
so. Still, Mr. Douglass is hardly in the same
category as churches and orphan's homes.
Boston
is
the center of abolitionism, but there are also quite a few
local citizens who detest Garrison,
Douglass and everything they stand for-was
"That's my second reason. I prefer not to be
too closely identified with the movement. A small
sum attracts small notice. A large one
attracts a great deal. I'm sure you understand."
He did, but he said nothing. Amanda knew she'd
diminished herself in his eyes. But she was determined not
to become actively involved in the slavery dispute.
Whether Joshua Rothman thought she was cowardly or
not, she had no time for extraneous struggles. Kent
and Son came first.
"I have one final question," she said. "Negotiations with
Stovall will take some time, will they not?"
"Yes, though we'll make our initial approach
immediately."
"I'd like to see the firm."
Rothman tented his fingers. "I'd refrain until
we have at least sounded out the owner on his
amenability to a sale. Actually, it would be better
if you didn't visit Kent's at all-was
"That's out of the question."
'Very well-was He was obviously not happy.
"I'll
inform you when I think it's all right. I'd only
caution you that when you do inspect the property, do so in
a businesslike way. Keep your remarks very
general-you'd be astonished at how a seemingly
trivial word or action can sometimes upset a
negotiation."
'TO FOLLOW the advice, thank you."
The banker smiled.
"You're amused?"
"Forgive me-I am. I have an odd feeling you'll
accept advice from Rothman's when it agrees with
your wishes-and disregard it when it doesn't."
"You're an astute young man, Joshua," Amanda
said, smiling back. "Good afternoon. Come, Louis."
VI
July rain streamed down the marble headstones in the little
burying ground in Watertown. Amanda's parasol was
soaked through.
The thunderstorm had blackened the sky. Behind her, at
the edge of the narrow drive, the carriage
horse whinnied. She didn't look around. Her
eyes were moving across the rain-blurred inscriptions
on the monuments.
Philip Kent Anne Ware Kent
That was her grandfather's first wife. She was the daughter
of a Boston patriot, a member of the small band of
men who had led Massachusetts into open
rebellion against George III. Amanda knew
Anne Kent had been lost at sea during the
Revolution; no mortal remains lay beneath the
headstone, which stood to the right of Philip's. An
equal distance to the left rose the marker belonging to her
grandmother.
Peggy Ashford McLean Kent
To its left-she walked that way in the driving rain
comthe final monument.
Gilbert Kent
A bird had left a spatter of white on the top
of the stone. It made her angry. Heedless of
dirtying her glove, she smeared the white until the
rain dissolved it and washed it away. Then she put the
parasol on the ground and laid both hands on the wet
marble and let the tears pour down her cheeks.
Presently the sadness passed. She had discharged a
small debt by coming to the graveyard. Now
she must discharge a larger one-and give new life to the
name a stonecutter had chisled four times. Lightning
glared on it-
Kent
She was home. Home and ready to return that name
to its rightful eminence.
The parasol offered no protection as she groped her
way back toward the closed carriage, her eyes still
damp and her emotions as turbulent as the thundery
skies.
"All ready," she called to the soaked driver
huddled on the seat.
In the carriage's small oval window, a
lightning-burst showed her the handsome face of Louis
Kent. The light-nine flickered out. The face
vanished.
She had asked, but not ordered him to leave the
carriage and walk to the graves with her. He
wasn't interested.
What sort of emotional legacy was she passing on
to him? she wondered. Was there
anything
he cared about?
vii
Below, the cavernous rooms of the house on
Beacon Street steamed in the heat of the late
September evening. With a whale oil lamp in one
hand, Amanda slowly climbed the front staircase
toward the second floor landing. The lamp's flame
cast shifting patterns on the wall beside her.
She was vaguely aware of Louis making noise as
he wandered back in the kitchen. She heard occasional
shouts and catcalls from the Common. A torchlight
procession had ended there at seven. Bald,
bespectacled Garrison was addressing a crowd about
the injustice of the recapture of a slave named
James Hamlet.
The escaped black had been seized in New
York City, only a few days after the Congress
had passed the new fugitive slave law.
Clay's compromises had finally won through, even
though important legislators on both
sides-including Senator Seward of New York
and Senator Jefferson Davis of
Mississippi-had withheld their support.
The Kentucky statesman had endured the worst
sort of personal abuse during the debates on the
bills. At one point, an opponent had gone so
far afield as to jeer at Clay's thwarted
presidential ambitions. Clay had
replied that the work of averting national catastrophe was
far more important than personal considerations. He
would rather be right, he'd declared, than be president.
Once the various bills had finally been passed, the
ringing of bells and an orgy of public drunkenness
throughout the north celebrated the Union's salvation.
But the members of the noisy throng listening
to Garrison undoubtedly hadn't taken part in the
revelry. The Massachusetts Anti-Slavery
Society had been denouncing the compromise as a
betrayal of American liberty.
Slowly, Amanda started toward the third floor. The
darkness depressed her. She thought of Bart
McGiil: longed for him-for the simple physical
presence of someone she cared about. A son could never
satisfy that need in quite the same way-
Her knees ached as she climbed the stairs. Age.
Time was running out for her. Thinking of that. she almost
regretted refusing Bart's proposal-Why was she
troubled by regrets so keenly now? The matters she
had set in motion early in the summer were moving toward
completion. Through the Benbow law firm, Joshua
Rothman had made his first tentative offer on
Kent's. The sum had been rejected by Stovall's
New York attorneys, but the door was
left open for further negotiations at a higher
price.
And the Wheelers had succumbed when Benbow increased his
offer on the house to sixty-seven thousand dollars.
The Wheelers had removed the last of their belongings
only this morning, transferring them to a new
residence in Cambridge.
In California too the future looked promising.
Amanda had received a letter from Israel Hope the last
of August. The letter said the Ophir Mineralogical
Combine was generating ten thousand dollars in gold per
week, and on the basis of this, Francis Pelham
was purchasing equipment for a prospecting trip into the
Sierras.
Despite all the favorable developments, she was
still depressed. Louis" behavior was one reason.
He was surly with the tutor she'd engaged to instruct
the boy in their hotel suite. Louis did his
lessons in a perfunctory way, or not at
all-it depended on how he felt that particular day.
He bowed to Amanda's discipline, but with the greatest
reluctance. She hoped the waywardness was merely the
effect of adolescence, and that it would pass. Soon.
But you can't blame the boy for the way you're feeling,
she thought as she climbed on toward the narrow
landing outside the attic door.
The blame's yours. You rejected Bart. You
decreed that you had to go your own way. Alone
-
Sometimes she questioned the worth of the effort. And even
wished she didn't feel such a strong family
obligation.
With a sigh, she approached the attic door. She
pulled back the latch, then walked into the musty,
cluttered interior. True to their bargain, the
Wheelers had left any number of old crates
scattered about the attic.
Amanda set the whale oil lamp on the floor.
She tried loosening the slats on the side of one
crate. The wood was thin, and so old she could break
it barehanded.
She opened the crate, coughing as dust clouded from
feminine garments that smelled of mold. Old clothing
of her mother's? Or the possessions of the people who had
owned the house before the Wheelers? Impossible
to tell.
She walked around the lamp and started to insert her
fingers between two slats of another crate. Something
standing against the back of the crate caught her attention.
She swept off the tattered muslin cover-
A framed painting. A large oil. She pulled it
into the light-
A dark-haired, almost truculent man gazed at
her from the canvas. In her mind's eye, she saw the
stern face in its proper setting-the wall of the
library downstairs.
Philip Kent's painted eyes stared at the
cobwebbed attic and the woman who wept with happiness
as she attacked the slats of the second crate.
viii
"Louis? Louis, come see-to "
At the open front door, the boy turned. Amanda
came rushing down the darkened stairs, grime on her
cheeks and fingers, her gray hair festooned with
cobwebs. On the Common, the mob yelled and waved
torches.
As Amanda hurried to her son's side, she
noticed a figure above the crowd on the far side.
A man storming back and forth across an improvised
platform, waving a piece of paper-
"Louis, I found them!" She gripped her son's
shoulder. "Your great-grandfather Kent's portrait-the
sword, the rifle, the bottle of tea-all packed
away in the attic. Come see them!"
The boy shook his head, pointed at the
scene on the Common:
"I want to watch this. A man who went by told me
the fellow speaking is Mr. Garrison. He's
going to set fire to a copy of the Constitution."
Disappointed, Amanda said, "I really feel you should
show an interest-was
"I want to watch!" Louis declared, turning and
dashing out on the stoop.
Someone passed a torch to the platform.
"Look, mother-he's going to do it!"
Just as the boy uttered the last word, the mob howled
and the paper in the hand of the distant figure burst
alight. The roar died gradually as the man with the
burning paper gestured for silence. Amanda heard him
shout:
"coms perish all compromises with tyranny! Let
all the people say amen!"
The mob roared,
"Amen!"
Garrison flung down the charring document and stamped
on it.
"We must go to hear him speak sometime," Louis said.
"It takes a lot of nerve to burn the country's
constitution-was
The boy turned, a smile on his handsome
face. "Mr. Garrison's a lot like you. He
does exactly as he pleases and no one dares
to stop him."
One bright eye caught the torch-glare as Louis
waited for her to respond to what he fancied was a
compliment. Cold clear through, Amanda started to speak.
She couldn't. She turned and walked slowly back
into the darkness, leaving her son staring after her, first with
confusion, then outright anger.
Of Books and Bloomers
THE STREET TO WHICH the carriage brought Amanda
several weeks later testified to the parsimony of the
firm's owner. Kent and Son had been relocated
in a dingy district of warehouses and chandler's shops
near the North End piers. Despite the October
sunlight and the brisk, salty smell of the air,
Amanda was in a cheerless mood when she alighted from the
carriage, paid the driver and told him to return in
an hour.
As the hired rig clattered off, a scrofulous man
in a blue jacket limped from a nearby doorway.
A grubby blue bandana was wrapped around the man's
forehead, hiding his eyes. Amanda noticed
him
sidestep a rotting fish carcass.
The man extended a dirty hand. "Penny for a
Mexican veteran, ma'am?"
Furious over the appearance of the frame building that
housed Kent's, she whipped up her closed parasol
and whacked the beggar in the side of the head.
"Jesus Christ! Have you no charity, woman?"
"I'm as charitable as you are blind, my friend. Go cheat
someone else. But first I suggest you pull that bandana
down more snugly. I can see your eyes move."
Muttering, the man hobbled away. The limp
vanished after he'd taken a few steps. And he
did adjust the bandana before he slipped down an
alley, cursing her.
Well, his anger wasn't any stronger than hers.
The building was a disgrace. Its warped, split
clapboards were layered with grime. So was the
signboard swaying
from an iron fixture over the door. The board's
gilt lettering was blurred by accumulated dirt. The
lower half of the e in Kent had flaked away, and the
o in Son was totally gone. The tea-bottle
design was barely discernible. She swung up the
parasol and gave the sign a smack to set it
swinging. Then she headed for the door.
While Joshua Rothman continued
to negotiate with Stovall's attorneys, she had
deliberately avoided driving by the firm. Now she
decided that had been a mistake. She should have
prepared herself gradually for the sorry state of the
company.
Finally Rothman had given grudging consent to the
visit. She had set out from the American House this
morning with great enthusiasm. That enthusiasm was already
destroyed.
At the door, she stopped, recalling the banker's
caution about behaving with restraint. Rothman believed
the seller's lawyers might well approve the
current offer. She didn't want any actions of
hers to upset that-nor did he.
She got her anger under control. But it took her
almost two full minutes to do it.
II
Sunlight from the open door spilled over the stained
floor. The light seemed to stir the resentment of the
five decrepit meir bent at desks covered with
untidy piles of paper. They blinked like animals
roused in a cave.
The front office area was badly lighted. Only
two oil lamps hung from ceiling fixtures. The
management evidently relied on daylight
through a pair of plate glass windows flanking the
door. The smallness of the windows comeach was less
than a yard on a side-was another indication of
Stovall's niggardly ways. On a gloomy
day, Amanda imagined the office would be stygian. It
wasn't much better now.
The five men watched her from their desks. Not a one
of them looked younger than fifty. All had a
dispirited air. Three went back to work as she
slammed the door, cutting off the sunlight.
The floor vibrated. The presses-located in the
basement, she guessed-had a slow, ponderous sound,
as of someone laboring for breath.
"Who is in charge here?" she asked, advancing
toward a rail that separated the desks from the small
waiting area. Her voice made one of the
employees start. The gutta-percha cane leaning
against the back of his chair toppled over and clanged
on a spittoon. The floor around the spittoon
showed that the spitter missed frequently.
One of the human wrecks shuffled to the rail.
"Mr. Payne is chief editor and general
manager, madam. He's busy."
"Where's his office?"
"There-was A veined hand fluttered toward
two partitions walling off the back part of the room on
either side of a corridor. "But I tell you he's
occupied. Conferring with one of our authors."
"Who are you?"
"Mr. Drew. Office manager. May I ask
your business? Are you a bookseller interested in the
Kent line?"
"If I were, one look at this place would convince
me the Kent line is probably as outdated as-never
mind."
Watch your tongue,
she thought as she pushed through the gate in the railing. But
she was still angry.
"See here! "*Drew snorted as she headed down
the aisle toward the partitioned offices. "You have no
right to thrust yourself-was
She wheeled around. "I certainly do, sir. I'm
trying to buy this company. I've come to look it
over."
He gaped. "You're the one-?"'
"Yes, and if I'm successful, I guarantee
there'll be some immediate changes!"
(sullen, Drew watched as she continued on, her
cheeks scarlet.
The narrow corridor dividing the walled
office space ran straight to the back of the
building. At the extreme rear, Amanda glimpsed
a dark stair leading to the upper floors. The first
door on her left bore a small, tarnished
metal plate reading
T. Payne.
The door was ajar.
She reached out to knock, only to be stopped by the
weary sound of a man's voice:
"Of course I don't like the manuscript. But I
don't have to like your vaporish fantasies to publish
them. I have instructions from Mr. Stovall! Drew
will write your check before you leave the city."
"Th@eo-was
Amanda blinked. The voice, deep and almost
masculine, belonged to a woman.
"comI frankly get goddamned sick of your
Harvard snobbery. You know how many copies
A Frenchman's Passion
sold.
Bartered Virtue
did twice as well. This manuscript will outstrip
both of them put together." "The title makes me
ill."
"What's wrong with
Convicted by Love?"
"If you don't understand, I can't possibly
explain. Will you stop puffing that disgusting weed in my
face?"
Amanda's mouth rounded. She'd assumed the unseen
man was the source of the cigar fumes. In response
to the complaint, the woman laughed-a rich, cynical
laugh that somehow tickled Amanda.
"Indulge me, Th@eo. You have your habit, I have
mine. And I can't plunk myself down at Commodore
Vanderbilt's dinner table and smoke a cigar. I have
a
position to maintain in New York! That's why I
like coming to Boston to bring you a manuscript-and discuss
the words dropped from
Bartered Virtue.
Here's the list. Sixty-two adjectives,
eighty-nine adverbs-
"Good writing doesn't need those crutches,
Rose."
"Who said my writing's good, dear boy?"
"Not I, certainly."
"Th@eo, were you drunk when you edited the
manuscript?"
"That's insulting."
"Well, goddamn it, I corrected the proofs
till my eyes watered! I put back every word you
took out. And you ignored them!"
"Rose, please," the, man pleaded, sounding tired.
"You know Mr, Stovall has given
orders-expenses are to be kept to an absolute
minimum. We can't bear the burden of re-setting
once I've edited the copy."
"You'd better
start
re-setting, or J'll take my next
manuscript to Mr. Harper in New York.
He'll appreciate the value of my work! If it
weren't for the sales of my novels, you couldn't afford
to publish that dull literary drivel everyone
praises and no one buys. I understand the book
trade better than you do!"
"Then why don't you take over my job? I
happen to be thoroughly sick of it. God, I wish
I'd never quit the newspaper!"
At that point, Amanda finally knocked and thrust the
door open:
"Excuse me-was
The man behind, the cluttered desk was about
thirty-five. He was small-boned, with
pale skin, bloodshot hazel eyes and a thick
pink nose. His neck-cloth and silk shirt had
seen better days. He smelled of whiskey.
"This is a private conference, madam! Deal with one
of the gentlemen up front."
She was amused rather than annoyed. The little man in the
large chair resembled a small boy physically;
his
face, by contrast, suggested a hundred years of
debauchery crammed into a third of that time.
The woman with him, exceptionally robust, was about
Amanda's age. She had a blunt chin, forthright
blue eyes and white hair. Her crinoline skirt
was wider than Amanda's-and far more expensive. In
one gloved hand she held a green-wrappered cigar,
half smoked.
"I prefer to deal with you," Amanda said, turning
sideways and tilting the bell of her skirt
to maneuver it through the door. "My name is Mrs.
de la Gura. I hope to purchase Kent and
Son."
His reaction was similar to Drew's:
"You
-?" He jumped up. The top of his head barely
reached her shoulder. "comI had no idea-that
is, Mr. Stovall's attorneys wrote that
someone was interested, but no names were mentioned-was
"I've come to look over the premises."
"You mean Stovall's going to sell?"
"It's a distinct possibility."
"Jubilee!" the editor cried, doing a little jig.
"I think I'll go out and get a drink
to celebrate."
"Not right now, please," Amanda said. "What's your
first name?"
"Theophilus."
"I prefer Th@eo. I heard your guest using it-was
She acknowledged the stout woman gazing at her through a
curl of smoke from the cigar now clenched in her
teeth. Realizing he'd neglected introductions,
Payne blurted:
"Oh, excuse me-Mrs.-de la Gura, you said?
This is Kent's romantic novelist, Mrs.
Rose-that is-was
His cheeks turned as pink as his nose. His eyes
appealed to the elegantly groomed woman. She
rescued him:
"It's all right if she's going to own the place,
Th@eo." She extended her hand. "Rose
Ludwig. Mrs. Adolph Ludwig of
New York City."
"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs.
Ludwig."
"Down in New York, nobody knows I'm
Mrs. A. Penn," the woman confided. "Being an
authoress isn't an occupation my late
husband-or his friends-would consider proper."
"I'll keep your secrets," Amanda told her.
Rose Ludwig drew the smoldering cigar from her
mouth. "Including my vice?"
Laughing, Amanda nodded. "Now, Th@eo, although the
sale hasn't been consummated, it's far enough along
so that you and I should get to know one another. I'm
buying Kent and Son to diversify my holdings-was
The lie came glibly. "comand if Mr. Stovall
comes to terms, I'll probably want you to continue
acting as editor and manager. Provided you and I
find we can deal with one another."
Payne took the candid remark as a threat. He
started perspiring. Amanda decided that Hamilton
Stovall had reduced the man to a state of fear.
Rose Ludwig settled herself in a chair beside
Payne's cluttered desk. "Where are you from,
Mrs. de la Gura?"'
"California."
"One of those new gold millionaires?"
"Not quite yet."
The woman intimidated Amanda a little. She'd
caught the reference to Commodore Vanderbilt, the
steamship magnate. Mrs. Ludwig obviously
had important social connections.
But she didn't act as if she did. She disarmed
Amanda by tossing her cigar butt in Payne's
spittoon and nodding emphatically:
"Well, by God, I'm glad you're here. I like
your cut. How about you, Th@eo? Isn't she a big
improvement over Mr. Stovall?"
"Careful!" Payne warned, a finger at his lips.
He mouthed a name silently.
"Drew."
his
Amanda realized the doddering office manager must be a
spy for the owner. She kept her voice low as she
asked:
"Do you know Stovall personally, Mrs.
Ludwig?"
"Unfortunately I do. My late husband forced
me to entertain him several times. Adolph once
owned a fairly substantial block of shares in the
Stovall Works. The last time Mr.
Stovall graced our house, he drank too
much-nothing personal, Th@eo-ignored his wife-
she's dead now and I'm not surprised-and fawned
over another guest. A gentleman," she added
pointedly. "And he pretends to be so respectable!
He's really a dreadful man-a grotesque. He
wears a white silk scarf that covers half his
face, and never takes his gloves off indoors because
his hands are scarred, they say."
Th@eo Payne shut the office door and added
to Rose Ludwig's comments hi a whisper:
"He's also a political primitive. He
boasts about membership in the Order of the Star
Spangled Banner."
"I'm not familiar with that," Amanda told him.
"The inner circle of the Know-Nothing party."
Amanda merely nodded. It was evident Payne
detested Stovall's politics, and perhaps hoped
to draw her out about hers. She changed the subject:
"It's obvious you're not happy here, Th@eo. Why
haven't you resigned?"
Scratching his pink nose, he walked back to the
desk. "I have four youngsters in my family, Mrs.
de la Gura comand positions aren't easy to locate
these days."
Amanda wondered whether he meant he personally had
a hard time finding jobs because of a fondness for
alcohol. She tried to reassure him:
"Well, I hope you'll stick with it a while
longer. If the sale can be completed, perhaps you'll be
happier with your situation."
"As you said, that depends on whether we can work
together. Also on what changes of policy you might
institute-was
Again Amanda stayed on safe ground:
"I can assure you I'd do anything to keep Mrs.
A. Penn content." She turned to Rose. "I
saw two women at the American House carrying
copies of your last novel."
"Did you, now. I know Theo's right-the books are
trash. But I have to do something to keep from suffocating in
that mausoleum Adolph left me!"
Amanda turned back to Payne, who had slumped
into his chair:
"I do think new management could find the money
to re-set corrected copy for Mrs.
Ludwig-provided you and she settle your differences
on style, of course."
"Jesus Christ, that's an improvement already!"
Rose declared. "Just for that, Mrs. de la
Gura, I'll treat you to dinner this evening. If
you're free-was
"I am," Amanda said, delighted. "Could we take
a short tour now, Th@eo?"
"Yes, of course."
"Mrs. Ludwig, would you excuse us for a while?"
"No, I'm going to tag along. I hope you
realize Th@eo and I don't really hate each
other," she continued as they left the office. "Those
goddamned Harvard literature courses softened his
mind a little, but he's still a smart boy. And he works
under very trying restrictions. Instead of Mrs. A.
Penn-with or without adjectives- he'd rather publish
tracts on abolitionism-was
"Not so loud!" Payne said, glancing down the
corridor. Amanda turned and saw the emaciated
Mr. Drew dart back out of sight.
iv
Amanda found herself growing angry again as they walked
through the cramped, disorderly warehouse area
on the top floor. She saw bins full of cheap
reprints of popular works-novels by Scott and
Cooper-issued first by other publishers. When they
passed a bin containing Maria Monk's
Awful Disclosures,
she exploded:
"You're still selling this?"
Payne grimaced. "Mr. Stovall's orders."
"You can be sure the moment the company changes hands,
we'll destroy all copies."
"I'd be happy to see it gone from Kent's list."
Another appalling sight waited for Amanda in the
basement. It was noisy, damp and badly lighted.
It smelled of ink and the sweat of eight slovenly men
in leather aprons who operated the antiquated
flatbed presses. Amanda raised her voice to be
heard above the rhythmic thumping:
"Doesn't the ink take a long time to dry in this
dampness, Th@eo?"
"Of course it does," he shouted back. "And I
can't tell you how many sheets we smear and ruin. But
Mr. Stovall's accountants reckon that loss
to be smaller than the cost of installing proper
ventilation."
"I don't know much about the printing business, but it's
obvious this equipment doesn't belong in a
cellar."
"No, it belongs on the second or third
floor."
"Why isn't it located there?"
"Too expensive to brace the flooring properly."
"How old are these presses?"
"Oh, thirty or forty years."
"Isn't there anything newer on the market?"
"Certainly. Mr. Hoe of New York has
perfected steam-driven rotaries that print much
faster. Some of the newspapers have installed them-was
"We really will have quite a few changes to make,"
Amanda said as they left the basement.
Payne burst out suddenly, "I hope you'll
permit changes in our list as well-I mean beyond
dropping the Monk book. We've been severely
limited by Mr.
Stovalfs tightness with money on one hand, and his
political bias on the other. For instance, two
years ago, I wanted to buy the American rights
to
Jane Eyre.
Too costly, I was told. One of the country's
foremost poets, Professor Longfellow, lives
just over in Cambridge and we can't afford him either-was
"With all this emphasis on culture, we can kiss
Mrs. Penn's future goodbye," Rose sighed.
"Definitely not," Amanda laughed. "I told you
before -I wouldn't lose Kent's most
popular writer."
"But I
am
controversial to certain clergymen, Mrs. de la
Guera-
M
"Call me Amanda, please."
"My pleasure. You
do
know some churchmen find my books offensive?"
"Does the public?"
"Not generally. I practice moderation. When Mr.
van Dugdale, the horse-car tycoon, raped
Mercy Twicking-ton in
Bartered Virtue,
I closed the bedroom door well before the actual
moment-and only alluded to the deed afterward. Still, I know
why women read my books. The subjects of sex
and money are irresistible-sometimes an author
doesn't even need money! Look how handsomely
Mr. Hawthorne's doing with
A Scarlet Letter.
Theo's right, though. Kent's could stand the addition of some
substantial authors writing on important
subjects."
"I had a chance to bid on the right to reprint Fred
Douglass" autobiography," Payne said.
"I didn't even raise the question internally because I
knew the owner would veto the idea."
Amanda shook her head, outraged:
"And that book's done well!"
"Exceedingly well. As a category,
narratives of the lives of escaped slaves are
highly popular. They also serve a worthwhile
purpose," he added as they reached the entrance to his
office and went in.
Amanda realized she was approaching controversial
ground again. But she asked one more question:
"I assume most of the authors of such books have
professional help in preparing their texts-?"
"Generally, yes. Douglass did his own-he's a
rarity."
"It's premature to say this, Th@eo, but I know a
man in California who might be persuaded
to assemble notes on his experiences as a slave in
Mississippi. The man's a mulatto. He
manages my share of a mining claim-was
The mention of California caught Rose
Ludwig's attention:
"You really do come from the far west?"
"Yes, I spent some years in Texas, and then
Califoria."
"Then you're just the person I'm looking for! You can
help me with background for my next book.
Th@eo, I haven't mentioned this to you, but I'm fed
up with sighing heroines. That's one of my quirks,
Amanda-I'm easily bored. After Adolph was
buried, I started writing because I was bored, and after
three novels with a New York setting, I'm
bored again. The growing, important part of this country
is the far west. I want to do a tale about a
genuine western hero."
Payne looked dubious. "I doubt the public
would accept that kind of novel from Mrs. Penn."
"Of course they will if it's interesting and the detail's
authentic. And here's my source!"
"If you'll settle for an imperfect
recollection of my husband's career-he was a fur
trapper-I'll provide you with whatever detail I
can," Amanda said.
"I knew you were a proper sort the second you
walked in!" the other woman declared. "Th@eo, I
believe we're all going to be much happier as a
result of this meeting."
"So do I," Payne agreed. "I hope
the sale goes through promptly."
Amanda asked, "You will keep everything we've
discussed in absolute confidence?"
"Naturally, naturally!"
"When the lawyers finish haggling and we have Mr.
Stovall's signature, I'll be in touch with you
by telegraph."
"Telegraph?" Payne repeated. "You don't
plan to remain in Boston?"
"I intend to buy or build a home in New
York City. That's the financial center of the
country, and that's where I must be if I'm to make my
business ventures a success. I may install a
private telegraph wire between my home and my
local bank, though."
"My God, Mrs. de la Gura, do you have any
notion of how expensive that will be?"
"I don't," Amanda replied. "If I have
to worry about the cost, I'd have no business doing
it."
Rose Ludwig laughed. "Th@eo, I think you've
met your equal. Maybe your better-even though she
didn't go to Harvard."
That evening, under the gaslights of the dining room at the
American House, Amanda and her son
shared a table with the authoress. Amanda had already
confirmed her first reaction to the deep-voiced woman.
Rose Ludwig was outgoing, opinionated,
occasionally profane- and the two of them got along
famously.
On the carriage ride from Kent and Son, Rose
was candid about her beginnings. Her father had been a
lock-tender on the Erie Canal near Buffalo.
Her first meeting with her deceased husband, the owner of a
fleet of brightly painted canal passenger boats,
had been accidental. Ludwig had been touring the
Erie system-
which was still in operation, but gradually declining in
importance because of the spread of the railroads.
Rose frankly admitted she was drawn
to Ludwig's wealth and his status as a widower more
than she was to his physical assets:
"He was four inches shorter than I am. A
wispy little fellow. His head had this unfortunate
point-which his baldness didn't help. On the other
hand, he was no fool. And he was kind to me the first
time my father introduced us. So when he came back
on another inspection trip a year later, I was
ready for him. My God, I was thirty already-a
spinster!-because I refused to marry the first
canal-boat captain who came along! I'd
learned my lesson from my older sister Lily.
She rushes to the altar the moment some man makes her
pulses flutter- and she never worries about the
wisdom of the choice until afterward. She's had
seven-no, eight husbands- the poor creature's
been wed so many times, her cheeks are pitted from the
rice. The last one who carried her off pretended
to be a Bavarian duke. I think Lily's in
Europe with him right now-no doubt having discovered
he's only a pastry cook with an accent. That's not
my style. I wanted to be sure I had a good
catch. The second summer that Adolph happened
by, I'd looked through enough old newspapers to be
certain he was the one. I hooked him in record
time. Six days, two hours and twenty-three
minutes. I think that's why I took to you,
Amanda-you're as direct as I am. That is-as
direct as I am when I'm hobnobbing with Th@eo.
In New York, it's a different story."
"I'd like to hear about your life in New York when
we have dinner," Amanda said.
"I'm afraid most of my comments will be negative.
I despise so-called society.
Unfortunately, by virtue of marriage,
I'm considered part of it. By and large, the people are
pretentious mummies-except for one or
two, like Vanderbilt, who can cuss the paint off a
wall, and does. God, I hate these hoop
skirts-to "
She writhed on the carriage seat, cursing so
floridly that the driver opened the sliding partition behind
his feet to see what was wrong.
At her own hotel, Rose Ludwig brought
Amanda up to her suite while she rid herself of the
hated muslin petticoat with its four steel hoops
sewn into the fabric. Amanda, who had thus far
relied on stiff petticoat material to give her
skirt the fashionable bell shape, inspected the
hoops with interest. The style was coming into fashion.
End to end, the hoop at the top of the skirt measured
about a yard and a quarter, she guessed. It was a
complete circle of steel. The three lower hoops,
increasingly longer, didn't meet in front; there was
an opening of about ten inches in each.
"No matter how carefully you walk," Rose
called from the bedroom, "they jab the hell out of your
thighs. I'd be in a fix if I was young enough so a
man would want to look at my thighs-was
She appeared in the doorway in a costume
that brought a gasp to Amanda's lips: a jacket and
knee-length skirt in cerulean blue and, underneath,
men's trousers of the same material, gathered at the
ankle.
"But I'm not supposed to say a word like thighs, am
I? Women don't have
thighs, breasts, stomachs
comor some other anatomical features I'd be
ostracized for mentioning-Amanda my dear, why are you
staring?"
"I'm sorry, I've never seen real bloomers
before. Those
are
bloomers?"
"Copied after the very ones worn by Amelia Bloomer
herself. I don't dare put them on in New York
as yet, though I predict they'll be popular in
less than a year, no matter how the churches howl
about immodesty. I hope I won't be barred from the
dining room at the American House-was
She almost was. The head waiter frantically
clenched his teeth and darted his eyes from the bloomers
to the turned heads of scandalized guests. Amanda
tipped the man heavily to overcome his moral
scruples and, with Louis in tow, she and
Rose sailed toward the table. They did grant the
head waiter a little amnesty by permitting him to seat
them in a corner. The position of the table hid the lower
part of Rose's costume from most of the room.
Rose Ludwig's presence had one additional
benefit. Louis was overwhelmed by his mother's new
friend. He was more polite and biddable than he'd been
for several weeks.
As the three sat finishing their dessert ices,
Amanda concluded her considerably censored account of the
circumstances that had brought her to Boston. She had
told Rose of her family connection with the printing
firm, and won her promise of secrecy. But she
implied the firm had first changed hands in a normal
manner. Rose looked surprised:
"Theo's always said there was some scandalous story about it
being lost hi a gambling game."
"I don't know how fictions like that get started,"
Amanda replied, concentrating on her ice. She
felt the other woman studying her. Did Rose
believe her? If not, she didn't make an
issue:
"We certainly have a lot in common, Amanda. We
both had rough beginnings. Fortunately, once I
snared Adolph, my way was smoothed.
Though it wasn't all pie and roses! I immediately
had entree to the best homes. You'll be spared that
tribulation."
"What do you mean?"
"You won't have to mingle with all those dreadfully
self-important people. You
don't
have any notions about cracking society, do you?"
"No. You heard what I told Th@eo Payne--
I'm moving to New York because it's the business
center."
"Good. Then you won't be disappointed. Really, you'd
be amazed at the number of Ohio widows who
remove themselves to New York with a little capital,
thinking they'll soon be dining with the Rensselaers and the
Belmonts and the Vanderbilts. Society has
closed up like a clam in the last twenty or thirty
years. Today you're either born into it, you marry
into it-or you wait a generation before you get your first
invitation to tea with Mrs. Belmont. Some poor
creatures foolishly try to shorten the wait-was
And she launched into an anecdote about one such
parvenu, a young woman who learned that New York
gentry frequently rode on a certain bridle
path above Forty-second Street early in
the morning. Though terrified of horses, the young
woman contrived a system of straps to keep herself
lashed to her saddle. She made herself visible on the
bridle path, where she attempted to strike up
conversations with affluent bachelors:
"Now God as my witness-this is true, Amanda.
One morning a thundershower struck. The horse reared
and the young lady was dumped on her ass-excuse me,
Louis; derri@ere-with all her hidden straps, and
her pretensions, exposed. She left the city a
week later."
Amanda laughed. "I don't want to meet any
bachelors, Rose. Or any society people, for that
matter."
Except one.
"Good for you." She leaned her elbows on the snowy
tablecloth and pointed a finger at Amanda's nose.
"You did promise to tell me what you know about
frontiersmen. I'm sure Th@eo loathes the
idea, but I'm convinced the public's ready for a
rousing western tale." "I'll tell you everything I
can." "Wonderful! Why don't we travel to New
York together?"
"I'd love that. As soon as we arrive, I
want you to show me where to buy a pair of
bloomers."
"Delighted. You'll forgive an old lady for being
sentimental, but I think we're going to be the best of
friends. Friendship's a rare commodity-I have hundreds
of acquaintances, but I'll bet I've had no more
than two real friends all my life. No,
three-I considered Adolph a friend. It's much more
comfortable being married to a friend than to a lover, you know.
I like you, Amanda-was
She reached across and touched Louis" dark hair.
"And I like your son. My God, with those eyes,
he'll be breaking hearts in a few years. If I
weren't such a tottering wreck-oh, well." A
sigh. "Are you two finished? I'm about to perish for
want of a cigar. Bad vice I picked up from
Adolph. He smoked them even in the bath. Have you
ever looked at a tub full of floating ash?
Ugh!"
As they left the dining room, still drawing shocked
stares and comments, Amanda was immensely pleased. At
long last, it seemed that events were moving in
response to her will, instead of at the random whim of
chance. Before the year was out, she'd be well established
in New York-
With Kent and Son in her possession.
VI
Two mornings later, a grim Joshua Rothman
called at Amanda's suite in the American
House. She was in the midst of packing, with trunks
open everywhere.
"Mrs. de la Gura, what did you say when you
visited the publishing company?"
She looked chagrined. "A little more than I should have,
perhaps-was
"That became evident first thing this morning."
Amanda set aside the skirt she'd been about
to fold into one of the trunks. "What do you mean?"
Upset, Rothman stamped to the windows:
"A banker can be of no use to you if you refuse to
follow his suggestions!" He spun around. "You
made some remarks about getting rid of a certain
anti-Catholic title on the Kent list? Some
other comments about wanting to publish an
autobiography by a runaway slave-?"
"What if I did? I got angry at what I
saw at Kent's- the decay-the indifference-besides, I
only spoke to the general manager, Mr. Payne.
In private. He promised not to repeat a word."
ROTHMAN leaned across the top of a trunk:
"Th@eo Payne is a notorious
drunk! An excellent brain-but a loose tongue
when he imbibes. And he imbibes constantly."
A little knot of dread tightened in Amanda's
stomach. "I-I did catch some hint of that," she
admitted.
"Did you also meet a gentleman named Drew?"
"Briefly."
"Mr. StovalTs informant within the firm. After you
left, Payne was so delighted, he spent all
afternoon in an alehouse, celebrating. As I get the
story, he returned late in the day, barely able
to walk, and boasted to the entire staff about all the
changes you intended to make. The
entire
staff-including Mr. Drew. You should have stayed
away-I warned you. More important, you should have
avoided political subjects at all costs-that,
I didn't warn you of specifically. So we're
both paying for it."
"Get to the point, Joshua."
"This morning, StovalPs attorneys wired from
New York. The negotiations have been broken off.
Permanently."
"Oh my God."
"It's my error for not telling you
Stovall's an active member of the
Know-Nothings-was
"No, don't blame yourself. I was aware of it."
"Then how could you imagine he'd sell out to someone who
plans to turn Kent and Son a hundred and
eighty degrees politicially?" Rothman sighed.
"I'm sorry comx's not my position to speak so
frankly-it's just that I know how much you want the
company-was
"I didn't stop to think about the danger in
Payne's drinking. The blame's mine, Joshua.
I accept it."
"That won't make Stovall relent, I'm
afraid."
"If we can't buy the firm straightforwardly,
we'll have to get control some other way."
Thunderstruck, he stared at her.
"Are you serious?"
"I am. This is a setback, nothing more-was
But she felt it much more deeply than the words
suggested. She hadn't been all that outspoken at the
firm- yet she
had
realized she shouldn't be speaking. Her anger had
overcome caution.
StovalFs immediate reaction to her comments spoke
volumes about the sort of man he was; the sort
her grandfather would have detested-
In a calm voice, she resumed:
"I'm sorry you've labored so hard, only to have
my carelessness undo your efforts." She touched his
arm. "I'll see you're well compensated when we
finally get control."
"Mrs. de la Gura, I really think you'd be
wiser to abandon any hope of-was
"No," she said, "I won't."
"I can see no open, legal means of-was
"Then we'll do it secretly if we have to!
Illegally! One way or another, Joshua,
I am going to own Kenfs."
The Man Who Thundered
SOME SIXTEEN MONTHS LATER
coma Friday evening in February, 1852-Amanda and
Rose Ludwig were seated in a box at The Bowery
Theatre, a structure already twenty-five years
old but distinguished among New York's
playhouses because it had been the first to install gas.
The jets throughout most of the auditorium had been
turned off for the meeting, which was being held in lieu of a
performance of the Bowery's current
attraction. Together with the footlight candles, the gas
fixtures flanking the proscenium opening
illuminated the half dozen speakers seated behind the
podium. The six were paying dutiful attention to the
preacher addressing the three thousand people who had packed
the main floor, the boxes and the galleries.
A few feet upstage from the half-dozen chairs,
a drop painted to represent a European
drawing-room added an incongruous note; the
theatre management had declined to remove all the
scenery for the comedy now playing six nights a week.
But since the comedy was not particularly successful, the
management had been happy to rent the theatre for an
abolitionist rally.
The preacher, a Congregationalist, had been talking for
twenty minutes. His function was the same as that of
four of the men behind him-to lengthen the program and
build anticipation for the featured address
by Frederick Douglass. The guest of honor sat
directly behind the podium, motionless and attentive.
Mr. Bryant, who was to introduce him, began
consulting his notes, conscious from the flow of
adjectives that the cleric was reaching his conclusion. And
so he did, with much arm-waving and a shrill burst of
oratory devoid of logic but long on
heat. He called down divine damnation on the
entire south-but drew only perfunctory
applause from the restless crowd. They'd heard
essentially the same message four times already.
An audible sigh ran through the dark theatre as the
preacher sat down, mopping his forehead. William
Culen Bryant, the Massachusetts lawyer
turned poet and journalist, straightened his two
pages of notes and stood up. A hush settled
on the hall. Amanda heard Rose murmur:
"Finally! Old Horace has fallen asleep
over there. So has my rear end."
Gazing across the main floor to the front box on the
far side, Amanda saw the publisher Greeley
straighten up in his chair, roused by the applause that
greeted Bryant's arrival at the podium. She
glanced to the box directly behind Greeley's; it was
still a puzzle. No one seemed to be occupying it,
though every ticket for the meeting had been sold for
weeks. If there were people in the box, they'd seated
themselves quite far back, to avoid being seen.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Bryant began, "I shall
be brief in my introduction-was
A raucous cry of approval rang down from the
gallery. The audience laughed. Bryant
smiled. He was in his late fifties, held the
editor's chair at the
New York Post,
and appeared tonight as one of the city's most outspoken
foes of slavery. In the national election of '48,
Bryant had been a member of the Barnburner
faction that had split off from the Democratic party,
enraged because the party adopted a platform containing
only one plank of substance: a vague endorsement
of the conduct of the Mexican war. Out of the
Barnburners-
who had offered former president Van Buren to the
electorate in '48-had come the even more militant
Free Soil party, ardent reformers unalterably
opposed to the extension of slavery into any new
United States territories.
But Bryant refrained from comments on the meeting's
theme, confining his remarks to a quick summary of the career
of the man everyone had come to hear.
He touched on Douglass' birth as a slave in
Maryland; mentioned his early years in Baltimore,
when, through the kindness of an enlightened master, Hugh
Auld, he had been able to learn to read and write
while serving as a houseboy and a laborer in
Auld's shipyard.
It was Auld's death, Bryant reminded the
audience, that had brought Douglass to St.
Michaels, below Baltimore, and confrontation with
another Auld, Thomas, who proved less
liberal.
Douglass had already begun to feel resentment of his
bondage. He was quarrelsome. Auld took steps
to correct that. He hired out the young black to a
noted slave-breaker named Edward Covey.
Covey attempted to apply the whip once too
often. Douglass turned on him, and fought. After the
struggle, Covey, all but defeated, never again
touched the Negro whose spirit he had been paid
to destroy-
"And thus," Bryant said, "in our distinguished
guest's own words, a slave was made a man!"
Applause. Amanda and Rose joined in. Then, as
the clapping died away, they heard a startling sound from
the darkened box behind Greeley's.
The rest of the audience heard too. Heads turned.
There were scowls. Greeley rose all the way out of
his chair and tried to see who had hissed.
It wasn't uncommon for foes of the abolitionists
to attend their programs. Sometimes the unwelcome
guests tried to disrupt a meeting. That was
evidently the case
tonight. Amanda's vantage point still prevented her from
seeing the occupants of the box in question.
Bryant was plainly angered. He lost his place
in his notes and took a few moments to resume.
Douglass looked unperturbed.
Rapidly, Bryant went through the rest of his
introduction, describing the speaker's first, aborted
effort to escape to the north, and his second,
successful one in 1838. With seventeen dollars and
an identification paper borrowed from a free
Negro seaman, Douglass had boarded a train in
Baltimore and waited nervously for the conductor
to collect his fare and examine the paper. The
conductor gave the paper only a casual glance.
After a boat trip from Washington
to Philadelphia, then a train ride, Douglass
arrived in New York, a free man.
Bryant paid tribute to Douglass' family;
to his long and earnest dedication to freedom for
America's enslaved blacks; to his career as
editor and publisher of
The North Star
at Rochester. Then, folding away his notes, he
said:
"It is my great pleasure and high honor
to present Mr. Frederick Douglass."
The audience surged to its feet, applauding
wildly. Douglass smiled for the first time, tilted his
head to one side to acknowledge the ovation and approached
the podium.

The speaker began quietly, using no notes:
"Mr. Bryant-ladies and gentlemen-I too shall
be brief. My message to you is essentially a
simple one. But just let me state that I never stand
before an audience like that which I see before me without
feeling my incompetence to do justice to the cause which
I am here to advocate -"
He allowed himself another faint smile.
"Or to the expectation which is generally created for me
by the friends who precede me. Certainly, if the
elogiums bestowed on me this evening were correct, I
should be able to entertain this audience for hours by my
eloquence. But I claim none of this. While I
feel grateful for your generosity, I can certainly
claim very little right to your applause-for I was once a
slave. I never had a day's schooling in my
life. All that I know, I have stolen-was
The oblique reference to his escape
produced a scattering of cheers, which he acknowledged
with another of those carefully controlled smiles. As
the cheering faded, there was another loud hiss.
This time, a man in the orchestra leaped up and shook
his fist:
"Shame, shame!"
Others took up the cry. Douglass didn't
dignify the dark box with so much as a glance. He
held up his hand, settling the crowd into silence.
"I wish at once to relieve you from all
expectation of a great speech. That I am deeply and
earnestly engaged in advocating the cause of my
brethren is most true, and so, this evening, I hail
your kind expressions toward me with the profoundest
gratitude. I will make use of those expressions.
I will take them home in my memory. They shall be
written on my heart, and they will give me courage
as I travel throughout this land of boasted liberty and
light-was
His voice had grown stronger.
"comyet this land of abject slavery, for the purpose of
overthrowing that system and restoring the Negro to his
long-lost rights!"
Applause louder than before greeted this first
emotional peak in the speech. Amanda
watched the dark box. Sure enough, just as the outpouring
of sound began to diminish, the hiss was heard again,
prolonged and ugly.
More yells of anger burst from the audience. One
burly fellow started out of his seat, intending to go up
the aisle and on to the box. His two companions
restrained him.
Douglass moved quickly to the subject of his address
-Section Two of Article IV of the Constitution.
He first quoted the Section's third paragraph
verbatim. Then he reminded his audience that the
authors of the Constitution had included the paragraph
in order to acknowledge the right of slave owners
to reclaim runaways in non-slave territory,
even though the paragraph carefully avoided the use
of the word
slave
in favor of the more general
person.
"Upon the face of this," Douglass said, "there is
nothing of injustice, nothing of inhumanity-it is
perfectly in accordance with justice, perfectly
humane. But what does it
really
mean hi the United States?
"It means that if any slave shall in the darkness of
midnight, thinking himself a man and entitled to the rights
of a man, steal away from his hovel or quarter-
"Shall snap the chain that binds his leg-
"Shall break the fetter that links him to slavery-
"It means that if he shall do these things, then by night and
by day, on his way from a state where slavery is
practiced to one where it is not, he shall also be liable
to be hunted down like a felon and dragged back to the
bondage from which he has escaped!"
Amanda leaned forward, stirred by the man's eloquence.
Douglass' forehead showed a light sheen of
perspiration. He still had no scrap of text before
him. But he obviously needed none. Much more than
thought had gone into what he was saying; his life's
fears and angers and hopes had gone into it.
He let go of the podium, his hands clenched.
"This clause of the Constitution," he thundered, "is one
of the greatest safeguards to that slave system which
we have met here this evening to express our detestation
of!
"This clause of the Constitution-upheld and endorsed
by an abominable fugitive slave bill
promulgated by misguided men in the
Congress-gives to the slaveholder the right
at any moment to set his bloodhound upon the track
of the fugitive, hunt him down and drag him back
to the jaws of slavery!
"This clause of the Constitution consacreates every rood
of earth in this land over which the star-spangled banner
waves as SLAVE-HUNTING GROUND!"
The booming voice was drowned under a roar of,
"Shame! Shame!"
If the unseen antagonist in the box bothered
to hiss, no one heard.
Douglass then launched into a ringing demand that all men
of conscience disobey the Fugitive Slave Act.
While Amanda had applauded during the earlier
portions of the speech, here she held back. She
wasn't certain the speaker was right. Congress had
passed the law in the hope of mitigating sectional
strife and preserving the Union. Douglass
rejected such compromise. He said the law was
immoral-and perhaps it was. He said it should be
overturned-that might be true as well. But when he
said that until the law was repealed, it should be
ignored, Amanda found herself disagreeing.
"This being the state of things in America-was
Douglass' quieter tone immediately hushed the hall
again. "comy cannot expect me to stand before you with
eloquent outbursts of praise for my country.
No, my friends, I must be honest with America-
"Unmask her pretensions to republicanism!
"Unmask her hypocritical pretensions
to Christianity!
"Denounce her pretensions to civilization!
"Proclaim in her ear the wrongs of those who cry
day and night to heaven-"HOW LONG, HOW
LONG, OH LORD GOD!" his
The Bowery Theatre literally shook from the
hand-clapping and foot-stomping. Douglass bowed his
head, breathing hard and clinging to the podium for
support.
The ovation continued for one minute; two; three.
Rose was clapping furiously. Even Amanda cast
aside her reservations and joined in, caught up in
the spell of the man's oratory.
Finally, when the tumult died, Douglass resumed:
"Let me say this to you in conclusion. Despite the
dark picture I have presented-despite the
iniquity of the present law which can only be an
abomination in the eyes of all men who consider themselves
believers in the principles upon which this nation was
founded-no, despite all this, I do not despair of
America.
"There are forces in operation which must inevitably work the
downfall of the unjust law and the entire system of
slavery. "The arm of the Lord is not shortened." The
doom of slavery is
certain!"
Once more, little by little, he had begun to build
volume. Amanda's spine tingled. The stately
figure held every eye in the theatre.
"While drawing encouragement from the Declaration of
Independence-from the great principles it contains- and from
the genius of American institutions, my spirit is also
cheered by the obvious tendencies of the age in which we
live.
"No nation can now shut itself up from the surrounding world and
trot around in the same old path of its fathers. A
change has come over the affairs of mankind!
"Walled cities and empires have become
unfashionable. The arm of commerce has borne away
the gates of the strong city. Intelligence is
penetrating the darkest corners of the globe. It
makes its pathway over and under the sea, as well as
on the earth. Wind, steam, and lightning are its
chartered agents. The fiat of the Almighty -"Let
there be light!"-has not yet spent its
force. No abuse, no outrage can now
hide itself from the all-pervading and cleansing light of
decency, democracy, and honor.
"Unjust laws shall perish. Unjust men shall die
unmourned and dishonored. There will be universal
freedom if we dedicate our hearts, our minds
and our mortal souls to its accomplishment-if we
resist the tyranny of the law where it must be
resisted-and if our prayer of fervent aspiration forever
remains that of William Lloyd Garrison-was
Douglass flung his hands high over his head,
roaring: was "God speed the year of jubilee-the
wide world over!" his
to
It took Amanda and Rose nearly twenty minutes
to work their way through the long line of people filing onto the
stage to congratulate Douglass. He was
particularly gracious with Amanda, recalling their
meeting on the steamer to Boston, and thanking her
warmly for the donation she'd sent. She promised
to send another, then said:
"But I must tell you honestly, Mr. Douglass,
I can't agree with you on one point in your
address."
"Which point is that, Mrs. de la Gura?"
"That the Fugitive Slave Act must be
disobeyed. Overturned-perhaps. But as long as it
is
the law-was
"I can understand your attitude-even though I consider
it wrong. The working of that particular law remains an
abstraction for you. Something you read about, and consider
intellectually. I think you'd change your mind if
you were face to face with one of the law's victims.
Or were a victim yourself."
"I'm not certain of that, Mr. Douglass."
He smiled. "But I am."
The press of the line behind them forced Amanda to break off
the conversation. As she followed Rose up one of the
aisles, she glanced at the box from which the hissing had
come. If the box was still occupied, it was impossible
to see by whom.
Presently the two women reached the packed lobby.
Through the open outer doors, Amanda saw that snow had
started falling in the February darkness. Forward
movement was almost impossible.
The crowd filled the lobby and spilled outside.
Lines of hacks and carriages waited three
deep. As each vehicle maneuvered for a place
at the curb and loaded its passengers, she and
Rose were able to take another step or
two. But progress was infernally slow.
As she slipped her hands deeper into her muff,
Amanda felt Rose tap her shoulder. She turned
and saw Mr. Greeley of the
Tribune.
Amanda had met the Whig publisher at a
Christmas fete at Rose's mansion in
Gramercy Park. She'd been struck by his aura
of age. Though Greeley couldn't have been much more
than forty, his mutton-chop whiskers were already
whitening. His piercing eyes seemed those of an old
man who viewed the world with simmering discontent.
Greeley had been intrigued when Rose mentioned that
her friend had survived the Alamo massacre. He
had also been openly skeptical, reminding the women
that there were no American survivors save a lady
named Dickinson.
Amanda pointed out that the list of Mexican
survivors was much less precise. She expected
she'd be shown on the record not under her maiden name
but under her husband's, which was Spanish, if the
record carried any mention of her at all.
A few details of the massacre soon convinced
Greeley that Amanda was telling the truth. He
suggested an interview with one of his
reporters. She declined, saying
that the idea of personal publicity struck her as
ostentatious, and she didn't care to be painted as
any sort of heroine; she'd merely survived as
best she could. Actually, her real reason for turning
him down was a wish to avoid any chance of the Kent name
appearing in print. Mr. Greeley had been testy
with her the rest of the evening.
Now, though, the incident was forgotten. He tipped his
hat in a cordial way:
"Mrs. de la Gura-Rose-good evening."
"Happy to see you awake again, Horace," Rose
said.
Greeley ignored the jibe. "Douglass gave a
splendid talk, didn't he?"
"Splendid," Amanda agreed.
"Marred only by those disgusting interruptions from the box
behind me."
"Did you see who was doing it?" Amanda asked.
"Of course. A certain gentleman who enjoys
making his obnoxious opinions known in public. A
member of the exalted Order of the Star Spangled
Banner. I prefer not to discuss the subject any
further. His performance made me sick."
"But Horace, who was it?"
Greeley paid no attention to Rose's query. He
was staring at two men in the crowd. With a sour
expression, he said:
"And I'm experiencing the same feeling right now."
Amanda recognized handsome, blue-eyed Fernando
Wood, a wealthy politician with ambitions for the
mayor's office. With him was his brother Ben. Both
were Democrats, and hence Greeley's foes.
Fernando Wood and his brother were arm in arm with a pair
of gaudily dressed young ladies who might have come
straight from a Paradise Square brothel-but then, the
Woods made no secret of having the poor, and
even most of the city's criminal element, in their
political camp.
The Woods had grown rich in real estate, and also
by operating as licensed gamblers, under a dubious
"charter" granted them in Louisiana. They were
close friends of the Tammany politician Isaiah
Rynders, who bossed the Sixth Ward, owned
several slum saloons-and could always rally a street
gang to harry an opposition candidate. Rynders
was notorious for his hatred of blacks and
foreigners-his Irish constituents excepted. He
had been in the crowd that had started the Astor Place
riot. The ringleader, some said.
But none of this seemed to rub off on the Wood
brothers tonight. They waved and chatted with friends as they
worked their way out of the lobby. They saw Greeley;
Fernando Wood said something that was obviously
contemptuous. His brother and the young girls laughed.
Greeley's jaw showed a tinge of scarlet as he
turned back to the women.
"By the way-have either of you read Mrs. Stowe's
novel?"
"It's not due out until next month, is it?"
Rose asked.
"No. But Jewett's of Boston is distributing
advance copies."
The conversation touched off Amanda's anger. If only
the secret campaign she and Joshua Rothman were
waging had proceeded a little further-if only she'd
been in control of Kent and Son-the firm might have
had a chance to publish what everyone predicted would be
the literary sensation of the year. Perhaps of the decade.
She forced herself to speak calmly:
"I'm afraid Rose and I aren't important enough
to be on Jewett's list. How did you like the
novel, Mr. Greeley?"
"Oh, not very well. I read several episodes when
it was serialized in the
National Era.
The complete version's more of the same-too sentimental
for my taste. The book's purpose is
worthwhile, though."
"Rose introduced me to Mrs. Stowe's brother
last
week," Amanda told him. "We drove over
to Plymouth Church in Brooklyn to hear Reverend
Beecher preach."
Greeley whipped a small pad from his coat and
jotted on it with a pencil:
"Must remind Dana to send a reporter over there
to see whether Henry's still planning that mock slave
auction. Last time I saw him, he was trying to find
a good-looking young Negress who wouldn't object
to being paraded before a crowd, and sold from his pulpit-was
As Greeley put the pad away, Amanda said,
"The Reverend told us they're working up a
dramatization of
Uncle Tom's Cabin
for Purdy's IT-IEATRE in the fall."
"Meanwhile," Rose said, "I'll have Kent's
send you another review copy of
The White Indian.
It's obvious you misplaced the first one."
"I doubt that," Greeley retorted.
"Really, Horace! You should pay attention to the
book. We've gone to a fourth printing already."
"Rose," Greeley said, "I'm very fond of your
hospitality. But not of your characters."
"Not so loud!" she cautioned. "You're one of the few
people in New York who knows Mrs. Perm's
identity."
"Well, I wish Mrs. Penn would change her
style. Characters who make four-page declarations about
virtue of courage put me in a torpor."
"I can certainly say the same for those
incomprehensible foreign features you're
publishing!"
"Mr. Marx and Mr. Engels are astute
observers of the European social and political
scene."
"I fall asleep after the second paragraph.
Many more essays of that sort and I'll start reading
Gordon Bennett's paper. Or the
Times."
"The
Times!"
Greeley sputtered. "Upstart rag! I'm
astonished it's survived this long. It
certainly won't last till the end of the year. As
to your fable of the fur business-was
"The story may be fictional, but Amanda here
provided me with the background. It's absolutely
authentic."
Greeley still looked put upon. "All right, send
another copy to my editor, Mr. Dana. At your
own risk!"
The stout woman pulled a face. "Horace, you can
be positively vicious."
"The function of the free press is to provoke, not
pacify, dear lady."
"But I thought you fancied the west."
"The real west," he nodded, with a clear implication
that he still believed Rose had written about something
else. "It's astonishing how the public prefers
fancy to fact. I'm already enthroned for having urged
some anonymous young man to go west, when it was Mr.
Soule, who edits the
Express
out hi Terre Haute, Indiana, who actually
turned the phrase last year. I merely repeated
it in a letter to a friend-which he promptly made
public."
Rose teased him: "The price of fame,
Horace."
With another sarcastic expression, Greeley
tipped his hat. "There's my carriage." He
began to elbow his way outside.
Rose stood on tiptoe, trying to find her own
driver in the confusion of vehicles and stamping
horses in front of the theatre. A few gusts of
snow began to blow into the lobby. Suddenly the heavy
woman exclaimed:
"I've had enough of being pushed and shoved-let's do a
little of our own. Follow me, Amanda-was
She turned sideways.
"I wonder if you'd excuse us-we're trying
to get through-
damn it, get off my skirt!"
The man turned abruptly. Inside her muff,
Amanda dug her fingers into the palms of her hands.
She'd been hi New York City for over a
year. And although she'd driven by the immense house just
off Washington Square a number of times, she'd
never set eyes on its owner-though she'd kept
track of his activities through items in the press.
And now, unexpectedly, he was directly in
front of her, slender and erect despite his
age-fifty-eight or thereabouts. If
Rose's outburst had angered him, he didn't show
it. His shoulder cape displayed its crimson lining as
he raised a glove to the brim of his black top
hat. In his other hand he held a gold-headed
cane.
A white silk scarf was tied around his head. It
cut obliquely from the left side of his forehead,
across the bridge of his nose to the right side of his chin.
The scarf fluttered in the wind. Amanda glimpsed a
bit of ugly, discolored scar tissue. The man's
left eye, brown and amused, seemed to glow like a
dark gem.
Amanda held herself rigid, somehow afraid to speak
or even be noticed.
"My sincere apologies, Mrs. Ludwig,"
Hamilton Stoall said.
Suspicion
"MR. STOVALL! I DIDN'T see you in
the audience-was
"I don't sit with the
audience-was
he said. "I always take a private box."
Rose's eyebrows shot up. "Behind Mr.
Greeley?"
"Quite right."
"So it was you interrupting Douglass!"
Stovall chuckled. "Really, the man's incredible.
If he didn't have such a grip on so many minds,
baiting him would be amusing. Under the circumstances,
I view it more as a public duty-was
Thus far he'd hardly taken notice of Amanda.
She was trying to breathe evenly; maintain a polite
but none-too-interested expression.
"I wonder if there's a city ordinance prohibiting
a baboon from dressing in a man's clothing,"
Stovall went on. "If not, there should be-and it ought
to be enforced against Mr. Douglass. However, I do
apologize for making my presence known to you so
clumsily, Mrs. Ludwig."
Stovall's words carried a faint sarcasm that robbed
them of any sincerity. He turned to a man twenty
years his junior hovering at his elbow.
"May I present my secretary, Mr.
Jonas? Jonas, this is Mrs. Rose
Ludwig-was
"Ah yes, one of the bloomer ladies," Jonas
replied, his eyelids drooping briefly. He had
an effeminate face, and pink, pouting lips.
Stovall turned to Amanda. "I'm afraid I'm
not acquainted with your companion, Mrs.
Ludwig."
Amanda felt her cheeks must be red. To be so
close to the man who had made Jared suffer was almost
unbearable. She wanted to strike at his face-
She fought the irrational impulse. She tried
to appraise Hamilton Stovall without emotion, as
she would a business adversary. It was obvious he
had once been exceedingly handsome. But his exposed
cheek had a purplish, blotchy look. What little
she could see of his hair was pure white. His teeth
were so perfect-and so yellow comshe was certain they were
false. Their artificial uniformity gave him a
sort of a skull's grin. His glittering brown eye
seemed to spike into her mind, drawing out all her
secrets-
Foolish! Get yourself under control! He doesn't
know who you are
-
Rose remedied that in an instant:
"Amanda, let me introduce Mr. Hamilton
Stovall. This is Mrs. Amanda de la Gura."
Stovall's good eye blinked. But it was young
Jonas, standing unusually close to his employer,
who spoke first:
"Indeed! So you're the free-thinking lady
who tried to buy Kent and Son!"
Amanda's stomach hurt. "Yes, I tried to buy
it. The rest is your judgment, Mr. Jonas."
Stovall's eye held hers. "I'm fascinated
to make your acquaintance at last. Of course I
regret it was impossible for me to accept your
offer-I could have put the money to excellent use. But
I simply couldn't turn the firm over to someone whose
views are so far removed from mine. Misguided,
if you don't mind my saying so-was He obviously
didn't care if she did. "I might even go so
far as to call them dangerously radical."
Hoping she sounded sufficiently calm, she
replied,
"Making you aware of those views was my error, Mr.
Stovall."
"You're quite correct." The yellow-tinged teeth
glared in a fixed smile. But his eye held no
humor.
"Of course I wasn't aware you had informants at
the firm."
Stovall dismissed it: "Oh, one must-to protect
one's own interests."
Abruptly, Jonas asked, "You're from
California, are you not?" Amanda's stomach
quivered again. Stovall had checked into her
background.
"I am." She gave them no more to work on. But
Stovall refused to quit:
"Why in the world would someone with substantial mining and
textile holdings-was
"He knows that too.
"comabruptly decide to venture into book
publishing?"
"I was searching for a way to diversify. A publishing
house seemed a sound investment."
"Yes, I do recall hearing some such explanation from
the gentlemen who acted on your behalf. I find one
thing odd, though."
"What's that?"
"I'm not aware that you've attempted to buy another
book firm. Was Kent's the only one in which you were
interested?"
(amanda hedged:
"At the time we negotiated-yes."
"The fact is, you've bought no other properties
at all comat least under your own name. Forgive me, but
it's almost as if you had some reason other than a
business one for wanting Kent's."
"That's purely your speculation, Mr.
Stovall."
"I admit it. There could be no personal basis for
your interest, could there?"
"None."
"We've never met before-was
"Never."
"Well-was He shrugged. "I must be wrong."
"A rare occurrence with Mr. Stovall," Jonas
informed them with a smug smile.
The outrageous flattery pleased the older man,
though. He touched Jonas' gloved hand in an almost
affectionate way. Then he said to Amanda:
"Financially speaking, I really wish we had been
able to reach an agreement. Publishing is a risky
enterprise- another circumstance which makes me
wonder why you chose it for diversification. I have very
little interest in the firm, actually-only in what it
earns. I never wanted the company except as the
means to an end. But perhaps you don't know the story.
I assumed ownership many years ago as a result
of a sporting wager-was
Amanda heard Rose's sudden intake of breath.
Stoall's brown eye watched her for a reaction-
Or did she just imagine that?
"comanda desire to see the founders, a clan
of wild-eyed Boston mobocrats, put out of
business." He licked a snowflake from his lower
lip. "The heirs of a Mr. Gilbert Kent.
Despicable people."
Amanda's lips pressed together. She was trembling.
Hands clenched tight inside the muff, she was
conscious of both Stovall and Rose watching her
closely. She hoped she hadn't given herself
away-
"I know nothing about them other than the name, Mr.
Stovall. I've spent most of my years out
west."
"Of course," he murmured. "Well, there's no
need for civilized folk to quarrel over an
aborted transaction-was He patted the
secretary's arm. "Jonas, be a dear chap and
see what you can do to hurry the carriage."
The secretary started for the curb. He whistled and
motioned. Again Stovall touched his top hat.
"Mrs. de la Gura-Mrs. Ludwig-my
distinct pleasure."
His good eye raked Amanda as he turned away.
Did he know more about her than he was revealing?
No, that was impossible. Outside of her immediate
household, only Rose, William
Benbow and Joshua Rothman knew she was Gilbert
Kent's daughter-
A man blocked Stovall's route to the carriage
door which Jonas was holding open. Stovall lifted
his cane and prodded the man with the ferrule:
"One side!"
The man, much less elegantly dressed, whirled
around:
"Who the hell are you poking with-?"
"You, my shabby friend. It's quite obvious you couldn't
afford a private carriage-while mine's waiting
just there." Stovall pulled the gold-headed cane
close to his chest, as if ready to lash outward with
it. His voice had a savage note in it: "If you
want to be impudent, I'll give you impudence
that'll lay you up for a week!"
The man glared, then shifted his glance to the cane
head. Amanda couldn't see Stovall's face, but the
other man obviously had a good view of it-and it
intimidated him. Stovall's voice was equally
intimidating with its unmistakable suggestion of
violent temper held in check.
The man stepped back.
Hamilton Stovall climbed into the carriage.
Jonas touched him, apparently to assist
him on the step. Then the carriage door slammed.
The driver whipped up the matched grays and the
vehicle lurched off.
Amanda watched it until it was completely hidden by the
wind-driven snow. "I
blundered,
she thought.
After the Kent negotiations fell through, I blundered
by not covering myself with another purchase
-
immediately.
And had she reacted too visibly to Stovall's
remarks about the family? That worried her most of
all; she might well have given herself away-or at
least aroused his suspicion to the point where he'd think
about making further inquiries. Perhaps even in
California-
That's too far-fetched,
she decided.
But was it?
Abruptly, she realized Rose had spoken to her.
The stout woman repeated what she'd said:
"The carriage is at the curb. Do you want to go
home? Or just stand here all night?"
She glanced around. The lobby had finally
emptied.
"I'm sorry-certainly, let's go."
She was conscious of Rose scrutinizing her as they
hurried outside.
II
The city of New York looked almost beautiful this
February night, covered as it was by fresh snow.
New York's population had climbed to almost
three-quarters of a million people. A construction
boom was steadily pushing the northern boundary toward the
Cro-ton Reservoir at Forty-second
Street. Tonight, the ugliness of an expanding city of
rich and poor-its unfinished buildings, its piles
of uncollected refuse, its free-roaming herds
of pigs and cows-was hidden by the wind-blown
whiteness.
The streets were empty for a change. It always seemed
to Amanda that half the city's inhabitants must be
Irish-and indigent. They were forever loitering on the
main thoroughfares. In some areas ruled by the
immigrants, a lone woman-or a lone man who
wasn't Irish, for that matter-dared not walk after
dark. Michael Boyle, who would be waiting for her
at home with the late afternoon's business matters yet
to discuss, was a product of one such festering
district, the Five Points.
The inside of Rose's carriage was ice cold.
Or was the coldness within her? She couldn't escape
an uneasy feeling about her reaction to Stovall's
mention of the Kents.
Lamps and gaslights in passing buildings lit the
carriage interior from time to time. The wheels jolted
into a rut in the unpaved street. The driver whipped
the team. The carriage lurched. Rose swore,
singeing her glove on the locofoco she'd been
trying to apply to the end of a cigar.
When the cigar was lit, she slid a window down and
tossed the charred match into the storm.
Amanda felt questions were imminent; perhaps some of her own
would forestall them:
"Rose, you spoke about Stovall's wife once.
When did she die?" his
"Oh, let's see. Early in fifty, I
believe. She came of a good family.
Baltimore-precious Hamilton's own city."
"When did he marry her?"
"Years ago-and only so he could use her
family's capital to shore up his steel business.
Or so I've been told."
"He has no heirs, isn't that right?"
"None."
"And I assume his wife died of natural
causes-was
"That was the story-publicly."
"What do you mean?"
"I heard a whisper or two that it was suicide."
Amanda smiled without humor. "Perhaps she found out
Stovall's not quite so respectable as he pretends
to be."
Thoughtfully, Rose puffed out smoke. The thick
blue cloud made breathing difficult.
"Well, he does admit to a few vices. He
drinks a good deal. He's been known to gamble
heavily. But if you removed everybody who does
either one, New York would have a population of
approximately forty-six. I had a peculiar
feeling about that Mr. Jonas, though. I wonder if
he's something more than a secretary-was
"He might be Stovall's lover."
"That was exactly my suspicion."
"There's evidence to support it."
"What evidence?"
"Michael goes back to the Five Points now and
again," Amanda explained. "To visit some of the friends
he knew when he worked on the docks.
There's a story circulating about Stovall to the
effect that he occasionally takes a little holiday with
some people on Mulberry Street. Under another name."
"Who does he visit?"
"A young whore-and her brother. I gather they're
all part of a-call it a triangular relationship."
Rose shivered. "My God. I fancy I'm
liberal about a lot of things, but I don't care
to know any more details of a sordid situation like that!"
"Maybe Stovall's wife caught a hint of it-was
"Perhaps," Rose nodded. "Stovall's tony friends
didn't, I'm sure. I've heard nothing like that
about him. If he prefers male companions instead
of female-was
"I've been told there are some who like both."
"Well, you can be sure he'll be careful no one can
prove it. Any more than people can prove your
relationship with Michael Boyle's something other than
business."
Aghast, Amanda said, "Do they accuse me of having
Michael for a lover?"
"Naturally! I've told you-the ruining of
reputations is a popular sport of some of our finer
citizens."
"I didn't realize I was sufficiently
well known to merit that kind of attention."
"In a little over a year, my dear, you've made the
city very much aware of your presence. You'll still never
crack that so-called social barrier we've
discussed before comb a rich, good-looking woman who
owns gold in California and part of one of the most
successful textile companies in the northeast is
grist for the conversational mills of society."
"I had no idea there'd been filthy talk about
Michael -"
"Well, my God, he
is
good-looking. He
is
your private clerk-and you
did
give him a room as well as a position."
"He's a bright young man. Why shouldn't he have a
better place to live than the slums? I'm
disgusted about the stories-was
"Oh, stop," Rose chuckled. "At least
Michael's the right sex-which can't be said for Mr.
StovalPs employee. Stovall will have to give that
up if he's serious about marrying again."
"Marrying
-! That, I hadn't heard."
"It's true."
"Who's the woman?"
"Miss Coralie Van Bibb. Her father's a
pushy clod, but he's done handsomely building
carriages-this is one of his vehicles, I think.
The irony's delicious. The best people ride in the
products of Van Bibb's We/chester
factory, and he can't get past their front
doors."
"What's his daughter like?"
"Unattractive. She's thirty-four and never had
a husband comdoesn't that tell you? Pious as a
Plymouth puritan, too-if what you say is
correct, dear Hamilton will have to mend his ways.
Or make a mighty pretense of it. No more
Mulberry Street excursions. No more Mr.
Jonas comunless he sticks strictly to business.
Any sensible girl wouldn't let Stovall court
her, you know. But he does have a certain dubious
social standing-which old Van Bibb's desperate
to share. For his part, Stovall won't be acquiring a
wife so much as another source of financing. Papa
Van Bibb's money-was
Amanda's eyes narrowed. "Yes, that would
jibe with something Joshua Rothman told me.
StovalFs trying to float a big loan for
modernization of his Pittsburgh plant. He's
having a difficult time of it-the eastern banks
don't consider him the best of risks."
"No wonder! He refuses to devote the time
needed to
run the company properly-and his board is hand picked
so he encounters no opposition."
Quietly, Amanda said, "That's right. He has
two cousins on the board-his only relatives.
And he owns by far the largest single block of stock.
Forty percent. No other shareholder owns anything
close to that."
Rose took another puff of the cigar. "You seem
damn conversant with Mr. Stovall's affairs."
"No more than you. I've found out some things about him
since he refused to sell Kent's, that's all. The
information from Michael came quite by accident."
"You don't have any hope of trying to buy the printing
company again, do you?"
"No," Amanda said, truthfully.
I'm going to get hold of it another way.
"Do you think he suspects who you really are?"
"I hardly see how he could,
Rose-unless I gave myself away completely
tonight."
"Not completely, though your reaction
was
noticeable. Amanda-was She hesitated. "We're
friends, aren't we?"
"The closest of friends, Rose-you know that."
"Then I wish you'd be honest with me."
"About what?"
Rose leaned toward her, the cigar in her hand casting
just enough light to put pinpoints of orange in her
eyes.
"Stovall alluded to having won the firm in a
wager. When we first met in Boston, you gave me
the impression he'd bought it. Which is it?"
Amanda sighed. "Stovall was telling the truth. I
misled you. At the time, I thought it was prudent."
"That's why you kept your family connection out of the
negotiations-the Kents have a grudge against him?"
"And vice versa. He cheated my family years
ago-was
"Is that the real reason you're in New York, not
Boston? Because he's here, and you can make inquiries
about him?"
"Partly."
"Two can play the game, you know.
"That I realize."
"Do you honestly mean to say you've given up doing
anything further about taking over the company? That's not
in character, my dear."
"Rose, I think we should drop the subject-was
"Sorry, but I can't. I don't want anything
to happen to you. And Mr. Hamilton Stovall
isn't the sort one crosses swords with in a
casual fashion. You saw what he almost did to that
poor chap in front of the theatre coma man he
didn't even know. He's vicious. And based on
what Michael told you, maybe even a little
deranged. Leave him alone, Amanda. Whatever
reasons you have for hating him, leave him alone-he could
hurt you."
The warning echoed ones she'd heard before. But too much
past history remained to be set aright for her to be
frightened off by one failure-or an unfounded fear that
she might have given her feelings away when Stovall
insulted the Kents.
"I've faced worse than Mr. Stovall,
Rose. I'll be careful."
"Then you haven't abandoned the idea of taking the
firm away from him-was
"No," she admitted. "But there's no point in
dragging you into it."
"He refused to sell! What other legal options
do you have?"
Amanda didn't answer. Rose glowered at her
cigar.
The carriage was slowing. Amanda glanced out the window.
They'd arrived in Madison Square, one of the more
fashionable residential areas developed in the last
decade. Light from large homes dappled the snow
with patches of yellow. The carriage swung up the
east side
of the square and under the portico of a three-story
brownstone house Amanda had purchased, gutted and
rebuilt after consultation with an architect Rose had
recommended.
The driver climbed down and opened the door. A
snow-dusted figure, he stood shivering in the night
wind. The lights of Amanda's home lit Rose
Ludwig's dismayed face.
"Rose, don't be angry with me-was
"I am not in the least bit angry! I'm worried.
I'd as soon go strolling in Five Points naked
and carrying gold ingots as keep up a feud with
Stovall. You'll be the loser. He already
suspects you wanted his company and no other. And after
tonight, he knows the name Kent produces a reaction.
He may figure out a good deal from that-was
"Yes, I'm afraid it's possible."
"Then for God's sake leave him alone, Amanda.
Please!"
"Good night, Rose. I enjoyed the dinner and the
lecture. Let's have lunch early next week-was
"Amanda-was
She shut the carriage door.
She stood in the blowing snow at the foot of the
balstraded marble stairs. The carriage careened out
of the drive, its lanterns rapidly diminishing
to blurs. A sleigh crowded with young ladies and
gentlemen went skimming by on the opposite side
of the square. Laughter and the sound of bells lingered
long after it had passed from sight.
She was tired; drained by the confrontation with Stovall,
and by jousting with Rose. But she couldn't call it a day
just yet. She had to deal with the problem of StoaUs's
suspicion.
Perhaps nothing would come of it. But if he did look
further into her background, she couldn't afford to wait
and discover it after the fact. She had to accomplish
what she wanted to accomplish
now,
before he found out any more-
She hurried up the steps into the house.
The Girl Who Refused
LOUIS KENT CAME DOWN the staircase,
walking past the entrance to the dining room on his right and the
music room-containing the piano no one played-on
his left. The clock in the library chimed nine.
Despite the chill permeating the house, his cheeks
felt hot.
Not much more than an how left
-
All evening he'd thought about her; wild, confused
thoughts that set his heartbeat racing. All evening
he'd struggled to convince himself that what he wanted to do
was perfectly proper for a wealthy boy going on
fifteen. Some of his classmates at Professor
Pemberton's Day School-the sons of merchants
and professional men- boasted of their affairs with
household girls. One boy repeatedly bragged that
he'd begun when he was twelve!
That, Louis could hardly believe. But the boasting
left him feeling inferior all the same. Finally,
when his mother had hired the new Irish girl a few
weeks ago, he'd decided to go ahead.
The other two maids and the cook were older;
unattractive. Kathleen was neither. She was
seventeen; on the plump side, but pretty.
Clean-smelling, too-though he recalled she
hadn't been the first day she presented herself for an
interview. She came from a tenement somewhere in the
Five Points.
His mother had left at three to have dinner and attend an
abolitionist lecture with Mrs. Ludwig. The
opportunity was perfect. But he was afraid.
Inexperience heightened his certainty that he'd blunder;
that Kathleen would refuse him. Or laugh. So
instead of waiting for her upstairs-she began her
rounds of the three occupied bedrooms shortly after
nine every night-he'd fled down here to the first floor.
Now he was telling himself his scheme was entirely too
dangerous.
He walked softly across the Oriental carpeting of the
long front hall. On his left, forward of the
music room, the doors to the drawing room were shut.
The library, on the right between the dining room and the
front sitting room, showed light, its two doors
ajar. In the hall, a single gas jet flung
Louis' shadow on the huge front doors. He
opened one and let out a gasp of
surprise. Snow was falling in Madison
Square.
He remained at the open door for a few moments,
unable to keep his mind off Kathleen.
You don't ask them, Lou,
the boys at Pemberton's said,
you tell them. You threaten "em with discharge if they
hesitate. Anyway, most are eager for it.
They'll say no a few times. But then they'll
relent.
Why had he listened? Why had he rashly promised
that he'd bring it off before classes resumed next
week? He'd actually gotten in another
fist-fight when two of the boys scoffed-
Of course he could lie on Monday. But they'd question
him. Demand intimate details. He feared that if
he tried to pretend, they'd trip him up.
And it
would
be a relief to end the nightly wakefulness in which he
imagined bare breasts, and legs, and lips caressing
his face-more and more these past months, he thought of such
things frequently. Dreamed of them, too, in dreams
that caused an embarrassing aftermath.
He pressed his belly against the edge of the
open door. No matter how he tried, he couldn't
prevent his
flesh from betraying his feelings at the most
unexpected moments-
I must do it,
he said silently.
Tonight, while it's quiet and ma's away.
He still thought of her as ma, though Amanda had long
since trained him to use the word mother when he spoke.
Sweating a little, he watched the falling snow. He
knew he'd never be heard upstairs. Except for
Kathleen, the servants didn't venture beyond the first
floor. Right now, before going home for the night, they'd
all be taking supper down in the mansion's raised
basement-
The insistent pressure between his legs refused to go
away.
But it's too risky!
An inner voice mocked him:
It isn't too risky. You're frightened, that's
all.
What would his ma do in a comparable situation? He thought
he knew. She did whatever she wanted; went where
she pleased, and brooked no interference. That had been
apparent to him ever since the time in
California when he heard she'd shot a man who
interfered with her up in the mining camp-
His swarthy face troubled and his dark eyes focused
at some remote point beyond the snow-whitened square,
Louis slowly backed up and shut the door. He was
afraid of his mother. Her toughness and her preoccupation
with business affairs made her forbidding, somehow.
Yet he admired her-
He decided he was being foolish to worry about
repercussions.
She
never seemed to-
All right. What he wanted, he'd take. That was
the privilege of wealthy people, wasn't it?
Turning, he stepped on the tail of the white
tomcat before he realized it. The cat, whose name was
Mr. Mayor, had evidently crept out of the
library and approached him silently.
Mr. Mayor miaowed loudly and went bounding back
toward the library doors-which opened all the way a
moment later.
From the doorway, Michael Boyle looked at
Louis. The boy was sure Michael could see
guilt on his face.
Mr. Mayor sought protection behind
Michael's legs, peering at Louis with green
eyes that caught the gaslight and shone. Suddenly
Louis realized what he needed in order to proceed
with his plan. He should be able to get it, too. In the
darkened dining room-
If only Michael didn't suspect, and try
to stop him.
"What are you doing skulking out here, Louis?" the young
man asked, cheerily enough. "I thought I'd caught
myself a burglar."
"I was only looking at the snow."
Louis walked back toward the entrance of the library.
He wanted to glance down, to see whether there was a
telltale bulge to give him away. He didn't
dare.
ii
Michael Boyle was a head taller than Louis.
Almost six feet. He was twenty-two, with a handsome,
fair face, rust-colored hair and golden-brown
eyes. He had wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and
looked elegant in whatever he wore-tonight a
loose-fitting white silk shirt, snug gray
trousers and expensive Wellington boots. Only
a long white scar across his forehead marred his
appearance.
The scar was the result of trouble on the piers.
Michael Boyle had worked as a longshoreman
since he was eleven years old. At twenty, he
had joined a worker's movement to increase wages
five cents per hour during the twelve-hour day.
The bosses who controlled the dock crews worked more
on behalf of the ship owners than on behalf of
their own men. Someone had informed on the leaders of the
wage movement. One by one, those longshoremen had
suffered mysterious accidents. On his way home one
evening, Michael Boyle had been waylaid
by unknown assailants and beaten until he could
barely crawl. During the beating, a man had
slashed at his throat with a knife. Michael had
dodged. The blade cut his forehead open.
After that, he'd never been able to get employment as a
longshoreman. All the dock bosses knew him as
an agitator. He had worked at odd jobs
until a year ago, when Amanda had hired
him
over eleven other applicants who had presented
themselves in response to a newspaper advertisement
for a confidential clerk. The advertisement was one of the
few in the paper that didn't carry the line
No Irish need apply.
From all Louis could tell, Amanda was well pleased
with her choice. Michael was self-educated; a
voracious reader-something uncommon in the Five
Points. His parents had come from a village in
County Antrim, where his father had belonged to the
Hearts of Steel- one of the gangs that harassed the
English landlords. "A brawling boy," Michael
had once said of his father, without implying praise or
admiration. "The village matched his temperament
exactly. My father often repeated a joke-true
or not, I can't say-about one of the local ladies
who walked out of her cottage one morning and said with a
smile, 'A lovely day-ten o'clock and not a blow
struck yet." his
When the first of the famines devastated Ireland in
'22, the Boyles had removed to America-going
no further than New York because they had no
funds, and because they were soured on the idea of working
land; the land in Ireland had already rejected them.
Five years after Michael was born, his father had
died in a bloody confrontation between two of the Five
Points gangs. His
mother had lasted only two years more. Michael had
survived by determination and his wits.
Louis admired the young Irishman's
obvious strength. He liked his quiet cheerfulness.
At the same time, he occasionally resented
Michael's growing closeness to his mother.
Now Michael leaned down and scooped up his white
cat. Mr. Mayor was a huge, rather sinister-looking
torn. He regarded Louis from the crook of his
master's elbow. The young man said:
"You're looking odd, Louis. Got a
bellyache?"
"No," Louis replied, too quickly. "I'm
fine."
Michael grinned. "Whatever you say. I've a
plate of mutton in the library. Care for some?"
"No thanks."
"Come in and keep me company for a bit, at least."
Louis hesitated. To lull Michael's
suspicions, he'd better do it:
"All right."
He followed Michael through the double doors into the
overheated room.
About half of the library's wall space was filled
with ceiling-high bookcases. Near the outer windows
stood a desk littered with papers and ledgers.
Along the wall on Louis' right, another table
held the telegraphic equipment that
connected the house with the Rothman Bank in Boston.
Michael's booted feet scraped on the carpet,
a sound slightly louder than the hissing of the two
gas jets over the mantel. Four logs burned in
the grate. Beside Michael's chair, a small
taboret bore a platter heaped with slices of
meat.
Mr. Mayor jumped from Michael's arms. The
cat had come with the young man from Five Points, his
only possession. Michael had christened him Mr.
Mayor "because he's ten times as intelligent as most
incumbents,
and could do a better job even without the power of
speech-which in the case of a politician is usually
a hindrance, since it permits his idiotic ideas
to be heard."
The cat put his forepaws on the edge of the taboret,
shot out his head as if to sample a bit of the
mutton. Michael batted
him
away.
Then, stepping carefully between two piles of
manuscript paper at the foot of the chair,
Michael sat down. He helped himself to a slice
of mutton which he tore into smaller
pieces, stuffing them into his mouth one at a time.
"I've never seen one person eat so much, so
often," Louis said. "And how can you stand this heat?"
"Because I spent the winters in the streets when I was
growing up. Never felt the warmth of a fire-nor
tasted decent food, either. I expect in forty
years, I might get my fill of both."
Louis wandered to the mantel, gazing at the French
infantry sword hung horizontally above the
Kentucky rifle. The small green glass
bottle half filled with powdery tea shimmered in the
gaslight.
He heard Michael riffling some of the manuscript
sheets; then caught the distant creak of a
floorboard overhead.
Kathleen.
Turning down the beds-
He couldn't stay here long. Not if he meant to do
what he'd promised his classmates.
"How is Professor Pemberton treating you?"
Michael wanted to know.
Louis turned, wondering why Michael had raised
that subject. He avoided the young man's eyes,
gazing instead at the oil painting of his great-grandfather
hanging on the outer wall. On a smaller
table underneath the painting and behind the desk, a glass
display case with wooden ends held cousin Jared's
medallion. The medal
lion stood vertically, wedged into a slot in a
small velvet pedestal. Lying on the velvet in
front of the pedestal was a frayed circlet of tarred
rope. Louis answered the question carefully:
"The school's boring."
"Ah, but you must suffer through if you're to go on
to Harvard as your mother intends."
"I wonder if she'll let me use my right name in
college. I feel funny being called Louis de
la Gura. Everyone thinks I'm a foreigner."
Bitterness crept in when Michael replied, "And
foreigners
aren't the most popular souls in New York, are
they?"
"Michael, do you know why I'm not allowed to call
myself Louis Kent?"
"Why, how should I know that? I'm only hired
help. What does your mother say when you ask her?"
"Nothing that makes much sense. She just says it's
necessary to keep the Kent name hidden a while longer
He shook his head, gesturing at the sword and
rifle: "If she's so proud of our
family, you'd think she'd tell everyone who we
are."
"I can't give you an explanation. It's not in my
province," Michael answered, his voice so
flat, Louis suspected the clerk knew more than
he was saying. He'd brought up the subject with
Michael once before, receiving the same sort of
evasive answer.
"I wish you'd stop your fidgeting, Louis. You're
making me nervous."
Louis forced his hands to his sides. "Was I
fidgeting?"
"You were. Are you sure nothing's bothering you?"
"No," Louis lied. His eyes slid to the wall
clock above
the telegraph equipment. The hands had reached ten
past
the hour.
I must go upstairs. She'll be finished soon-
"What is Professor Pemberton having you read
these days?"
"Plutarch."
"In Latin or English?"
The boy grimaced. "Latin. I just can't get the
hang of it-the other boys have studied it for
much longer-was
"Don't feel discouraged. I've listened to Latin
mass for years, and I can't get the hang of it
either."
Mr. Mayor jumped up on Michael, purring
audibly. After digging his claws in Michael's
trousers a couple of times-earning a gentle knock
between the ears-the cat settled down in the young man's
lap. Michael slid the polished toe of a boot
toward the stacks of manuscript:
"If you need something to read, perhaps you'd find this a little
more interesting. It came late this afternoon, delivered from
one of the California Steamers."
Louis craned around to study the closely written
sheets. "What is it?"
"The autobiography of your mother's nigger
manager."
"I don't understand why she had him write
it-Kent's will never publish it, will they?"
"Not under present management," Michael agreed.
"Your mother had the nigger go ahead because she's confident
she'll own the company soon."
"How?"
Michael's eyes moved away. "Oh, she's working
on it in various ways-was Another evasion.
"Is the manuscript any good?"
"Not half bad, actually."
"Mr. Hope's a bright man."
"Also an enterprising one. The parcel contained a letter
saying the Ophir Combine's about to begin work at the
claim in the mountains. They've completed the flume
that brings in water, and Hope and Mr. Pelham
look for handsome profits." He grinned. "You're
going to be richer than ever."
Louis didn't answer.
"I am a bit surprised a colored fellow could
do so well in business," Michael added. "And
turn out an acceptable manuscript."
"You don't care for the colored, do you, Michael?"
Michael Boyle's bright hair glittered as he
raised his head.
"I don't hate them, if that's what you're asking.
Neither do I think all this effort on their behalf is
warranted. You see, Louis, the famines in the old
country have grown worse and worse. You know how many
boatloads of Irish dock in New York every
year-was
"Dozens."
Michael nodded. "I've read we may have two
hundred thousand arrivals this year alone.
Hoping for a fresh beginning-which includes work. To every such
family, a black face means competition for the job
that can spell the difference between survival and starvation.
It's not surprising abolitionism is hated in the
slums. If the abolitionists had their way, there'd
be just that many more free nigger laborers pouring into the
northern cities. Poor white people are starving to death
not twenty blocks from here, Louis! Yet some of the
great thinkers can talk of nothing but the unfortunate
colored man. They should look closer to home! To the
babies who die out in the heat of Mulberry
Street in the summer, put there because some girl can't
afford to feed her own mouth, let alone her infant's
when it grows. I've seen other babies who were
gnawed to death by rats that got into their cradles. The
babies were left alone while their mothers strolled
Paradise Square to earn twenty-five cents with a
man. Walsh knows the way it is, right enough-was
He was referring to a colorful, audacious city
politician. With the aid of a group of raucous
roughnecks
Walsh called his Spartan Band, he had finally forced
recognition of New York's Irish constituency
by the Tammany Democrats, and gone on to represent
the constituency in the State Assembly and,
in 1850, the Congress.
"comWalsh told those dogooders in Washington that the
only difference between the nigger slave in the south and the
white wage slave up here is that one has a master
without asking for him, while the other has to beg for the
privilege-to "
He was interrupted by the rhythmic clanging of a gong
attached to the wall above the telegraph equipment and
just to one side of the clock. He jumped up-ruffling
Mr. Mayor, who stalked off to a corner.
Michael crossed to the table as the Morse sounder
clicked off a rapid series of dots and dashes.
He scowled at the sounder until it was silent.
"That's the third time the bank's telegraphed since
five o'clock. I keep telling them she hasn't
returned-
Louis knew Rothman's kept a telegraph
operator on duty in Boston until midnight
five days a week, and until noon on
Saturday. His mother paid the operator's wages.
Michael pulled a chair up to the table, noted the
time of the query on a pad between the sounder and the
transmitting key. He wiped his fingertips on his
trousers, then began to operate the key, a
horizontal knife switch that opened and
closed the circuit to form the dots and dashes.
Louis walked quickly to the door-the interruption
provided a good excuse-but Micahel had trained
himself so thoroughly in Mr. Morse's code, he was
able to keep sending his message and swing around to look
at Louis at the same time-
But Louis was already out the door. As he shut it,
Michael's golden-brown eyes fixed on his,
puzzled-
He suspects something,
Louis thought, flushed again.
All at once he resented Michael's
curiosity. The
young Irishman
comwas
just an employee, not a member of the family. It
wasn't his business if Louis had decided to-
To-
He couldn't even complete the thought.
Did he have enough nerve to go ahead? If only he
hadn't made those rash promises to his
classmates-to 
But he had. So there wasn't much choice, was there?
All right, he'd take the first step and see what
happened.
He stole into the darkened dining room. At the
sideboard, he pulled out a decanter of whiskey.
He'd tried whiskey before, surreptitiously, and
detested it. But he'd heard whiskey made a
person bolder. He unstoppered the decanter,
tilted it and let a little of the liquor trickle down
his throat.
He winced, wiped his eyes, shivered hi the darkness
as the telegraph key went silent on the other
side of the dining room wall. He listened. Heard
Michael's footsteps. Then silence. He'd
evidently returned to his chair. Somewhere below,
rattling crockery told Louis the servants had
concluded their meal-
Except for Kathleen. She would be finishing the
bedrooms. Lighting the gas; plumping the pillows;
arranging the coverlets-
One more swallow of whiskey set his head to aching
faintly. He drew a deep breath, returned the
decanter to the sideboard and, after a soft belch that
burned his throat, started for the rear hall.
As he climbed the steps, the brief headache
passed. He felt warmer. Almost bold. What
did he care if Michael Boyle wondered about his
behavior? What did he care what
anyone thought? His mother was a wealthy woman whose money
permitted her to do anything she wished. He was no
different-
He felt the stiffness again, without shame. He'd have a
juicy tale to report on Monday.
iii
Louis stole along the second floor corridor
toward the spill of light at the open door of his
room. As he approached, he could hear small
sounds. The rustle of bedding; Kathleen humming-
He squared his shoulders and pressed his palm to his
mouth to hold back another belch. The whiskey had
produced a feeling of confidence that enabled him
to smile as he turned in at the bedroom door.
He was on the point of speaking when he noticed the
curve of Kathleen's hip. She was leaning over the
large bed, adjusting the covers. Her shiny black
skirt shimmered in the glare of the gas. Snow ticked
against the far windows.
The sight of Kathleen bent that way, the curve of
her buttocks accentuated by her posture, brought him
to full and painful rigidity. He knocked on the
open door.
Kathleen screeched and spun around. One hand flew
to the bosom of her dress. She had
coppery hair all but concealed by her cap, a blunt
chin and heavily freckled cheeks. Her mouth was
full, her eyes pale blue. Her black dress
and over-the-shoulder apron fit her ample breasts
snugly.
"Good evening, Kathleen," he said, taking a step
inside but blocking the door.
"Good evening, master Louis," she said, still red in the
cheeks. "You came in so softly-startled me half
to death."
"Thinking of something else, were you? A gentleman
friend-?"
The girl was obviously stunned by his directness:
"No, sir, I-I don't have any-was
She swallowed.
"I'll be finished in a moment."
"Good," he said, pivoting away. Kathleen's
eyes had a peculiar, almost alarmed look. She
hadn't missed the telltale bulge of his trousers.
Louis strolled to the window. His palms itched as he
stared out at the snow-dusted roof of the mansion next
door. But he didn't really see it. He saw
only Kathleen's body-
"All done, sir. I'll be going now-was
He turned around. "Close the door."
For a moment she appeared not to understand. She took a
hesitant step backward.
"Master Louis, did you say-?"
"You heard very clearly what I said. Walk to the
door and close it."
Fright shone in her eyes. She shook her head:
"Sir, that isn't proper-was
"I don't care what's proper, I want you
to close the door!"
He moved toward her. His hand shook as he raised
it to her left breast. She closed her eyes and
shuddered.
With his other hand fisted and quivering at his side, he
touched her breast with the back of his hand, then pressed
upward. Kathleen appeared on the point of tears:
"Please, master Louis, may I leave?"
"You may not. I've been taken by your looks ever
since my mother hired you, Kathleen. I've wanted
to talk to you-get acquainted-was
Her eyes opened, tearful and angry:
"And what else, sir?"
"Oh, don't act so innocent. Don't tell me
you've never had a man before-was
"Jesus and Mary be my witnesses, I have not!
I'm a decent person-was
He guffawed, his dark eyes like black stones.
"Come on! No Irish wench from the Five Points
stays decent for long."
"That's a nasty thing to say! Fve taken no man,
and I won't till I'm properly wed by a
priest."
"I think you're going to change your mind very shortly,
Kathleen."
"You've been at the whiskey!" she exclaimed,
pulling away from the press of his hand. "I can smell
it. The whiskey's the reason you're saying all this-was
"Fm saying it because I like you."
She lunged for the door:
"I won't stay here another-
ahr
She cried out when he caught her forearm and dragged
her back, stretching out his leg to catch the door with his
toe and set it moving. Softly, the door clicked
shut.
He maneuvered against her, his hands slipping around her
waist. He drew her close. She shook her head
and muttered incoherent syllables. She tried to pull
away from the stiffness thrusting against her skirt but he
held her fast, working his fingers in the fabric of her
skirt-
"I ask you for the sake of decency, master Louis,
stop this-was
"I won't-was
He put his mouth near her left ear, aroused all the
more by the tickling touch of her hair and the lace of her
cap.
"combecause I know you're like all Irish girls. I know
what you really want-was
"You don't! It's filthy of you to accuse me of-was
Angry at her protests, he slid his mouth across
her cheek and found her lips.
At first they were cold and unyielding. She continued
to struggle. But after a moment he felt a little heat.
He laughed, a soft, harsh sound. He held her
tight as he pushed his tongue between her teeth.
Her tongue touched his for a fraction of a second.
Then, as if realizing her own feelings were getting out
of control, she wrenched her head away:
"You mustn't do this! If your mother should find out-"
"She won't. We'll be done before she's home."
"I swear to you, I'm virgin-was
"We'll remedy that."
He slid his hand down the front of her apron and
pressed, feeling the curve of her belly. He
moved his hand lower, his head all at once
throbbing from the whiskey. The gaslit room seemed
isolated; cut off from the real world. And the pressure
between his legs had grown unbearable-
When he tried to thrust her back onto the bed, she
broke away again, slipping around him toward the
door. She'd nearly reached it when he called out:
"Kathleen!"
Slowly, she looked back. Her blue eyes
widened at the harshness of his face.
"What-what is it?"
"Do you want to be arrested for thievery?"
Her mouth shaped into a horrified
O.
She could barely repeat the word:
"Thievery!"
He gestured to a bureau where he kept loose
change. "I'll say I found you rummaging through my
belongings comsearching for money-unless you do exactly as
I say."
"Oh, God, master Louis, you wouldn't-was
"I would unless you undress and lie down on the bed,
Kathleen."
Her eyes grew hateful then; so hateful that he was
terrified; tempted to let her go and be done with it.
But she hid the hatred, begging:
"I need this position. I'm the only one of the
McCreerys old enough to work-was
"Very well. If you value your six dollars a
week, do what I say."
"You-you imagine you have a right to demand-was
"I
do
have the right." He wiped his perspiring upper lip.
"What's it to be Kathleen? The six dollars-or
a charge of thievery? It'll follow you wherever else
you try to work-was
She started crying, the tears dampening her freckled
cheeks as she glanced helplessly from one side of the
room to the other. Seeing how she weakened so easily,
he laughed aloud.
"You-was Her voice was ragged. "comy're only a child.
Not even fifteen-was
Flushing, he said, "I have a man's cock, if
that's your worry."
"But not a man's heart. Not a speck of
Christian kindness-was
"I want to love you, Kathleen."
"comanything you want, you think you can take!"
"lean."
He took a step toward her.
"Don't touch mer
Then, less stridently:
"Not-not till I'm ready."
He stepped to the door and slid the bolt.
"Just pull your skirt up and bare yourself, that'll be
satisfactory-was
He heard the bed creak as she lowered herself onto it.
He heard garments rustling; then her voice again:
"Will-will you be good enough to turn the gas down?"
"I don't think so. I want to see you-was
Unfastening his trousers, he faced her, his heart
hammering in his chest as he moved his gaze slowly,
slowly upward along her freckled white legs.
iv
She lay still beneath him, her eyes open and fixed on the
ceiling. Louis slid between her thighs and probed,
hurt at first by the roughness of her flesh.
Finally, her body changed in reaction to his
presence. He jerked back and forth. Within a few
seconds, his loins quivered and exploded. He
felt a deep sense of disappointment -
Kathleen maneuvered her hips so their bodies were
no longer joined. He rolled onto his side,
stretching a hand toward her wrist as she stood up and
started to lower her skirt.
The moment his fingers closed, she glared at him,
miserable and angry at the same time:
"I've given you what you wanted, haven't I?"
"Once," he nodded, feeling distinctly sober and
angry himself. The experience had been much less
fulfilling than he'd imagined; a quick abrasion of
flesh on flesh, then an abrupt end-nothing worth
boasting about-
"Lie down again."
Disbelieving, she shook her head:
"You can't again so soon-was
"But in a little while-Kathleen, damn you,
lie down!"
"I must go-was
"No, we-was He yawned, "comwe've plenty of
time." It seemed that way; it seemed as if only a
minute or so had clasped since he'd entered the
room. "Besides, no one ever disturbs me after I've
shut my door for the night."
She bowed her head, knelt on the bed and stretched
out, weeping softly again. He was caught in a storm
of conflicting feelings:
Satisfaction because he'd had his way.
Fear that he shouldn't have done it; he tried not
to dwell on the hate he'd glimpsed in
her eyes.
And a peculiar sadness that came over him because the act
so long anticipated had been so curiously coarse
and unrewarding.
The second time would be different. He'd enjoy it and
so would she-
She lay with her back toward him. He pulled her
over and forced her fingers to curl around him. She
didn't want to touch him that way-her palm was
cold; she cried harder-but he held his hand over
hers and forced her, staring at the ceiling as she had done
earlier, awaiting the first tingle of a response from his
own flesh.
Of Stocks and Sin
AMANDA LET HERSELF INTO THE
dim front hall. She drew off her hat and cast
the snow-dampened muff aside, then paused to study
her face in a peer glass.
She'd be forty-nine before the year.was out. She felt
every one of those years this evening. The glass showed
wrinkles around her eyes, and more gray in her hair.
How much of that gray had been put there by her
preoccupation with Stovall-his
Feeling incredibly weary, she drew a deep
breath and walked to the library doors. She
opened them and gasped at the heat.
Busy cleaning himself on the telegraph table, Mr.
Mayor paused with a paw athwart his nose. He
recognized her and went back to bathing. Michael
rose from the chair beside the hearth.
"Hallo, Mrs. A," he said with his mouth full.
She was always amused by Michael's passion for food
and warmth. He never seemed to sweat, or put on
an ounce of fat. She understood the reason for both
cravings and seldom said anything about either-although withstanding
Michael's temperature preferences required a
good deal of forbearance.
"Bad weather out there," he went on as she came
toward him. "I was growing a mite concerned. How was
the lecture?"
"Douglass is an eloquent speaker. It's hard
not to be
moved by what he says. His chief target was the
fugitive slave law."
Michael's pleasant expression vanished. Amanda
knew his feelings about those who championed the cause
of slaves. The young Irishman would have preferred
to see the same amount of time and energy spent
improving the lot of his own people, who had come to the
United States to escape the privation and the
legal tyranny they'd endured for generations.
Instead, the Irish had found tyranny of a different
sort-the kind produced by hatred of foreigners. As
a result, they'd found privation too.
"I told Douglass Fd send him another draft
soon. Will you take care of it? A hundred in my
name, and two thousand anonymously."
At the desk, Michael jotted a note without
saying anything.
"Stovall was at the theatre."
He spun around. "What the devil was he doing at
an abolitionist meeting?"
"He wanted to disrupt Douglass' speech. He
didn't succeed."
"Did he have a crowd of cronies with him?"
"No, just one companion."
"My Lord, Mrs. A, that takes brass."
"StovaUs's been accused of a good many things, but I
don't believe cowardice is one of them."
"Did you speak to him?"
She sank down in the chair opposite
Michael's. Her eyes moved to the piles of
manuscript. But her mind was elsewhere:
"It was unavoidable. Rose introduced us afterward
My tactics have gotten me in trouble,
I'm afraid. Stovall knows my story about
diversifying was a sham. He knows I've bought no
other properties-was
Rapidly, she described the encounter at the Bowery
Theatre. Some six months earlier, when she'd
decided
she could trust Michael Boyle, she'd revealed
her plans concerning her adversary-and her reasons for
them. He had to know if he was to function as her
confidential assistant. She suspected he
didn't wholly approve of her effort to regain
control of Kent and Son. But he kept his
personal views to himself, and always executed her
orders without question.
She concluded, "It's possible Stovall will look
more closely into my background-was
"Why should he?"
"Apparently I reacted very visibly when he
made a derogatory remark about the Kents. I
didn't mean to-it simply happened."
"Urn."
"I think I'd better instruct Rothman's
to move faster."
Michael gestured to the telegraph equipment:
"You can take care of that yet tonight. Mr.
Rothman's operator has queried you three times
since five p.m. I told him to try again at
ten-thirty."
"Is there a problem?" his
"I gather so. Something to do with an emergency meeting
of the Blackstone board. If you were in Boston,
communication would be less of a problem. Of course I
realize Stovall is
here
-"
She looked up at the broad-shouldered young man.
"You think I should drop the campaign to take back
the firm, don't you? You-and Rose."
"It uses up a hell of a lot of your time. And your
strength, I should imagine. Still, it's not for me to say
whether you should or shouldn't. I am after all just your
employee."
"Nonsense, Michael. You know you're closer to me
in some ways than my own son. Where is he, by the
way?"
"Popped off to sleep, I think."
"Rather early."
"He seemed-oh, nervous. Quite nervous, as a
matter of fact."
"Did he say there was anything wrong?"
"No,
he
didn't say-was
Thinking about Louis, she didn't catch the
significance of the emphasized word. She mused
aloud: "I'll have to talk with him in the morning-was
She smiled then, reminded of something her friend had said:
"Would you like to hear a bit of gossip Rose passed
along? It seems some of the finer folk of New
York have come to the conclusion you and I are lovers."
Michael burst out laughing. Amanda loved the sight
of his smile. That such a handsome young man should be marred
for life by the ugly scar on his forehead was a kind of
blasphemy.
Still shaking with mirth, he turned to warm his hands at the
hearth:
"Didn't mean to bray like that. It just tickles me
that the filthy sods would come up with such notions.
They've missed the truth entirely-was He faced
her. "I am fond of you. But not for the reasons they
imagine. No one's ever treated me more decently
than you. I'd never dare say this to anyone else for
fear of being hooted at-but you're as kind as I
imagine my own mother would have been, had she lived."
His words heartened her; helped soothe away
some of the tension she'd felt ever since the encounter with
Stovall.
"That's sweet of you
be
Michael." She teased him: "I hope it's not
pure blarney."
"An Irishman only dissembles with those he
despises, not those he loves-was He pivoted
back to the fire. "Faith, I'm carrying on like some
convent girl-was
"I don't mind one bit."
They looked at one another for a moment.
"What's that manuscript on the floor?"
"Ah!" He scooped up a few of the pages.
"Your nigger combeg pardon, I forgot you don't like
me saying that -Mr. Hope's narrative.
Delivered from the docks late this afternoon. There's also
a letter describing the promising nature of the new
mining claim in the Sierras. Plus one from your
cousin in Virginia, and two others-was
Amanda scanned the few sheets Michael handed
to her. Mr. Mayor put his forepaws on her
skirt, studied her to see whether she'd resist.
When she didn't, he hopped into her lap and curled
up, his green eyes closing.
She went on reading while Michael took a clay
pipe from the mantel, filled it with tobacco and lit
it with a splinter of wood ignited in the fireplace.
The odor of the Virginia leaf sweetened the stale,
overheated air. But Amanda was hardly conscious of the
warmth any longer, absorbed by the flow of
Israel's prose:
"He writes extremely well."
"Yes, he does. As much as the subject
of-ah-niggers leaves me cold, I confess the first
few chapters caught my interest. I think his
title's a bit dull, though.
The Life of Israel Hope
would mean nothing to the general public-he's not
famous. I suggest something slightly more dramatic
if Kent and Son ever publishes the book-was
"Kent and Son
mil
publish it."
Her determination brought another smile to his face.
"Then why not call it something like
West to Freedom?
It avoids the cliche of a reference to the north-it
suggests the escape theme-and people are intrigued about the
west."
"Yes, that's very good. I'll be anxious to read all
of it-was
She
laid the manuscript aside, causing Mr.
Mayor to open his eyes and regard her with annoyance.
She was almost embarrassed to bring up the next
subject:
"Did you drive down to the Royal Sceptre
office?"
"I did," he nodded. "The situation's just as it was
last month when your letter was returned from London.
The owners of the line still don't know anything more about
Captain McGill."
Saddened, Amanda ran her hand aimlessly over the
tomcat's neck. He arched and purred.
What in heaven's name had become of Bart? He'd
sailed back from India the preceding November and
abruptly resigned his command, that much she'd learned.
But he hadn't told anyone in London where he was
going-he'd just walked out and disappeared.
"I suppose it's time to give up on him," she
said presently.
"We've no other options that I see."
"God, I hope he's all right-was
"You loved him a great deal, didn't you?"
"More than I realized when I said no to him.
However-was She shrugged to hide the hurt. "comwe should
be worrying about other things. How much Stoall stock
do we own at the moment?"
"I can't be positive without consulting the records.
Mr. Rothman and Mr. Benbow have so many friends and
clients buying small amounts on your behalf, then
re-selling them to the dummy company, the total
changes daily."
"Where's the ledger?"
"In my room. I was trying to bring it up to date
before dinner, but I confess I fell asleep. I
believe Boston Holdings owns somewhere above
twelve thousand shares
now."
Amanda nodded. For months, she'd been engaged in a
covert campaign to accumulate stock of the
Stovall Works. Her strategy was simple. When
she'd acquired a controlling interest, she intended
to present Stovall's attorneys with a demand that
Kent and Son be sold to her comin exchange for the
number of shares that would return Stovall to the
position of majority stockholder.
She'd planned to take as long as necessary to acquire
the shares; Rothman and Benbow moved with
great circumspection, approaching one investor at
a time, through intermediaries. So far, she didn't
believe Stovall realized the true reason for the
activity in shares in his company-nor did she think
he knew of the existence of Boston Holdings.
"Find the book and get me the exact figure, would
you?" she asked. "Meantime, I'll read
Jephtha's letter."
Michael brought it to her from the littered table, then
left the room.
Amanda stared at the soiled envelope that had come from
Lexington for three cents' postage. But she
didn't really see her name and address written in
an irregular hand. She was thinking of Bart
McGill.
Yes, she had loved him. Not in the same way
she'd loved Jaunie de la Gura, and then
Cordoba. More deeply comt was the hurtful truth
she admitted to herself.
He hadn't sent her a single letter from London,
or, so far as she knew, tried to ascertain her
whereabouts. And now he'd left England, and no one
knew where he was. Jaimie and Luis Cordoba
had been taken from her by events over which she had no
control. But Bart's departure had been
her own doing, and she faced that bitter truth
often-especially in the dark hours of early morning
when she couldn't sleep; when age made her bones
ache, and the shadows around her bed seemed to whisper of
her life running out all too rapidly-
She rubbed her eyes to clear them of tears, then
turned her attention to the letter.
It proved almost as disheartening as her memories.
ii
The letter, scrawled with a blunted pencil, was dated
three and a half weeks earlier. Either it hadn't
been mailed promptly, or had been delayed in
transit.
The lines slanted across the page. Jephtha's hand
was uneven; far less readable than it had been two
months ago, when he'd reported his continuing
alienation from his family and refused her offer of the
income due him from the Ophir claim. The
handwriting said the Reverend Jephtha Kent-a
Reverend no longer-was a tormented man. The opening
paragraphs told her he was still living and working on the
grounds of the Virginia Military Institute:
My only friend is Thos. Jackson, the
professor of whom I believe I have spoken before.
He is a strange, deeply religious
person
-
a Presbyterian
-
who has risked unpopularity by taking an active
role in support of the local Negro Sunday
School. My father-in-law, by contrast, would deny the
colored people even the solace of God. Jackson
-
whom many of the cadets deride with the name "Tom
Fool" despite his outstanding record in the late
Mexican conflict
-
is opposed to all the secessionist talk. He is
humane. He once taught one of his own slaves
to read in exchange for the slave's help
-
holding a torch
-
while he studied. It is Jackson who renews
my hope that all in the south are not prey to the
philosophy of a vile human being such as Captain
Tunworth.
Jackson is married. He and his wife are the
only persons in Lexington willing
to welcome me into their home occasionally. It is
true that his habits are peculiar. To prevent
distraction when he is pondering problems in military
tactics, he will turn his chair to the wall and sit
motionless for long periods of time. But I am comfortable
with him, and can share my thoughts freely
-
my sadness over Fan's continuing refusal to allow
any contact between myself and the boys
-
and my
growing certainty that the south's system of servitude
will bring its own dire harvest. Compromise will never
avail
-
it is too late. We have sinned as a nation
-I
firmly share this belief with the noted abolitionist and
Free-Soil advocate, John Brown of
Ohio. Sin is always punished. So the nation will be
punished. And not lightly. In the words of Paul the
Apostle to the Hebrews
-
"And almost all things are by the law purged with
blood. And without shedding of blood is no
remission."
The gloomy prediction disturbed Amanda, because there were
already signs that Clay's compromise bills had
bought nothing but a temporary peace.
The Fugitive Slave Act, designed
to mollify the south, had generated an even greater
militancy on the part of the northern abolitionists.
And influential Congressmen were toying with a doctrine
which could renew sectional antagonism.
The doctrine's chief ideologue was Stephen
Douglas of Illinois, a senator whose combative
temperament and slight stature had earned him the
title Little Giant. Sometimes the doctrine was
called popular sovereignty, sometimes squatter
sovereignty. Basically it stated that people in a
newly organized territory had the unqualified
right to determine what form their government would take;
specifically, whether the government would allow or
forbid slavery.
To Douglas, this was nothing more than the working of the
principle of democracy. To the abolitionists, it
was betrayal. If the doctrine were followed to its
logical conclusion, a territory could adopt or
reject slavery whether the territory lay above or
below the Missouri Compromise line. Not
only did the doctrine run counter to the 1820
compromise, but by its very nature it denied
Congressional right to limit the spread of slavery.
Whig opponents abused Douglas as the south's
toady, claiming he was advancing the scurrilous
philosophy to enhance his own chances as a future
presidential candidate on the Democratic
ticket. Others, less partisan, said Douglas
acted only out of a solid belief in the rights of the
majority. But whatever the Little Giant's
motives, the papers had been filled with the debate
over his doctrine.
There was bound to be a test of it in the Congress in the
next year or so. Legislators were already talking
of the need to organize one or two large
territories between Missouri and California. There
had even been discussion of a transcontinental
railroad, and for this to become a reality, the western
lands had to be under some form of government.
If the intellectual debate led to a practical
attempt to put the doctrine into effect in the
organization of new territories, the Missouri
Compromise would be severely threatened-and all of the
efforts of Clay and Webster to secure peace might
come to nothing. Some pundits predicted that
if popular sovereignty ever passed into law,
abolitionist groups would launch open warfare- Open
warfare.
Remission of sin through the shedding of blood
-
Sometimes it seemed to Amanda that the nation was heading
inevitably toward it-and toward the even more grave
Constitutional crisis that might be precipitated.
The crisis was implicit in the south's traditional
response to harrying by its enemies: secession.
Did one section have the right to separate itself from the rest
to protect and preserve what it believed? Though she
was no great expert on government, she thought not. If
it did, the words
United
States would become a mockery.
Yet how to stop the quarrel before it brought disunion?
Jephtha's church had broken apart over the slave
issue. Even his own household was divided. How
could the nation hope to fare any better?
Clearly, Jephtha didn't think it could.
The issues underlying the letter in her hand-and the letter itself-had
upset her. She concentrated with great difficulty
on the closing paragraphs:
Vnhappmess is my lot. But I
consider it God's will that I remain in that state; and
I do what He has commanded. I continue to be
engaged in certain activities at which I have hinted
before, though the fugitive slave bill has made the
labor increasingly difficult. Previously used
points of refuge in the north are now under the
closest scrutiny by southern sympathizers. We
grow desperate for safe destinations for certain
freight, and may be forced to call upon some we would
otherwise not burden or endanger.
Amanda gazed over the lines she'd just read, noting that
the word
freight
had been heavily underscored. In previous letters,
Jephtha had indeed alluded to mysterious
activities, leading her to believe he'd involved
himself in the work of what was popularly called the
Underground Railroad.
The letter concluded with a few phrases containing her
cousin's wish for her continued health and prosperity.
Her eye was drawn back to the quotation from St.
Paul.
And without shedding of blood is no remission.
She believed the slave system had to be done away
with eventually. But was bloodshed the only
course left open to accomplish it? She couldn't
imagine that people of good will hi any part of the country would
want that kind of a solution-
Yet every paper she read told her the positions were
hardening dangerously. The furies were loose on
both sides. What if the compromise of 1850
ultimately proved unworkable? What if the threat
of popular sovereignty proved real, and its
advocates widened the chasm again, until it could
never be bridged-his
She shuddered. The white cat yowled when she jumped
up, startled by the loud, intermiptive ring of the
telegraph gong.
III
Amanda had taught herself Morse's code so that she
could send and receive messages when Michael wasn't
present. She seated herself at the table, a
steel-nibbed pen poised over a pad on which the young
man had noted the times of the evening's previous
transmissions. A moment after she acknowledged the
query from Boston with a tapped-out A. K. D. G.
READY, the operator at the Rothman Bank
began to send:
APOLOGIZE LATE HOUR. SERIES OF
MILL ACCIDENTS REQUIRED
SPECIAL MEETING. BLACKSTONE BOARD
DIRECTORS DEADLOCKED THREE FOR THREE
AGAINST EMPLOYMENT TWO PHYSICIANS
TO TREAT INJURED WORKERS ONE A CH.
OPPONENTS ARGUE STEP UNNECESSARY AND
EXPENSIVE. SAFETY AND WELFARE OF
WORKERS NOT MANAGEMENT'S CONCERN. MR.
ROTHMAN VOTES AYE HOWEVER. URGENTLY
SOLICITS YOUR VOTE ON MATTER.
END.
Amanda's pen flew across the pad, copying down the
final words of the message. She chewed the end of the
pen for perhaps ten seconds, then began to work the key:
EXPENSE NOT FACTOR. BELIEVE WE HAVE
CLEAR RESPONSIBILITY. MR. ROTHMAN
AUTHORIZED TO CAST AYE VOTE FOR A.
K. D. G.
The library doors opened. Michael came in
carrying several papers and a ledger. While the sounder
chattered out ACKNOWLEDGED WITH THANKS, he took
Amanda's pen from her fingers and scribbled on her
pad:
12,875 shares as of last Wednesday afternoon
-
representing 38% of outstanding shares.
She nodded, aware of Michael lingering just behind her as
she rapped out the signal for a further transmission,
then began to send the dots and dashes:
SPEED UP ACQUISITION STOVALL WORKS
STOCK BY BOSTON HOLDINGS. URGENT
REPEAT URGENT WE REACH FIFTY ONE
PER CENT OWNERSHIP SOON AS POSSIBLE.
END.
In a moment, the sounder replied with words Amanda
didn't bother to copy:
ACKNOWLEDGED ROTHMAN'S BANK.
Satisfied, she stood up.
"You think Stovall will attempt to block your
purchase of shares?" Michael wanted to know.
"Of course he will-if he finds out who I am before
we have a controlling interest. I'm sure he's
aware of movement in the issue. He may not
realize the
individual blocks have been re-sold to Boston
Holdings, but he could certainly track down that
fact if his suspicions were sufficiently aroused."
"You're quite right The bank that acts as the registrar
of the stock has the information. There's no legal way
to prevent them having it. You're gambling they'll
neglect to inform Stovall-was
"I'm gambling they haven't yet Joshua
Rothman and I have already agreed to the final step.
When Joshua's intermediaries have acquired the shares
representing the last thirteen percent, those shares
won't be transferred to Boston Holdings in
small batches, as we've done in the past.
They'll all be held and transferred in a single
day. It'll be too late for Stovall to do anything
about the takeover then. Still, you're right-the risk has
always been high-was She paused only a moment. "I
think it's time we developed an alternate plan.
Just in case the stock scheme's uncovered."
Michael looked wary: "What sort of plan,
Mrs. A?"
"You told me some nasty gossip about Stovall-that
he's spent time with a brother and sister on Mulberry
Street-both of whom are prostitutes?"
Glumly, Michael nodded. "Yes."
"What are their names?"
"I fail to see how their names could be of any-was
"Tell me anyway."
His face had lost its cheerful look. "The
Phelan twins. Joseph and Aggie."
"Are they still-what's the term for that sort of thing?
Practicing?"
In a clipped voice: "I don't know."
"I think you do."
"I really don't inquire too deeply into such
matters-was
"Well, I want you to inquire. I want you
to see whether you can get a deposition from them.
Concerning what goes on during any one of
Stovall's visits. In detail, Michael.
Such complete detail that there can be
no doubt of the-the customer's identity. Or his
intention."
She tried not to see his stunned look.
"Christ!" he whispered. "You don't mean that-was
"I do."
"Manipulating stock is one thing. But mucking around
in slime is quite another-was
"Are you telling me you won't do it?"
A long silence. Amanda said:
"If you won't go to the Five Points, I will."
He studied her face for a sign that she was bluffing
him; saw none. With a shake of his head, he said
softly:
"All right. I suppose I'm obligated to do
whatever you ask as long as I'm in your employ."
"And you
are
still in my employ-was
"For the moment."
The dull-voiced threat didn't even make her
blink:
"Can these Phelans be persuaded to give you the
information I want?"
"Mrs. A, listen! You mustn't soil yourself in this
sort of-was
"Answer me, Michael!"
He sighed. "Yes, I think the information could be
gotten-if the Phelans were given enough money, and
frightened a little in the bargain."
"Would they speak to you in front of a notary?"
'I tell you it's all a matter of how much you pay
them comand how much they imagine they're threatened. I
could take not only a notary, but a couple of
pretty tough lads I knew on the docks. If
I were to go," he added.
"You'll go. Because I'm willing to pay the Phelans
five thousand dollars-and whatever it takes above that
to relocate them in another city. Someplace quite
distant comou of StovalTs reach. New Orleans,
St. Louis-was
Dourly, he said, "For five thousand, I
imagine the Phelans would climb in your bed and put
on a
performance that would stop your heart with shock-and if you were
still alive afterward, they'd hand you their souls in a white
hanky."
"Go see them. Get me the statement. Prepare
two identical copies."
"What are you going to do with the copies?"
"For the moment, nothing."
"But if you were to use them, how-?"
"Why, I expect one copy would go to Mr.
Stovall- with a suggestion that the other might soon be
delivered to his prospective bride. I just
heard about her this evening. A very proper young woman,
I'm told. He's in desperate need of her
father's money."
He stared at her, disbelieving.
"I find your reactions damned annoying,
Michael!"
"Be as annoyed as you please! I can't
reconcile that
" He pointed to the display case holding the medal.
comwith what you're proposing. You told me once the
Kents always took the high road-was
"There are times," she said angrily, "when
the
high road
won't get you where you must go. I
want Kent's!
The statements are only insurance. I really think
we'll be successful with the stock, so let's not
quarrel-was She fanned herself. "My God, I
can't stand this heat a moment longer. Is there anything
else we need to discuss?"
"Well-was
"Speak up before I suffocate."
"It-it concerns Louis. I think I know why he's
behaving oddly. I tried to suggest as much a while
ago, but you were all caught up in Mrs.
Ludwig's gossip."
"Go on."
"Professor Pemberton wishes an appointment.
He sent round a note. Your son isn't performing
satisfactorily in school."
"You mean he's failing?"
"It's not that he lacks interest or aptitude-he
simply
doesn't wish to do the work. So he doesn't.
He's also indulged in a bit of scrapping-was "A
bit or a lot?"
"Well-the latter. You can read the professor's
note. He says that when Louis doesn't get his
way in some trivial dispute with his classmates,
he swings a punch. Rather a mean one, too, I
gather. You can be thankful you're not raising a coward,
anyway-was
He tried to smile. The effort failed. The dispute
about the Phelans had soured his mood.
She wondered sadly whether her own pattern of
living was responsible for the way Louis was
developing. The change in him dated from the time she'd
tried to explain why she'd shot the man in the mining
camp. Ever since, she'd had the uncanny feeling
that her son was imitating her behavior; doing
exactly as he pleased-just as she appeared to do. He
didn't realize that every action she took had one
motive: to see Kent and Son restored to its rightful
owners. She'd have to try again to make him understand she was
working toward a goal-a goal that mattered almost as much
as life itself-
She glanced up, aware of Michael studying her.
He said nothing. But she felt accused. In concocting
the scheme with the Phelan twins, wasn't she acting
just as irresponsibly as her son? Taking what she
wanted, regardless of the means-and regardless
of who might be injured?
No!
There
is a
difference! she thought.
But she was uneasy with the conclusion.
She didn't want Michael to see that. She
spoke briskly:
"Does Louis know about Pemberton's note?"
"No. When the boy dropped in here a while ago,
I asked him one or two questions about school, that's
all."
"How did he answer?"
"He said he was bored."
"Let me have the note."
He rummaged on the desk. "Oh-here's one more that
arrived with the late mail. A solicitation of funds
from Mr. Thurlow Weed in Albany. He's the
newspaper publisher, isn't he?"
"And the power behind the Whig party in the state comhe and
Seward. Should I read that?"
"It depends on whether you want to contribute
funds to support the party's convention in
Baltimore in June."
"I suppose I'm closer to a Whig
than to anything else," she said. "I can't quite bring
myself to be as rabid against slavery as the
Free-Soilers. But I'll be damned if I'll
give a penny to a party when I can't vote for it.
Put that in a letter to Mr. Weed. Tell him the
moment the Whigs support votes for women, he'll
have my contribution."
"Do you really mean that?"
"Of course I do!" She looked rueful. "I also
know it's impractical as the devil."
"You are a somewhat contradictory creature,
Mrs. A."
"Did you ever know a person who wasn't?"
He inclined his head again, almost smiling as he
agreed. Then:
"Shall I or shall I not write Mr. Weed?"
"Yes, write him a polite note," she sighed.
"Enclose a draft for a hundred dollars."
"Very well."
"And don't forget your trip to the Five Points."
"That would be impossible," he said. "May I plead
with you once more not to-?"
"No."
"You can be a hard woman, Mrs. A."
"When it's necessary."
"You've never been hard with me before. Demanding, but not
hard." He rubbed his knuckles across his upper
lip. "You know how much I hated the tenements comandthe
crookedness on the docks. You know very
well I'd sooner die than be forced back to either.
You're taking advantage of that. Still, that isn't
what bothers me the most. So far, everything you've
done to get the firm is legal. Surreptitious,
but legal. The Phelans, though- that's something
else."
His steady gaze frightened her; blunted her anger.
Her mind echoed with Bart's biblical warning; and
Jehtha's-
For remission of sin, the price was blood.
"That's my worry, not yours."
She started for the door, then swung back:
"Oh, yes-I'd better take Pemberton's
letter. I want to read it before I talk to Louis in the
morning."
"Here. Mrs. A-?"
"Yes, Michael?"
"I really am glad you got home safely. That
storm's growing nasty outside-was
With a dispirited smile, she held up the note from the
headmaster:
"It appears we've one of our own brewing inside,
too."
IV
Amanda climbed the stairs slowly. She stopped on
the landing to catch her breath beside the stained glass
window. The window contained a small portrait of
Lord Byron set above a pattern of figures
representing the muses.
Under the gas fixture, she read what Pemberton
had written. It was every bit as grim as Michael
had hinted. Louis was willfully refusing to settle
down to his studies-
Damned if she'd wait till morning to have it out with
him!
Instead of proceeding to her room, she turned the
opposite way on the second floor, toward
his. She frowned when she tried to open the door.
Locked.
She thought she heard a voice-not her
son's-whispering inside. Curious and a little alarmed,
she knocked:
"Louis?"
No answer.
"Louis, this is your mother. Why do you have the door
bolted? Please open it at once."
The Box
AN IRRATIONAL DREAD settled over Amanda
while she waited for a reply. The wind whined across the
roof. A door closed below; Michael leaving the
library. In her son's room, she heard
furtive footsteps and, if her ears weren't
tricking her, that unfamiliar voice.
"Louis, unless you answer me-was she began, only
to be interrupted:
"I'm here, mother." The sound of a yawn-too
exaggerated to be genuine. "What do you want?"
"I want you to open the door immediately."
"You woke me up."
He's lying,
she thought, the knowledge a sickening shock. She'd never known
her son to lie before. The other voice whispered again.
This time she identified it as a woman's; the shock
was instantly compounded.
Amanda had long ago realized Louis would
probably have his first experience with a girl without her
knowledge. She'd decided she would have little control over the
time and place, and that about all she could do was exert her
influence to see he didn't become involved with some
diseased tart from the slums. But she hadn't expected
the encounter to happen so soon. Nor in her
own house-
Who was with him?
Of all the females who worked for her, she
suspected Kathleen McCreery. Kathleen was
young; not unattractive. Who had taken the
initiative, the boy or the maid? Kathleen
didn't strike her as a scheming sort. But
obviously the girl knew she was working in a wealthy
household-
Her mind a chaos of questions, Amanda finally realized
the door was still closed.
"Louis, I'm not going to continue to speak to you this
way. Let me in!"
The door opened. But not far.
That Louis had been lying to her was immediately apparent.
He was still dressed. But he was barefoot. The tail
of his shirt hung over his left hip. Far from
sleepy, he was sweating.
"Mother, you woke me out of a sound-was
"The devil I did!" She shoved the door and
rushed past him before he could stop her.
Beside the bed, looking utterly terrified, was the
McCreery girl. She was clumsily trying
to smooth her black skirt. And sure enough, there was
the evidence: the rumpled bed with covers
tossed back; a damp stain tinged pink at one
edge-
Louis started to speak. Kathleen was quicker:
"Ma'am-please-believe me-he forced me-was
"What do you mean,
forced!"
"Just-just that. I was fixing the room for the night. He
came in-he said-
ohhh
-"
"For God's sake, Kathleen, don't start
crying! I can hardly make sense of what you're
saying as it is--"
Louis stormed between them:
"Who cares what she's saying? Every bit of it's a
lie! She practically begged me-was
Kathleen's face convulsed with shame and rage:
"You filthy boy. You filthy,
filthy
boy-was
To Amanda:
"I've never been with a man before-God as my
witness! He locked the door-was
"Shut your mouth!"
Louis cried, running at her with his hand
raised.
Amanda lunged, caught her son's wrist, flung
his fist
down to his side. He glared at her; tried
to strike her-
Amanda slapped him across his left cheek, then across
his right.
The boy stumbled back, upsetting a chair. He
almost blundered against one of the windows before he righted himself,
staring at his mother with astonishment and fear. His normally
swarthy face had drained of color. The sight of
him sickened her.
She pointed to the overturned chair.
"You sit down while I listen to Kathleen's side
of this. Then I'll give you a chance-was
He hesitated. But he finally obeyed, righting the
chair in front of the window and sinking down.
Outside, the rooftops of the square showed thickening
crusts of white coms clean in contrast to the ugliness
she'd discovered-
The boy watched his mother apprehensively as she shut
the door. Walking back to Kathleen McCreery,
Amanda felt her belly aching again, worse than
ever-
She put her arm around Kathleen. With their
backs to the boy, she gave the girl's trembling
shoulders a gentle squeeze:
"Don't be afraid to speak. If Louis abused
you, he'll be punished-was
"Oh yes?" the girl retorted. "He's never
punished for anything."
"He will be this time. Now tell me precisely what
happened."
Kathleen tried, her speech breathy and punctuated
by loud sniffles that might have made Amanda laugh in
other circumstances:
"He said that-he said he wanted me-in his bed and
comif I wouldn't, he'd-he'd say he caught
me-trying to steal something-was
Amanda studied the maid's red, puffy eyes.
Unless the girl was a superb actress, she
wasn't pretending.
"So you consented?"
"I consented because I'd have been accused if I
didn't! He demanded that I undress-was
"Demanded?"
"Just the way he demands everything. Don't you know how
your own son behaves with the people who wait on him?"
"No, I-I guess I don't. Evidently
I've been too busy to give Louis the
right sort of attention-was
But I've given him the pattern to follow, haven't
I?
She remembered California; the boy's odd, almost
admiring smile when she talked about the man she'd
shot-
Struggling against rage that was directed more toward herself
than her son, she faced him. Walked to him.
Stood before him, her stare fixed on his guilty,
evasive eyes-
"Louis, do you deny what Kathleen says?"
"Yes-yes, I do," he answered, though without
firmness. "She flaunted herself-was
"May the saints summon me this minute,
I didn't!"
the girl burst out. "I'd never do such a thing!
Mrs. de la Gura. I'd never risk losing this
job-I spent months searching for a house where they'd
take Irish. Do you think I'd throw that away
even-even if I wanted the likes of him?"
"No," Amanda said wearily. "No, that wouldn't be
at all likely."
"Ma, I tell you she's making it all up-to "
Louis began.
"Louis-was Her voice was pitched low, her
eyes stark.
"I am not going to tolerate a single lie from you.
Did
you or did you not demand that Kathleen obey you?"
He still evaded her gaze. She dug her nails
into his
shoulder:
"Louis,
answer me."
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, as if
realizing he was trapped, he turned defiant:
"What" if I did? Why shouldn't I have her if
I want? This is my house, not hers-and she's
nothing but slum trash."
Kathleen began to weep again. As Amanda let go of
his shoulder, her lips were almost colorless:
"Of all the insufferable arrogance
-"
"Are you taking
her
part?"
"Yes! I am! What gave you the right to think you could
order her about any way you wished? No one- nothing
gives you that right!"
"No?" A kind of cowering nastiness wrenched
his face.
"You
seem to do exactly what you please. Anywhere comand
any time."
She struck him with her fist, savagely. He
toppled off the chair, fell on one knee, still
glaring. She shook with fury-realizing belatedly that
she'd really been striking out not at him, but at his
accusation-
Because she knew it was true.
ii
She ordered Louis to remain in his room. With as much
control as she could muster, she put her arm around
Kathleen again, shepherded her out to the hall and led her
toward her own quarters.
Amanda pitied the young girl. But she also knew what
had to be done. Louis must be dealt with firmly,
decisively-and at once. Kathleen's presence
would only compound the difficulty of taking him in hand.
She turned up the gas in her private sitting
room and eased the girl gently into a chair. Then
she sat down opposite her, trying to speak
calmly:
"Kathleen, I can't tell you how ashamed I am of
what Louis did-was
The girl made a faltering effort to straighten her
disarrayed hair. "If only-if only he hadn't
used me like coml some piece of goods-was
"I'm afraid I must bear the blame for that.
I've inadvertently let Louis believe he can do
whatever he wishes. I intend to correct that-was
Provided it isn't already too late.
"However-was Here was the thorny place. "comI think you
can realize it would only make things more difficult
if you were to remain in the house."
Kathleen's head lifted. Her coppery hair
glinted in the flickering glow of the gas-and so did her
reddened eyes:
"You're going to turn me out?"
"I don't want to, but you wouldn't be happy here
in the light of what's happened. Nor would it be good
for Louis to-was
"It
is
his part you're taking. It
is!"
"Kathleen, I assure you it isn't. I'm thinking
of your welfare too."
"Then for God's sake think of how much I need this
position!"
"I've considered that."
"You're not going to punish him, that's it," she declared.
"I assure you I'm going to punish him.
Severely."
"No, you're getting rid of me so you can smooth it
over. Pretend it never happened-was
"You're being unreasonable, Kathleen. Don't you
appreciate the problems it would cause for you to see
Louis every day, feeling as you do about him? I'm asking
you to leave for your own sake. In fact I want you
to go tonight."
"Tonight-to "
"Yes, go downstairs and speak with Michael.
Tell him to write you a draft for eight weeks'
wages. Give him your address, and I'll do my
utmost to locate another position for you-was
"So I'm to be thrown out as though I'm the
criminal?"
"You don't seem to understand I'm doing it for your
peace of mind as well as-was
"I
want
him to look at me! I want him to remember how
cruel he was!"
Amanda shook her head. "That won't serve
any useful purpose. In a few days you'll see
the wisdom of-was
"I won't be treated this way, Mrs. de la
Gura. I did nothing wrong. The wrong's all
on the boy's side."
"And mine," Amanda said wearily. "I've
admitted that." Her voice hardened just a little. "But
I still insist you go."
All at once Kathleen's eyes brimmed with
resentment. Her face showed a wrath Amanda had
never seen her display before:
"You'd better not do this to me-was
Amanda bristled. "Young lady, I'm trying to act
in your own best interests. I won't be threatened."
"If you force me to leave, I have friends who'll take
my part."
Somehow the plain words made Amanda's spine
crawl.
"Friends?"
"My uncle's a pal of Mr. Rynders. You know
who Mr. Rynders is, don't you?"
"Isaiah Rynders? Of course."
"I'll make sure he learns what you've done."
"Have you heard nothing I've said? I know you're the
one who's been wronged. I'm trying
to make what amends I can-was
To salve my conscience?
"I need this position," the girl repeated, more
firmly. "It's the best I've ever had, and no one
else in my family is old enough to bring home steady
wages. If you put me out, Mr. Rynders will
hear about it."
"And do what, may I ask? Send some of his
hooligans to throw stones at the house?"
"I-I don't know what he'll do, but he'll do
something. And it won't be just stones, either."
Her reddened eyes seethed with anger-the same kind of
anger Amanda had occasionally seen on Michael's
face when he spoke of blacks, or the crowded,
filth-ridden stews of his childhood. But understanding the
girl's rage didn't mean she could condone it:
"I'm afraid I'm losing patience with you,
Kathleen-was
"You'll lose a lot more before this is over!"
"Don't you dare utter one more threat, young lady!
You go see Michael this instant!"
The girl started to retort, recognized how
deeply she'd stirred Amanda's wrath, and kept
silent. With a last, hateful glance at her former
employer, she rushed from the room, slamming
the door behind her.
Amanda sat motionless for the better part of five
minutes. Then, overwhelmed by misery and exhaustion,
she buried her face in her hands and cried.
III
When the crippling despair passed, she went to her
bedroom. She found the whiskey she kept at hand for
those nights when sleep refused to come easily. She
poured a generous measure and drank it in swift
swallows.
The effect of the whiskey was almost instantaneous. A
semblance of control restored, she walked down the
hall to Louis' room and knocked.
He replied with a sullen monosyllable.
"I'll be back to speak with you as soon as I've
talked with Michael," she said.
Silence.
Amanda shook her head, wheeled and strode toward the
staircase.
She found Michael at the desk in the library, his
de
meaner as melancholy as it had been following their
discussion of the Phelans. She closed the doors and
leaned against them.
"Has Kathleen been here?"
"Yes, Mrs. A, she just left. I wrote the
draft as you instructed. She's downstairs, packing
her belongings. Considering the snow and the late hour, I
doubt we can whistle up a hack. I'll have to hitch
the carriage and drive her home myself."
"How much did Kathleen tell you?"
"Enough to make it clear master Louis all but raped
her." He hesitated. "What do you plan to do about
the boy?"
"We'll discuss that in a moment. Do you agree
Kathleen should go?"
Michael rose and walked toward his chair. He'd
refilled his plate with mutton. He picked up a
slice and bit into it without much relish. Eventually
he answered:
"Under the circumstances, I do."
"The girl made some wild threats about setting
Isaiah Rynders on us."
Michael's brow hooked up. "The ward boss?"
"Yes. She claims he's a friend of her uncle.
Gould she make good on a threat like that?"
"I expect so. There isn't a major gang with which
Isaiah Rynders doesn't have connections-the
Patsy Con-roys, the Daybreak Boys, the
Shut Tails, the Plug Ug-lies.
If Rynders could do her uncle a favor-rather, have
some of his thugs do it-he would. Such little acts of
kindness insure loyalty to the Society of Saint
Tammany come election time."
"Do you have any idea what they'd do?"
"None whatever. It could be a friendly little street
assault when you least suspect it. Or Louis
might be the target. Some of the roughest gangs
specialize in such charming touches as stomping a
victim with shoes in which they've embedded a couple of
knife-blades-was
"Dear God!"
"They're also fond of quick raids to wreck and loot
a house. Or arson-that's relatively safe. The
possibilities are almost without limit-was He
shrugged. "On the other hand, Kathleen's threat may
be more heat than substance."
"You're not entirely convinced of it."
Michael's eyes slid away. "Not entirely."
"Well, I suppose it's time for me
to resurrect my old revolver and keep it handy."
"Not a bad notion," he agreed.
"As for Louis-I know what I'm going to do. First
I intend to punish him personally. Then I'm going
to withdraw him from Professor
Pemberton's Day School for a while. Put him
to work around the house. Any sort of project that
needs doing-or can be invented. I want you to take
charge of that phase. Work him to exhaustion."
"What are you trying to do, Mrs. A, break him like
a horse?"
That irritated her: "Do you have a better
suggestion?"
"I think so-though it'll make you even more angry."
"I'm listening."
Michael drew in a deep breath. "Set
him
a different kind of example."
She turned red. "Just exactly what do you mean?"
"Simply this. You're a determined woman. You go
after what you want, no interference allowed-and you make
no secret of it. I suspect Louis is only
showing his admiration of that."
"In a very warped way!" She said it sharply. But
she knew Michael had touched the essential truth
of the problem.
"Agreed," he said. "Still, you might find things
changing favorably if you displayed-shall we say-a
less aggressive attitude?"
"I can't be what I'm not."
"Certainly. But you
can
be less outspoken about your intention to own Kent and
Son at any cost. Louis may not understand the
reason for it, or know how you're going about it. But he
can't help being aware of your hostility. You're quite a
different woman when Mr. Stoall occupies your
thoughts than you are, for example, when you're
entertaining Mrs. Ludwig or arguing the pros and
cons of abolitionism. You may not even realize the
disparity-was
"I'm sorry, I don't."
"Then perhaps I've made you angry in a good
cause.
Amanda gazed restlessly around the library.
At the painting of her grandfather highlighted by the
flicker of flames from the hearth-
At the polished scabbard of the French sword and the
lustrous wood of the Kentucky rifle-
At the shimmering green glass of the tea bottle-
She sounded almost despondent when she spoke:
"Everyone wants to convince me I'm a fool for
trying to get control of the firm."
"Everyone? There have been others before me?"
"Quite a few," she said, sourly. "Rose
Ludwig just this evening. My cousin Jared before he
died. Captain McGill-but that's immaterial.
I consider it my duty to deal with Stovall."
"I'd say your sense of duty has become a
fixation."
"Call it anything you like. @iwon't stop now. He
blocked me once, because I was careless, but he
won't a second time. You must understand how I see
it, Michael -Louis behaved inexcusably. But every
step I've taken against Stovall, I've taken
for a good and sufficient reason-was
"You could lecture Louis for days, Mrs. A, and
I don't believe you'd get through to him. He's not
old enough to comprehend the subtle difference between an
appetite for a woman and an appetite for
revenge. If there
is
a difference-was
"There is!"
His shrug said the question was debatable.
"Michael, what Louis did to Kathleen was
pointless and-was
"Forgive me again," he interrupted. "I may be
expressing a narrow male attitude, but a boy
with a physical craving hardly considers the
craving pointless. It's the most important thing in
the world to him. It took me months to work up nerve the
first time I-well, never mind the details."
"I am talking about the despicable way Louis went
about it!" she insisted.
Michael's gaze rested on Mr. Mayor
sleeping in a ball on the marble in front of the
fire. "You wouldn't call my planned expedition
to the Five Points despicable?"
"I was very explicit on that subject. The
material from the Phelans would only be used in an
extreme situation, so let's not permit that to confuse
the discussion."
He flushed. "I think it's very pertinent to the
discussion. You
did
ask for my suggestions-was
"Well, I don't agree with them. Hamilton
Stovall and my son's behavior have nothing to do with
one another."
"Who are you trying to convince? Me? Or yourself?"
"Michael, you're overstepping-to "
"The hell I am! You've enrolled me as your
son's disciplinarian!"
"I told you I intend to punish-was
"For God's sake, Mrs. A, why won't you
recognize that it's your obsession with Kent and Son
that's damaging the boy? Until you reach that conclusion,
no punishment will make a whit of difference in
Louis' character. If you change, he may.
Otherwise-was
"Enough, Michael."
"No, goddamn it, I want to have my say about-was
"The subject is
closed."
There was a heavy silence.
"And you'll take charge of Louis as I
instructed."
"Ordered!" he growled, turning toward the
fireplace. He saw the white cat lying in
front of him. He kicked it.
Mr. Mayor woke with a start, nearly as astonished
at the young man's cruelty as Amanda herself.
Michael slammed a fist down on the mantel, then
bent to stroke the cat, murmuring apologies almost
as if he'd struck a human being.
She
couldn't
admit Michael was right. Or Jared. Or Bart
McGill. She couldn't admit she was being
destroyed by her own dedication to owning the printing house.
She was strong. She'd survived challenges before.
Survived and overcome them. She would survive this
one; bring Louis into line
and
gain her objective-
Michael's back was still turned as she said, "Be
sure Louis is wakened at six. I'll inform him
before I go to bed that you'll be-was
A commotion at the rear of the house whirled them both
toward the doors.
Michael started into the hall, only to step back as
the butler, Mr. Hampton, rushed into sight, still
struggling to slip his arms into his black coat. He
smelled of gin; he'd evidently been relaxing
downstairs before trudging home-
"Mrs. de la Gura, there is an Adams
Express wagon in the alley."
"At this hour?"
"I hardly believed it myself when I saw the
accumulation of snow. Nevertheless, two deliverymen
are bringing in a large crate."
"We've ordered nothing big enough to be delivered in a
crate-was Michael began.
"I can't help that, Mr. Boyle,"
Hampton said with a dogged shake of his head. "The
crate has come from the railroad station, addressed
to this house."
"Oh my God," Amanda exclaimed, an incredible
suspicion forming in her mind. "Jephtha's letter-was
"What's that to do with a crate from Adams
Express?" Michael wanted to know.
But Amanda had already dashed past him toward the
butler's pantry. With astonished looks, he and
Hampton hurried after her.
iv
The crate, dripping melted snow and exuding a
faint acrid smell, had been brought down the rear
service stairs into the room at the rear of the raised
basement. The room was a cheerless place without gas
fixtures, used principally for storage.
The servants clustered around the crate. One of them,
Brigid, the downstairs maid, held a flickering
oil lamp that cast slow-moving shadows. Two sodden
and distinctly unhappy draymen stood eyeing the box
as Amanda entered, Michael and the butler right behind.
The outer door blew open, whirling snow and freezing
air into the room. The flame of the lamp jumped in the
sudden gust. Grotesque shadows leaped across the
walls and ceiling. One drayman kicked
the door shut while Amanda surveyed the crate.
It had been crudely addressed in black paint:
Mrs. A. de la Gum Madison Square
New York City
It also bore a return address-
J. Jared, Clifton Forge, Virginia
comand, across the ends, an additional legend:
Books and household merchandise
The contrived name of the sender-meaningful to Amanda but to no
one else-strengthened her growing conviction about the
crate's contents. With a sinking feeling, she
recalled a passage in Jephtha's letter about
regular destinations for
freight
being unsafe-
"Come off the train from Baltimore," one of the
draymen informed her. "We ain't to blame for the stink.
One of the handlers down at the terminal must have pissed
on-was
His companion nudged him, then held out a scrap of
paper and pencil to Amanda:
"You'll have to sign."
"Why did you deliver it on such a bad night?"
she asked, scribbling her name.
was "Cos the goddamn sender paid
extra," the first man grumbled. "Special
delivery within an hour after it arrived-was
The draymen left. Outside, wheels crunched
snow. Hoofs clopped softly. The sounds faded.
Amanda circled the box, spotting three small
holes neatly drilled through the wood. She didn't
know whether to laugh or weep over the additional
burden thrust so unexpectedly on the already disturbed
household.
Michael voiced the confusion of the whispering servants:
"Who in God's name would be shipping you books and
such, Mrs. A?"
"That still. J
ared
is the Reverend Kent in Virginia. Jared was his
father's name. I'm sure he painted that on the box so
we'd identify the sender."
"Well, we can leave it sitting till morning,
anyway-was
Amanda shook her head. "We have to open it. Fetch
a crowbar."
"Why?"
She pointed. "Do you notice those holes?"
"What of them?"
"Do you remember reading in the paper last
year about a black man in Virginia who had himself
shipped to the Philadelphia Anti-Slavery
Society? The underground railroad's used the
trick several times before."
"Oh my Lord!" the cook exclaimed. "Is your
cousin mixed up in that, ma'am?"
"I've had hints of it in his letters-Michael, bring
the crowbar!"
In half a minute, the young man returned and fell
to prying one side off the case. Amanda was outraged
that the Reverend Jephtha Kent would make her a party
to his illegal work without so much as a word of warning-
But there
had
been warning, she realized belatedly. In
Jephtha's delayed letter, hadn't he made a
reference to
calling on some comwe comwdn't otherwise burden or
endanger?
If those weren't the exact words, the sense was the
same. He'd been telling her in a cryptic way
that he might need her help. Perhaps he'd avoided
saying it straight out in case mail from 'suspected
underground railroad operators was tampered with. At
the time she'd read the lines, she'd simply
been too dull-witted to grasp his meaning.
A nail squealed as Michael worked the crowbar.
He was starting to pry loose another when the bar
slipped from his fingers and clanged on the floor.
"Can't hold onto the blasted thing. There's a bit
of grease on it-was
"Spit on your hands," Amanda said.
Bent over and reaching for the length of iron, Michael
stared. The reaction was more pronounced from the servants.
The butler uttered an audible gasp.
Amanda snapped at him:
"Haven't you ever used a little spit so you could get a
better hold on something, Mr. Hampton?"
"No, madam, I have not," the butler said, plainly
horrified by the idea.
"Well, you're not taking advantage of the saliva
God
gave you. For heaven's sake, Michael, get that
damn thing open!"
"Right away, Mrs. A-I was about to do the very thing you
suggested."
He moistened his palms while Mr. Hampton
raised his eyes to the ceiling.
Presently the last nail came free. Michael
scrambled back as the side of the box
crashed to the floor. One of the maids shrieked
softly. Amanda almost felt like crying again:
Not this on top of everything else
-!
Huddled inside the crate in a tangle of cheap
blankets was a light-skinned colored girl. Her
frayed cotton dress barely covered her
emaciated thighs. Amanda judged her to be sixteen
or seventeen. She looked undernourished and nearly
frozen. With the crate open, the smell of urine was
much stronger.
The black girl started to crawl out, tears in her
eyes:
"I thought I die in there. I thought I die from the
cold and the shakin" on the train-was
Amanda forced herself to stay calm. She knelt and
slipped an arm around the trembling girl:
"You're safe, child. Safe. What's your name?"
"Mary, ma'am."
"Mary what?"
"Mary's the only name I got."
"I'm Mrs. de la Gura-was
"Praise God! The Reveren' Kent, he took
me over to Clifton Forge hid in Mr. Syme's
wagon. He stopped in some woods
outside of town, an' before he nailed me in the
box, he say you help me get to Canada-was
"Christ, that's all we need-black contraband!"
Michael groaned.
"Hush, Michael."
"But you can be arrested for concealing a runaway si-was
"I said hush! Mary-how long have you been shut up in
that box?"
"Mos' part of two nights an' all day, I
guess-what day's this?"
"Friday night-Saturday morning by now."
"The Reverend, he drove me to the Virginia
Central depot Wednesday-trip's almos'
thirty miles-was
"Why couldn't they simply have shipped the creature
to Canada?" Mr. Hampton asked, disdainful.
"Watch your tongue, Mr. Hampton," Amanda
warned. "She's not a creature-she's a human
being. And a hungry one at that, I imagine. Have you
had anything to eat, child?"
"Biscuits. No drinkin' water. Breathin' was the
hardest. Breathin' and bracin' my hands an' feet
so I wouldn't roll around and make noise when men
lifted the box-was
"Does that answer you, Mr. Hampton?"
Amanda asked in a waspish voice. "If they
shipped her all the way to Canada, she'd
probably suffocate before she got there-or make
such a stink in the box someone would surely open it."
The girl grew agitated. "I couldn't help
wettin' myself. I tried and tried not to-I tried
hard, but I couldn't-was
"That's all right, that's all right," Amanda whispered,
patting her. "You did just fine, Mary. Who do you
belong to?"
The girl blinked. "To me. I get to Canada,
I won't belong to nobody ever again."
"But who did you belong to in Virginia?"
"Cap'n Tunworth."
"The Reverend's father-in-law?"
"Yes'm. He a proper gentleman with other white
folks, but he can be mean as hell to his niggers when
the spell's on him."
Amanda nodded, her anger at Jephtha all but
erased
by the courage and fragility of the young girl who had
entrusted her life to two white men, and ridden
rattling trains in a lightless wooden cage with
mortal fear for her companion.
"I've met the captain," she said.
"You've confirmed my impression of him-was
"I knew Mr. Syme could get me started
to Canada. Mos' every nigger "round Lexington
knows that. I never wanted to go till the cap'n sold
my mamma and papa to a man in Carolina. But the
cap'n wouldn't sell me. I figure I never
see my folks again, so I might as well take a
chance on being" a free person-was
"But why did the Reverend send you here?" Michael
asked. "Why not to an organization like the local
antislavery society?"
"Jephtha's letter indicated that was getting too
dangerous," Amanda said.
Mary nodded. "He and Mr. Syme say they got
slave-catchers watching those places now. Watching
for colored comeven for boxes like the one I come in-was
Suddenly she hugged Amanda, burying her head on the
older woman's shoulder.
"I hate that old box! It was all dark an' I
made it smell bad-I couldn't help it-I'm so
glad I'm here- I'm so glad-was
"Someone bring a couple of clean blankets,"
Amanda said while the girl sobbed. "We'll put
her in the third floor bedroom next to Michael's
until I decide what we can do with-was
She froze. At the storeroom door beyond the
cluster of servants, she saw Kathleen
McCreery.
Kathleen was bundled in a shabby coat. Her pale
eyes rounded at the sight of the crate and the black
girl in the circle of lamplight.
"Michael-to "
Amanda's warning spun him toward the door.
"Get her out of here!
When you take her home, warn her that she'd better
not say a word."
"I'm afraid we're not in much of a position
to issue warnings," Michael whispered. He stalked
to the door and thrust the dumbfounded Kathleen out of
sight.
The black girl began to cry in earnest, long
wailing sobs. Whether of pleasure or pain,
Amanda couldn't tell. She was still fighting the
impulse to cry again herself.
That Jephtha Kent had relied on her willingness
to harbor a runaway-a clear violation of the
Fugitive Slave Act-was upsetting enough.
That the McCreery girl had seen the runaway was
an absolute disaster.
Michael returned to the house about half
past one in the morning, reporting to Amanda in the
library:
"I did the best I could but she's still in a rage.
I promised her an additional two weeks'
wages one month from now-
if
she keeps silent about what she saw."
"Do you think she will?"
Amanda wasn't encouraged when he answered, "It
depends on how angry she's feeling in a day or
two. There's one commodity that's not for sale in the
Five Points, Mrs. A-an end to an
Irishman's wrath once he's down on you."
"Well, let's hope for the best."
"What are we going to do with the nig-the girl?"
"Put her on the first steamer heading to Canada. You
inquire at the piers in the morning."
"What about the disciplining of your son?"
"That can wait a few hours. I still must go up and
speak to him-was
"You haven't yet?"
"No, I haven't yet!" she lashed out. "I've
been attending to the girl! We tried to feed her and
she threw
up everything. I finally got some brandy down
her. That put her to sleep."
"You'd better sleep a little yourself. You look
exhausted."
"I'll see Louis first."
But even that went wrong.
When she climbed the staircase and reached the door of
her son's room, she found it unlocked. She
opened it quietly. The night sky had cleared. The
winter moon shone. Its reflection on snowy
rooftops cast a luminous whiteness into the room.
Louis lay on his side in the soiled bed, fully
dressed. His head was all but hidden in the pillows,
as if he'd tried to burrow deep into them to escape
the world.
Her face drawn, Amanda stared at him for a long
time, thinking.
VI
She found Michael still in the library. His legs were
stretched out toward the dying fire. The white cat was
dozing on his knees. He looked startled when she
slipped inside.
Her glance went briefly to the display case.
Jared's medallion reflected the last red gleams
from the hearth.
"Michael-was
"Yes, Mrs. A?"
"I want you to forget about going to the Five
Points."
He blinked. "You don't want me to contact the
Phe-lans?"
"No."
She expected him to smile. Instead, quite soberly,
he nodded:
"That's good. Because I had decided Fd resign rather
than do that particular chore. I'm thankful you
changed your mind. May I ask why-?"
"I looked at Louis upstairs. And I thought of
what you said about the high road. I-I don't want
the ruining of my son to be the price I pay for
Kent's."
"Why don't you wipe the slate all the way
clean? Forget the stock too. Dissolve Boston
Holdings. You've more" than enough money to start a new
firm."
"It wouldn't be the same. The stock acquisition is
legal. Fll go ahead with that and hope it succeeds."
She was very much aware of how much she was staking on a
single strategy.
Michael smiled then. "At least what you've
decided should make you feel a mite
better."
"In a way it does. At the same time, I think
Fve walked away from a fight. I've never done
that in my life."
"I'd say your decision took more courage than
any fighting ever could."
"I wish I believed you," she said softly. As she
turned to go, the admiration in his eyes was of little comfort.
The Slave-Hunter
SATURDAY MORNING BROUGHT
brilliant sunshine and the drip of melting snow from the
eaves. Amanda slept until nine-three hours
past her usual time for rising. When she saw the
clock on the mantel of her bedroom fireplace,
she got up in a rush, drew on a fur-trimmed
robe and went straight to the third floor.
She found Mary just finishing an immense breakfast
brought up from the kitchen. The girl seemed in good
spirits:
"I never had so much food at one time in all my
life! Never slept in a bed so soft, either."
"Are you feeling well?"
"Reckon I am. I couldn't eat that food fast
enough."
"Good. Today we're going to look into the
schedules of steamers to Canada."
"It scares me some to think about goin'," Mary
admitted. "I don't know anybody there. An' the
Reverend, he didn't have no names to give me-was
"I've been told there are anti-slave
societies in almost every large Canadian city.
I'm sure you'll have no trouble locating one.
They'll help you get settled."
The girl clutched Amanda's arm:
"You don't think they send anybody after me from
Virginia, do you, ma'am?"
"I think it's very unlikely," Amanda reassured
her, hoping she was right. She left Mary sitting on
the bed,
bouncing up and down and enjoying the resilience.
Mary's expression was almost rapturous.
Amanda went to her son's room next. It was
empty. In Kathleen's absence, no one had yet
made up the bed. She returned to her own room,
dressed and hurried down the staircase.
As she descended the steps, she heard the bell of a
horse-car clang on the far side of the square, then
the prolonged rasp of a large chunk of snow sliding
off the roof. In the front hall, the sun shone through
the narrow windows on either side of the door,
casting rectangles of light on the carpet. Somehow
that glow restored her spirits a little. She felt more
competent to deal with the problems that had arisen during the
night.
Hamilton Stovall was far from her mind as she
entered the dining room and saw Louis, still in his
velvet-collared robe, dawdling over a cup of
coffee.
He glanced at her, then back to the cup, his manner
subdued. A moment later, the maid Brigid
appeared. She was a plain, buxom girl in her
late twenties.
"Only tea, I think, Brigid," Amanda said.
"But no cream. I'm putting on too much
weight."
Brigid smiled, murmured, "Yes, ma'am," and
left.
Amanda unfolded the stiff linen napkin set at her
place at the head of the long mahogany table.
Louis was seated on the side, to her left, near a
weighty breakfront displaying some two dozen
pieces of fine silver. Amanda laid the napkin in
her lap; she could feel the tension her presence
created. Rather than confront Louis immediately, she
began with another subject:
"Where is Michael?"
The boy's quick exhalation signaled his relief.
"Off in the carriage already. To the steamer offices,
he said. He told me about the crate Adams
Express delivered last night."
"You're to say nothing about it outside this house. The
girl will be gone within a few days."
Louis nodded. "I don't know who I'd tell,
anyway-was
"I was thinking of your associates at the Day
School," Amanda said in a quiet voice. "The
ones with whom you've been quarreling."
The boy's head jerked up, his dark eyes wary.
"We had a note from Professor Pemberton
yesterday. About your fighting. And your refusal
to study. I've decided to withdraw you from school for a
few weeks."
He almost smiled. He'd hardly consider that a
severe penalty, she knew.
"As to what happened with Kathleen, Fm going
to punish you for that when we finish breakfast."
"Punish me? How?"
"You'll discover in due time. First Fd like to ask you
a question. Have I somehow given you the idea that you can
take anything you want in this world with no thought
of how you might be hurting other people?"
The boy frowned. "I don't know, ma-mother.
Sometimes, I-I do have the feeling you do whatever you
please-was
"Then I am to blame-even though there are good
reasons why I behave as I do. You had no good
reason for what you did to Kathleen. And nothing like that
will ever happen again, Louis. Nothing," she repeated.
"I'm afraid I've spoiled you. That too is
going to change. While you're out of school, I
expect you to work around the house. Under Michael's
supervision."
He accepted the announcement in stoic silence.
"Now Fd like to know something else. After mistreating
Kathleen last night, did you feel nothing? No
shame? No sorrow-?"
He pressed his lips together, toying with the handle of his
cup. When he looked at her again, she felt almost
dizzy with relief. There
was
a spark of contrition in those blazing black eyes:
"Yes, I-I felt wretched." He lowered his
head. "But not until it was over."
He stood up suddenly, hurrying around the corner
of the table to stand beside her. "I went to sleep
thinking of how I tried to lie to you-and how much you
despised me. I can't stand to have you hate me, ma-was
She closed her eyes a moment, immensely
relieved. Perhaps he wasn't beyond hope after all.
"I don't hate you, Louis. I love you. But
I can't forgive or excuse what you did. You
hurt Kathleen. You shamed her, you abused her as
if she were an animal. You caused her to lose her
job because I couldn't keep her in this house after what
happened. No matter how rich a person may
be-or how self-important money makes you
feel-and it does, sometimes-that still gives you no right
whatsoever to hurt another human being who's done
nothing to hurt you. I'm going to impress that on you in
a way I trust you'll never forget. At the same
time, I acknowledge my part in your guilt-I
expect Fve set you a bad example because you
don't understand why I do certain things."
"Would those things have anything to do with that man who still owns
Kent's?"
"What do you know about him, Louis?" she countered
softly.
"Why-I know he won't sell the company back
to you, and that makes you mad. You bring up his name with
Michael a lot, and you're mad then too.
I've read in the papers that Stovall runs a
huge steel factory. And I remember once in
California, you and Captain Bart had a terrible
argument while I was trying to sleep. I heard his
name even way back then-was
Amanda sighed. "Well, you're correct. A good
deal of my activity since we've come east is
connected with Stovall. I expect I owe you a
full explanation. You'll have it comin a week or
two-when you've shown me you mean to change your
ways."
She couldn't keep affection out of her voice as she
clasped both of his hands in hers:
"I can't permit you to go the wrong way now, Louis.
There's too much at stake-principally your future.
You'll be in charge of Kent and Son one day. I
want you to work with Th@eo Payne if he'll stay
on. Learn from him-was
"But we don't even own the company!"
"We will," she assured him. "And you'll re-build
it into the kind of firm your great-grandfather would be proud
of. There's no limit to the possibilities open
to you, Louis. A useful life-a good marriage-
entree
to the best homes-by the time you're grown,"
she added with a wry smile, "the sour old society
ladies who consider me new rich will be in their
graves. Their children will welcome you as an equal.
That's what I want for you combecause you're a Kent. And
because I love you."
He pulled his hands loose and flung his arms around
her neck, hugging her:
"I know I did wrong last night, ma. I'll
make it up to you-I want you to be proud of me-was
She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her
cheek against his chest, the relief almost unbearable -
She heard Brigid enter with her tea and broke
away. The tea smelled delicious. She drank
it eagerly. An image of the portrait of
Philip Kent drifted into her mind. She thought,
It isn't too kite. I'll turn him into a
Kent "Worthy of the name
-
The sound of boots stamping in the front hall
caught her attention. She heard Michael speaking
to Hampton, set her teacup down and hurried from the
room.
Michael stood in an oblong of sunlight,
unwrapping a long scarf of red wool from around his
collar. His hair shone almost as brightly as
his smile:
"We're in luck, Mrs. A. We've only
to wait until Tuesday night. There's a White
Star steamer sailing from North River at ten o'clock.
Straight up the coast,
overnight at Boston, then along the St. Lawrence
to Montreal-was
He pulled a manila envelope from his coat.
"I bought the girl's ticket."
"Wonderful!"
Michael flung the scarf onto a bench and raked
droplets of melted snow from his hair. "Have you
spoken with Louis?"
"Just now. He seems contrite."
"Is he ready to work?"
"He will be ill an hour."
"Why the delay?"
"I've one thing yet to take care of-was Her eyes
were hard.
"Very well. While I'm waiting, I'll chop up
that crate and burn the pieces. As soon as Louis
is free, I'll set him to clearing the slush out of the
front drive. My, won't that raise eyebrows
next door! Mrs. de la Gura's son doing
servant's work-was
Amused, he walked toward the dining room. Amanda
followed.
"Come with me, Louis," she said.
"Where?"
Michael gaped when she answered:
"The carriage house."
The dapple-gray mare whinnied as Amanda and her
son entered the frame building at the rear of the
property. The light was poor and the interior smelled
of straw and manure. The mare's breath streamed from
her nostrils in the cold air. She bumped the
side of her stall.
Water dripped from the wheels and springs of the
carriage Michael had only recently returned
to its place.
Amanda reached up and drew the stiff-handled whip from
its socket.
"Louis, take off your robe."
"My robe? What are you going to-?"
"You heard what I said. Take the robe off and stand
against that post, facing it. Put your hands on the post,
over your head."
The boy swallowed. The ferocity she'd seen on his
face last night might never have existed. He
looked terrified; young and vulnerable-
She ached at the thought of what she was about to do. Yet
it had to be done.
Louis dropped the robe; lifted his hands to grasp
the post. She watched his back prickle
into gooseflesh as he waited, his head turned
slightly, one eye visible.
"Now," she said, "you remember this moment, because
I'll never do such a thing to you again-just as you'll never
treat another person the way you treated Kathleen.
I remind you once more-she did nothing to deserve the
hurt you gave her. Not just the physical hurt
comshe'll carry the memory all her life. I
want you to carry the memory of this. How it feels
to be hurt by wanton cruelty. You remember,
Louis-and let it keep you from hurting any other
blameless person-ever again."
"Ma-was he began. The whip flicked up past her
shoulder, and forward. The tip struck between his
shoulderblades with a sharp, smacking sound.
Louis' hands tightened on the post. He clenched his
teeth.
She whipped him again. This time he cried aloud.
The cry disturbed the mare. She kicked the side of the
stall. Louis' whole body was trembling. Sweat
covered his cheeks. The second blow had
left a thin scarlet stripe on his skin.
Amanda struck a third time. He cried louder,
digging his fingers into the post. The mare whinnied, kicked
again. One of the stall boards cracked.
She forced herself to fall into a rhythm: the long,
flexible tip of the whip came back, then flew
forward to mark him. The whip butt grew slippery in
her hand-
Six strokes.
Seven-
Blood began to run down the boy's back. The
mare was wild with terror, bucking and slamming her
hoofs into the stall's side, smashing the boards-
Eight.
Nine
-
Louis groaned, started to slide down the post.
White-, faced, Amanda whispered:
"Stand up. Stand up and
feel it."
The savagery of her voice made him pull himself
erect. He braced for the next blow; listened for the
whisper of the whip cutting the air; closed his eyes-
Screamed when the whip flayed him.
The mare kicked, the sound thunderous. Two more
boards in the side of the stall splintered apart.
"All right," Amanda said, ashen.
Louis turned. His hands jerked at his sides. He
stared at her, tears in the corners of his eyes. There
was no hate in that glance; only dull suffering-
"She walked to the carriage, picked up a handful of
straw, wiped the blood from the whip and replaced it in
the socket. Then she faced her son.
"Come here."
He walked to her, stumbling the last couple of
steps. She caught him in both arms, cushioning him
against her, arms around his waist.
"Cry if you want. Cry-no one will hear you-was
He did, letting the long sobs free him of some of
his pain. Amanda cried too, in silence, holding him
close until the worst of his shuddering passed-
Finally he got control of himself. She stepped
back, barely aware that the sleeves of her dress
were stained red.
"If you're ever tempted to hurt someone again,
remember today."
"I will, ma."
"Swear it, Louis."
"I swear. Before God, I swear it."
A knot seemed to break within her. She could
barely speak:
"Now-was She wiped her cheeks with the back of one
hand. "Put your robe on-was
He did, groaning when the fabric came in contact
with the lash-marks.
"We'll go upstairs. Til dress and bandage the
cute. You can rest for an hour. Then you're going
to work. You'll hurt quite a few days, I expect.
It's proper you should."
The dapple gray blubbered her lips, still stirring
restlessly in the broken stall as the two of them
walked into the winter sunlight, the boy leaning on his
mother for support.
in
At twilight on Sunday evening, Amanda was at
work at the desk in the library, comfortably dressed
in one of the three bloomer outfits she owned-a
matching top and trousers in lavender. She Was going
over the list of investments she'd made using
Jephtha Kent's earnings from the Ophir
Mineralogical Combine. If the Sierra claim
looked as promising as Israel Hope's letter
suggested, those earnings should soon increase sharply.
She figured the different percentages of growth for
each of the issues in which she'd invested the
mining profits. None of that money had gone
to purchase Stoall Works shares, as she'd
originally intended. Boston Holdings operated
solely on income from the Blackstone mill.
She worked slowly. Her eyes itched from scanning the
columns of figures. After jotting a final note
on two stocks whose poor performance merited immediate
sale, she turned to the weekly edition of Mr.
Greeley's
Tribune.
She read an account of a lecture given in New
York the preceding week by the philosopher,
Emerson, then a review of a concert by the Swedish
opera star, Jenny Find, who was touring America
under personal contract to the showman Phineas
Barnum. She found both articles informative but
dull. On the livelier side was a scathing
feature about the poor performance of New York's
police.
The writer accused the chief of taking criminal
bribes comincluding one from the city's foremost female
abortionist comand argued that city police protection
would never be satisfactory until the force was given
some semblance of professionalism, the first step being
uniforms. But those, the police had
steadfastly refused to wear ever since Mayor
Harper had suggested the idea in the mid-40's. The
police contended they were "free Americans," and
thus should not be required to appear in public in
"livery befitting servants."
A dispatch from Illinois caught her attention
next. It dealt with the Whigs in that western state, and
quoted a lawyer named Lincoln who had served one
term in Congress during the Mexican war and was
apparently becoming a power in the party.
The lawyer's first name was Abraham. Amanda
wondered whether he could be the same person she'd
seen briefly when she and Jared had been traveling
to Tennessee years ago. Because Jared had contracted
an illness, they'd stopped for a couple of weeks at
a cabin in Kentucky. She remembered farmer
Lincoln's boy Abraham quite clearly. Though he
had only been five years old, he'd displayed
an unusual curiosity about letters and words.
Expressing himself on the strength of the Whigs in
Illinois, Lincoln was then quoted on his
personal views about the Know-Nothings. The nature
of his opinions made it instantly clear why
Horace Greeley had given them space:
"How can anyone who abhors the oppression
of negroes, be in favor of degrading classes of
white people? Our progress in degeneracy appears
to me to be pretty rapid. As a nation, we began
by declaring that
"all men are created equal"
Now we practically read it "all men are created
equal,
except negroes."
When the Know-Nothings get control, it will read
"all men are created equal, except negroes,
foreigners and Catholics"
"When it comes to this I should prefer emigration to some
country where they make no pretense of loving
liberty-to Russia, for example, where
despotism can be taken pure, without the base
alloy of hypocrisy."
The statement summed up Amanda's own beliefs about
as well as she'd ever been able to do herself. She
decided to show the piece to Michael. It might
help abate his deep-seated antagonism toward
colored people, pointing out as it did that there was little
difference between those who would deny the black man
liberty, and those who wanted to keep the immigrant
Irish in much the same kind of inferior position.
She had just started to tear the article from the
page when the door opened and Mr. Mayor miaowed.
She glanced up, rubbing her eyes-the older she
grew, the longer they took to re-focus from close
work to something more distant.
Hampton presented a silver tray bearing a
rectangle of white pasteboard.
"A gentleman in the sitting room, Mrs. de la
Gura. He's most insistent about seeing you."
"I wasn't expecting any callers-was
"The gentleman isn't from New York. From his
speech, I would judge he comes from one of the south-era
states."
The peace that had begun to settle over her since
Saturday morning shattered as she snatched the
engraved card and read the name.
Virgil Tunworth, Capt., U.s.a.
(ret.)
iv
The card fell to the floor. Hampton peered at
her:
"Is everything all right, madam?"
"Yes-yes-was She retrieved the card, her pulse
racing. "Where's Michael?"
"In the carriage house, I believe. He and
master Louis are repairing the broken
stall."
"Give him the card, bring him in here and tell him
to wait-was
She started out, whirled back:
"No, go upstairs first. Lock Mary in her
room. Tell her to keep absolutely quiet,
no matter what happens." When Hampton seemed
slow to comprehend, she exclaimed, "The man is her
owner!"
Hampton frowned. "The name did seem slightly
familiar-was
"Mary mentioned him the other night. How in God's
name he got here, I don't know."
In the sitting room, Captain Virgil
Tunworth paced back and forth before the windows
overlooking the bare trees of Madison Square.
The captain was a small, spare man in his early
fifties. Wisps of gray hair lay across a
bald skull. He spun around when Amanda entered.
Feigning cordiality, she smiled:
"Captain Tunworth-to "
She noted the sooty shoulders of his cream-colored
tailcoat; a black smudge on his stand-up
collar. The gaslight emphasized the white stubble
on his chin; he apparently hadn't shaved
for a day or more.
The captain had served in the army for several years
before taking up a more profitable career-the supervision of
his family's lands near Lexington. He still carried
himself in an erect, military fashion, and affected
a severe manner.
"Good evening, Mrs. de la Gura." His glance
said he hadn't forgotten their unpleasant meeting in
Virginia- and his expression quickly registered
disapproval of her lavender trousers.
Still smiling, she said, "This is indeed a
surprise-was
"You needn't pretend it's a pleasant one. You
know why I've come."
"I'm afraid I haven't the faintest idea,"
she said, drying her palm on the handkerchief she
kept tucked in her sleeve. She approached the
bell pull. "May I ring for a drink for you?"
"Thank you, no." Politeness was clearly an
effort. "I'm filthy and worn out from the train, so
let's conclude our business promptly."
Amanda walked past him to the window. Saw a hack
waiting under the portico, its side-lamps aglow in
the lowering dark.
"What business, sir?"
In a clipped tone, he replied, "You're
harboring a nigger girl who belongs to me."
"Captain Tunworth, that-that is the most astonishing
comand preposterous-accusation I've ever heard!"
"Astonishing, I grant you. I'm sure you weren't
expecting me. But preposterous? Hardly. You
see, Mrs. de la Gura-was
He stalked toward her, openly belligerent.
"Some whose niggers run away are content to let them
go. I am not. My wench Mary was conducted
to Clifton Forge last Wednesday and shipped in a
packing case to this house-was
He raised a hand on which a diamond ring
glittered.
"Before you trap yourself with denials, allow me to
finish. I know how Mary got away because I whipped
one of my bucks half to death-until he told me
he'd seen her conferring with Mr. Syme when my
wife sent Mary and the buck to town on an errand. You
certainly know who Mr. Syme is-your cousin's
fellow-conspirator? After the buck confessed, we
caught him."
Suddenly Amanda felt terror:
"Who caught him?"
"Why, some gentlemen who feel exactly
as I do about fugitives and those who assist them.
Congress has passed a law denying niggers
sanctuary in the northern states comand so we're
entitled to their return. I regret to say that after
Mr. Syme admitted his perfidy-following a little
moral suasion with a board applied to his bare feet
comhe tried to escape. He couldn't walk, let
alone run. Took a pistol ball in the back.
He's dead. I'm of the opinion Syme's wife
warned your cousin, the Reverend. He's disappeared-was
"Jephtha's gone?" Amanda gasped. "Where?"
"To hell, I sincerely hope," the captain
replied with a tart smile. "He was interfering with the
law of these United States. He conspired to rob
me of my property. As I say, Mary was spirited
away on Wednesday. By sundown Friday Mr.
Syme had departed this earth-but not before he told us your
cousin had driven Mary all the way to the Clifton
Forge depot of the Virginia Central line. Some
cash and some threats loosened the tongue of the express
agent there. That's how I learned the destination of the
box the Reverend shipped. This morning, an hour after
I got off that infernal train, I fetched the
local manager of Adams Express straight out
of church. I only had to remind him that
abetting the escape of a slave now carries serious
penalties-was
Captain Tunworth's hand dipped into his coat and
came up with a paper.
"He gave me this copy of the delivery order, and
that's all there is to it. I don't suppose the
crate is still in
this house. But I imagine Mary is. Return her
and there's no need for us to quarrel-or to make the
incident public."
Amanda sank down on a sofa in front of the
Virginian. Jephtha a fugitive! That upset
her as much as the arrival of Mary's master. She
fought to keep tension from her voice as she said:
"I imagine you're congratulating yourself on being rid
of your son-inlaw-was
"Woman, don't change the subject on me. I
demand -"
"The hell with your demands!" Amanda said in a scathing
voice. "I want to know what's become of my
cousin!"
Tunworth shrugged. "I expect he's hiding out
somewhere in the Blue Ridge. The truth is, no one
in Lexington will be grieved at his going. For almost a
year he's been suspected of being a
conductor on the nigger railroad. His wife and
boys want no part of him. Except for that crazy
Professor Jackson at the Institute, he
hasn't a single friend in the county. And now that we've
split up his nefarious little partnership with Mr.
Syme, we'll be happy to be quits with him.
Let's get back to the matter of my property-was
"You're quite glib about referring to a human being as
property!"
"And you're misguided to term niggers human beings."
"Then what are they, captain?"
"Well-human, I suppose I'd have to grant you
that. But not to the same full degree as white
persons. The nira is basically inferior in all
respects."
Amanda felt desolate. He spoke so
calmly-with such an air of conviction-that she knew
he'd expressed the bedrock of his belief.
"And nothing will change your mind about that?"
"Nothing. If the abolitionists have their way, the
next
step after freedom for the niggers will be equality with
whites. I can't accept that, I never will accept
it-I'd take up arms before I would obey any law
that tried to coerce me into accepting it-but
you're trying to sidetrack me again, Mrs. de la
Gura." .
"Because discussing your so-called property is a waste
of time, sir-mine and yours."
"You're getting me exercised, woman-was He
wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "You can't deny
she's here."
"I refuse to discuss it."
He shook the express receipt at her.
"Goddamn it, I have the evidence!"
Amanda tore the paper from his hand, ripped it in
half. "That's what I think of your trumped-up
evidence! I'd be obliged if you'd leave,
Captain Tunworth."
"Not without Mary. Not without my propert-was
A peremptory knock broke the tension and whirled
them both toward the door. Michael stuck his head
in:
"A word with you, Mrs. A?"
She scowled. "This is nof the time-was
"Very urgent. Please!"
To Tunworth she said: "You wait here, sir."
The moment the door clicked behind her, she whispered,
"What in the hell is so important that-?"
"Hampton gave me the card. How did
Tunworth wind up here so quickly?"
In terse sentences, Amanda repeated the essence of
what Jephtha's father-in-law had told
her-including the dismal news that her cousin had fled
Lexington, evidently hi fear of his life.
Michael shook his head:
"Then you'd better give her up without a fuss."
Amanda looked stunned. "Let him take the
girl?"
"Yes. Unless you surrender his wench without a row, you
may be in for serious trouble. Do you know whether he
has an order from the court-?"
"He didn't mention one. He only arrived in
New York this morning."
"Then he'll probably have to wait for court to sit
tomorrow. That's even worse."
"Why?"
"You know fugitive slaves are juicy newspaper
copy. If Tunworth stays in the city very long,
one of the anti-abolitionist sheets like the
Journal of Commerce
may get wind of the whole affair. If it's true
your cousin's role in the escape is known-was
"It is. But what's the point?"
"The name Kent could very well be smeared all
over the press, along with yours. If Mr.
Stovall saw it, I suspect he'd be astute enough
to make a connection-was
Amanda's face was bleak as she stared at the young
Irishman. He was right. Damnably
right-especially in the light of Stovall's
already-aroused suspicion.
"Furthermore, Mrs. A, I should remind you that
obstructing the recapture of a fugitive slave
is illegal. It's one thing to send donations
to radical lecturers, quite another to violate a
federal law."
She paced to the front door, then all the way
back, her knuckles pressed against her teeth. Quite
apart from the threat to her personal plans, the question of
legality was inescapable. This was the very thing Bart
McGiUs had warned her about. The moment when she would
be confronted with a line, and only two choices: step
back comor cross.
Wearily, she realized Bart had been right when he
said it would be impossible for her not to be drawn into the
slave controversy. But she'd never imagined it would
happen so precipitously-or pose such disastrous
consequences -
She thought of Douglass at the Bowery
Theatre. In the abstract, he'd said, the
Fugitive Slave Act was tolerable to some people. But
the frightened face of the girl
Mary made it intolerable-exactly as Douglass
had predicted.
She faced Michael.
"Til have to take the risk. With Stovall
and
the law."
"Captain Tunworth is entirely in the right."
"I know he's in the right-according to what's written
in the statutes. But I can't be a party to sending that
child back to bondage. If Tunworth was a decent
master
comif he treated his slaves in a half way
humane fashion
comx might be different. But when I was in Virginia,
Jehtha
made it abundantly clear the captain's a
cruel
man. Mary said the same thing. I won't turn her
over to
the likes of him."
Michael's smile was tinged with a curious sadness:
"I had a feeling that might be your
decision. Do you want me to come in with you?"
She shook her head. "I want to convey my answer
to the captain myself."
When she did, and asked him to leave, Virgil
Tunworth exploded:
"Damned if I will! You bring me Mary this
instant!"
She smiled. "I told you she isn't here,
Captain."
"And I say you're a villainous liar!" He
snatched up his broad-brimmed wool hat and
stormed for the door. TO ROOT her out myself-was
Amanda caught his arm and jerked him around.
Tun-worth's eyes popped; he hadn't realized
how strong she was.
"You're not going to set foot in another room in this
house without an order from the appropriate
authorities."
"Then by Christ I'll see the Fugitive Slave
BiUs Com
missioner in the morning! I'll be back and I
will
look in every room!"
"Captain Tunworth," she said in a low voice,
"I do pray to God that when you die, someone
forbids your burial in Virginia. That a state that
gave freedom-and great leaders-to America should
spew up the likes of you-was
"Sermonize all you wish, Mrs. de la Gura.
The fact remains, the Constitution and the law of the land
give me the right to reclaim my property. I will.
I know the wench is on these premises-or if not, that
you know her whereabouts. Mr. Syme revealed everything,
you see.
Everything
-"
He jammed his wool hat on his balding head. His
smile matched Amanda's for coldness:
"A man doesn't lie when his bare feet are
bleeding from fifty blows of a pine board. I'll
call on you again. In company with a federal marshal."
He jerked the door open and stalked past Michael
who was lounging under the gas fixture. The front
door crashed behind him. In half a minute, Amanda
was surrounded by Louis and the servants, all clamoring
to know what had happened.
As the hack clattered away, Amanda raised her
hands to stop the questions. Quickly and calmly, she
explained the visitor's identity, and the reason for his
call. Hampton, clearly alarmed, said:
"We should get the girl out of here at once!"
"The steamer doesn't sail till Tuesday
evening," Michael said.
"Remove her to another location, then. Mrs. de
la Gura, the newspapers have been most
explicit. The law in effect since 1850 puts
all the right on that gentleman's side-was
"The law be damned! I'm thinking about Mary. But
perhaps moving her isn't a bad idea. Michael-?"
"Won't work, Mrs. A."
"Why not?"
He crooked a finger and led her to one of the narrow
windows flanking the front door.
"Take a look at what I spied when you were
inside with the captain the second time."
She peered out; saw a man huddled against a tree in
the small park in the center of the square.
"Hell of a chilly evening to be taking the air,
don't you think?" Michael asked. "There's another
chap similarly occupied opposite the entrance to the
alley. I saw both climb out of Tunworth's
hackney. That captain may be a countryman, but
he's no fool. I'll wager he was prepared for a
refusal and hired those lads from some saloon or
other."
"To keep watch."
"Aye. You know the law says bystanders may be
summoned to help recapture a slave. Or a
posse comitaus
can be formed-was
"So if we remove her, they'll follow us."
"Undoubtedly."
"Then we'll have to keep her here for the moment. But I
won't let them take her, I don't give a
damn how many orders they produce. That bald
bastard helped drive Jephtha out of his own
home-and now he's turned him into a fugitive
too-Michael, you examine all the locks and
latches downstairs. Make sure they're fastened.
Hampton, I want someone awake and watching the
front and back entrances at all times. I'll
take my turn-you will too, Louis. I've also
got to speak with Mary. It isn't fair to conceal
what's happened-especially since we may have
unexpected visitors crashing in on us in the next
day or two-was
She started for the library.
"But first I think I'd better do what I forgot
to do Friday night. Locate my old revolver."
The library door closed with the sharpness of a
gun firing.
Louis and the servants stared, still too stunned
to react. Only Michael Boyle showed
animation-lifting a hand to his mouth and rocking back
on his heels as he laughed, half in admiration,
half in dismay.
His
Besieged
IN THE EARLY HOURS of Monday morning, the
temperature climbed a few degrees above the
freezing mark. Rain began to turn the last of the snow
to slush. Amanda woke around five, having tossed
restlessly most of the night. Her knees and elbows
ached; she felt ancient.
She put on a robe and lit the gas. While the
rain pelted the windows, she sat worrying about
Jephtha, and pondering the dilemma created
by Captain Tunworth's arrival. When it grew
light, she walked to the bedroom window that overlooked
Madison Square.
Among the dripping, leafless trees of the little park
stood a small kiosk with latticework sides.
Inside the kiosk she glimpsed a man pacing to and
fro beneath the conical roof. Whether it was the same
watcher Michael had spied the preceding
evening, she couldn't say. But
someone
was there-
By the time she went downstairs, the servants had already
lit the gas to dispel the gloom. She quickly became
aware of the strained atmosphere in the house. The two
remaining maids, the cook and Mr. Hampton all
knew the mansion was under surveillance. They went about
their work with drawn looks and few words.
She had no appetite for breakfast. She went
directly to the kitchen, poured herself a cup of tea
and carried it into the dining room, where Michael sat in
front of an untasted platter of ham and fried
potatoes. As she sank into her chair and unfolded
her napkin, she asked:
"Did you sleep badly, Michael?"
"I didn't sleep at all, Mrs. A. I
looked in on our guest, though. She was snoring. You
did
tell her about Tunworth-?"
"Yes."
"Well, she evidently feels reasonably
secure in this house." He grimaced as Mr.
Mayor prowled from under the table and leaped into his
lap. "I think she's the only one," he
added, stroking the cat in an absent way.
"Is Louis up?"
Michael nodded. "Polishing the woodwork on the
third floor."
"I wonder how soon the captain will be back."
"Not before the end of the day, I should imagine. The court
procedure will take time."
"We've got to get Mary out of here."
"I agree. But the two men are still on watch."
"Then we'll take her out right in front of them."
He blinked. "How?"
"I've been thinking about a way. I want you
to take the horse-car to Rose's house. Ask her
to come here in her carriage. And to wear something bright-with a
shawl and a parasol or an umbrella. Also
gloves-gloves are particularly important."
He smiled. "I think I see what you're driving
at. It's risky-but audacious enough that it just might
work."
"When you leave, use the front door. So you'll be
clearly seen."
He nodded. "Do I have your permission for a slight
detour on the way to Mrs. Ludwig's? I think
it might be prudent if I spent a short time
browsing around Paradise Square. Just
to see whether there's any sign of Kathleen stirring
up trouble."
"If you don't take too long at it," Amanda
agreed. "Try to be back by noon."
Michael Boyle said, "I will," dumped the white
cat off his lap and strode out.
The young Irishman returned about eleven thirty,
rain-soaked, with a paper tucked under his arm. He
found Amanda in the library.
The old Colt revolver lay on the mantel
next to the tea bottle. He flung his cap and
scarf on the chair by the hearth and walked to the desk,
where Amanda had been vainly trying to examine some
figures on the preceding year's profits of the
Blackstone Company. Somehow the figures blurred
and refused to make sense-
She set the ledger aside with great relief. "Is
Rose on the way?"
"She promised to be here inside of an hour-was He
managed a grin. "She made a hell of a fuss
when I showed up. I forgot she never rises until
twelve."
"Oh heavens, so did I. Well, I expect
she'll forgive me when I explain the urgency of the
situation. What did you learn in the Five
Points?"
"Nothing. All quiet. A little too early in the
day, I think. I may pop back later this afternoon.
Provided I'm not needed here-was
He unfolded the paper in front of her.
"Stop-press edition. Out two hours early.
Most of the news is a re-hash of last week's.
But there's one fresh item-was
He pointed out a feature story on the front
page of the
Journal of Commerce,
a paper founded in 1825 by the Tappan brothers,
who had followed a stern abolitionist policy. But
the Tappans had later sold the
Journal;
its current management was pro-southern.
"Didn't imagine we could keep the affair quiet
for long," Michael murmured. Pale, Amanda
scanned the story:
FUGITIVE SLAVE IN MADISON
SQUARE?
Virginian lodges accusation
against textile heiress;
seeks warrant.
A warrant permitting search of the residence
of Mrs. Amanda de la Gura, wealthy resident
of No. 12 Madison Square, will be sought
by Captain Virgil Tunworth of Lexington,
Virginia, it was learned at eight this morning by the
Journal
reporter assigned to the court of Judge
Develbess, Fugitive Slave Bill
Commissioner for the city.
Captain Tunworth, who arrived in New York
yesterday, alleges that operatives of the so-called
underground railroad did cause to be stolen from him
and delivered to the Madison Square address late
last week one female slave who goes by the name
Mary. The Captain, who is stopping at the Astor
House, informed this reporter that he anticipates
Judge Develbess will issue a search warrant,
together with another for the arrest of said escaped slave,
late today or early tomorrow.
Tunworth charges that the fugitive was aided in her
escape by a former Methodist pastor, one Jephtha
Kent of Lexington. Kent is a relative of the
lady who occupies the Madison Square manse,
and has since fled the district from which Captain
Tunworth traveled -
Despondent, Amanda laid the paper
aside with the rest of the piece unread. Michael said
softly: "We can't say it was unexpected." "I
know. I only wish they hadn't dragged in
Jephtha's
name-was
She sat staring at the column of type, wondering
whether it was being read in a certain residence in
Washington Square.
III
"Take off my
clothes?"
Rose Ludwig exclaimed when Amanda met her in
the front sitting room shortly after one. "I've
received some odd propositions in my life, but that
has to be the most-was
"Rose, don't say anything-not till you've read
this." She held out the copy of the
Journal of Commerce.
With a puzzled expression, Rose took the paper,
the unlit Cuban cheroot in her hand momentarily
forgotten.
While Rose studied the front page, Amanda
went to the window. She could see both the man in the
kiosk and her friend's carriage under the portico. The
carriage driver looked miserable in the
wind-blown rain.
Once more Amanda judged the angles and the distance. From
the kiosk the watcher not only had a clear view of the
carriage, but of the front door as well. Yet he
was far enough away so that facial features would be
indistinct. Provided Mary kept the parasol
down; kept her dark skin hidden-
A rustle of the paper turned her attention back
to Rose. The other woman laid the
Journal
aside, her eyes grim:
"Is it true, Amanda?"
"Yes. The girl's up on the third floor."
Quickly, she described most of what had taken
place since Mary's arrival.
"Then you're in serious trouble with the law," her friend said
when she concluded.
"I know. But that's of less concern to me than getting
Mary out of the house. When Tunworth produces his
warrant, there's no way I can prevent him from
seizing her. And I want her on that steamer for
Canada tomorrow night! Rose-was
She walked to her friend; laid a hand on her arm.
"comif you'll stay here until then, you can help Mary
escape."
"How, for God's sake?"
"You were seen coming in-was
"By whom?"
Amanda led her to the window, pointed out the dim
figure pacing in the kiosk. Rose peered through the
rain-streaked glass:
"Who is that?"
"Some fellow Tunworth hired to stand watch. There's
another keeping an eye on the alley and the carriage
house. The captain was shrewd enough to realize he
couldn't get the warrant issued immediately-and that we
might try to spirit Mary away. I'm sure you were
observed when you arrived. If that man in the park
sees the same dress and umbrella going out again,
I don't think he'll realize he's been
tricked-was
Rose's eyebrow hooked up. "Is that why
Michael insisted I wear something like this-?" She
touched the sleeve of her yellow velvet dress.
"Which I must say is entirely inappropriate for the
season and the time of day!"
"That's exactly it. I want Mary to stay at your
house until about nine tomorrow evening. Then your driver
can deliver her to the White Star pier on North
River. Please, Rose!" Amanda
pleaded. "I wouldn't ask if I could think of
another way-was
"What am I supposed to do, loll in my
pantalets until Wednesday morning? I was
planning to do some shopping at the Lord and Taylor
store this afternoon. And I have engagements tomorrow-was She
sighed. "But of course I'll do it."
"Bless you! I should tell you one more thing. We might
be in for some difficulty from another quarter.
Louis-well, let's just say he got into a bit of
trouble with one of the maids. I discharged her. Before she
left, she threatened reprisals. I wouldn't take
them seriously,
except that she has an uncle who's cozy with
Mr. Ryners, the Sixth Ward politician.
It's possible he could send some of his gang friends
to vandalize the house-was
Rose sighed a second time, louder:
"When you stir up a stew, you do a thorough job of
it."
"I'm not positive there'll be any trouble from
Ryners. I only thought it was fair to warn you."
"Well," Rose said with an emphatic nod,
"that's fair enough. Take me up to the girl and
let's get her on her way."
Amanda hugged her friend, then hurried her out of the
sitting room to the third floor.
IV
"I never wore a skirt like this," Mary said. "I
liable to fall-was
"You won't fall," Amanda assured her, slipping
a folded paper into the reticule the girl carried.
Rose stood just behind Amanda, wearing an embroidered
robe several sizes too small.
The gas in the front hall had been turned down so
the interior would be dim when the door was opened. The
yellow velvet dress with its immense hoops
fitted Mary poorly. But with the shawl drawn around
Mary's head, gloves on her hands, and the
umbrella for additional concealment, Amanda thought the
ruse could work.
"Just watch your step going out to the carriage," she
said. "And give that paper to Mrs. Ludwig's
butler. He'll see you're driven to the White
Star pier tomorrow night."
Mary's eyes misted with tears. "Oh, Miz de
la Gura, you been so good-was
She patted the girl's arm. "I want you to be
safe in Canada, Mary. Safe and free-was
Peering through one of the narrow panes beside the
door, Michael pointed:
"That chap in the park's paying close attention. He
hasn't moved since the carriage pulled up."
To Rose: "I'm worried about your driver. He's
sure to notice the difference, and react-was
Rose moved up beside him. "Let me handle
Carney."
Amanda knew the next few seconds would be
critical. She tried not to show her anxiety as she
opened the door wide. After embracing Mary
briefly, she took the girl's elbow and guided
her outside.
The carriage driver gaped. "What the hell's
going on? Who is-?"
"Carney, don't say a goddamned word!" Rose
hissed from the shadows just inside the door. "I'm
staying here. The girl's going to my house-in my
place. Help her into the carriage!
Look at her, not me
-!"
The dumbfounded driver climbed down. Mary's
hoop skirt swayed in a gust of rain that swept
under the portico. Biting her lip, she put her
foot on the first step below the top one.
Amanda watched the man in the park. He had
come to the near side of the kiosk, so he could observe
the activity at the front of the house. There was no
doubt he had a clear view of the yellow-clad
figure moving unsteadily down the steps-
Mary had one hand clutched to her bosom, holding the
ends of the shawl covering her head. But her other hand was
rising too high; unconsciously lifting the
umbrella so that it didn't conceal her face-
"The umbrella!"
Amanda whispered from the doorway.
"Lower it
-!"
She did. Just as Amanda let out a relieved
breath, Mary's foot slipped on one of the steps.
She uttered a low cry, staggering-
"Oh, Christ, that's the game," Michael
groaned.
Amanda gripped the edge of the door, her hand white.
The watcher in the park ran out of the kiosk-
"Help her, Carney!"
Rose Ludwig whispered.
The driver darted up three steps and caught
Mary's forearm just as she started to fall.
He steadied her, his eyes wide with astonishment as
he got a close look at the black
face beneath the umbrella.
But he held onto Mary's arm; assisted her down
the final steps and into the carriage. When the door
slammed, Amanda gulped and closed her eyes a
moment.
She waved and called goodbye. The driver clambered
up the wheel, still mightily confused. He popped his
whip and guided the team out from under the portico-
Chilled by the wind-driven rain, Amanda turned her
back on the square, walked inside, shut the door
and leaned against it. The faces of the watching servants
were white blurs in the gloom.
Rose re-tied the sash of the robe Amanda had
loaned her, then clucked her tongue:
"I imagine that added a few years to my face. I
thought for certain she'd fall-was
"Do you feel like a whiskey, Rose?"
"I may drink a quart."
"I don't want that much-but I'll join you."
Michael swung from the window, grinning:
"I think we pulled it off. At least the lad across
the way hasn't moved since the carriage turned the
corner."
He followed the two women back to the library.
Rose immediately noticed the old Colt
revolver resting on the mantel. She pointed to it:
"Is that for moral encouragement-or is it loaded?"
"Look in the cylinder," Amanda said.
Rose squinted. "My God! Ready to fire."
"So long as it's handy, I suppose there's no
need to
keep it on display." Amanda took the revolver
down and carried it to the desk, shutting it away in a
drawer.
Rose shook her head. "It's unbelievable, the
things I permit myself to get into for the sake of
friendship-was
"And I can't possibly repay you for what you've
done," Amanda said.
The stout woman accepted the brimming whiskey
glass Michael handed her. "I'll think of a way,
my dear. For instance-when you finally get hold of
Kent's, you can increase my royalty rate-was
Amanda smiled, but without feeling.
"Better still, I'll settle for peace and quiet
until tomorrow night." She toasted the thought with an
upraised glass, then consumed the liquor in several
rapid gulps.
Looping his scarf around his coat collar, Michael
said to Rose, "Peace and quiet are now in
the hands of a certain Miss Kathleen McCreery.
I'll be back in a couple of hours, Mrs.
A-I'm going to make a second trip to see
whether all's calm in the Five Points."
The white cat padded after him out the door.
The afternoon dragged on. The February sky darkened.
By three o'clock, every gas jet downstairs was turned
up full.
Repeatedly, Hampton answered knocks at the
front door. He turned away reporters from
other papers who had seen the story in the
Journal
Twice he got into a shouting match before he managed
to slam the door in a newsman's face.
Despite the inclement weather, occasional
curiosity-seekers came by, on foot or in
closed carriages. One group of small boys
flung stones at the house before Hampton shouted at
them and chased them away.
Sequestered in the library with her friend, Amanda was still
aware of the attention the house was receiving; it made her
nervous; it seemed a harbinger of worse to come-
Rose had pressed for some of the details of what
Amanda had referred to as the incident with the maid.
Amanda finally obliged, though she concealed the
fact that Louis had actually taken the girl
sexually, hinting instead that it had been an attempted
seduction.
"But I've permitted him to be far too headstrong.
In fact I think I've encouraged him without
realizing it. That will change."
Rose nodded, then yawned loudly. "Excuse
me-it's that damned business of being hauled awake
before noon-was
"Why don't you go upstairs and nap for a while?"
"Excellent idea. I'll be down for dinner-unless
a riot wakes me sooner."
In the silence of the library, Amanda found herself again
unable to concentrate on any of the business details
to which she should be attending. She kept staring at the
portrait of her grandfather, wondering whether he'd have
approved of her aiding Tunworth's runaway.
She hoped he would have-
Even now, she didn't know precisely why she'd
done it; she wasn't sure whether she'd acted out
of a sense of moral conviction, or from a guilty
conscience-belatedly trying to live up to the Latin
inscription on Jared's medallion in the display
case.
A little of both motivations had played a
part, she suspected.
She began to focus on other concerns. On
Jephtha, for one. She knew there was little she could do
to help him until he got in touch with her-if he
ever did. She prayed he was safe.
She was bound to have another encounter with Captain
Tunworth. She looked forward to it. When the
clock showed four-thirty, she was actually a little
disappointed the Virginian hadn't returned with his
warrants.
Well, he'd surely arrive tomorrow. And she'd have the
satisfaction of telling him that-
The telegraph gong shattered her reverie. She
jumped up and hurried to the table. She tapped out an
acknowledgement of the query signal, then readied her
pen to copy the message:
CONFIDENTIAL WALL STREET SOURCE
ADVISED FOUR P M TODAY STOVALL
WORKS BOARD HAS AUTHORIZED NEW
STOCK ISSUE. WILL DOUBLE NUMBER OF
SHARES OUTSTANDING. ISSUE ENTIRELY
REPEAT ENTIRELY SUBSCRIBED PRIOR
TO ANNOUNCEMENT.
A knot formed in the pit of her stomach.
SUSPECT SINGLE BUYER OR
CONSORTIUM BUT HAVE NO INFORMATION. WILL
ADVISE IF SITUATION CLARIFIES.
AWAIT YOUR INSTRUCTIONS. ROTHMAN'S
BANK
Amanda flung down the pen; pressed her palms
against her eyes. The sounder began to click again:
AWAIT YOUR INSTRUCTIONS.
Wearily, Amanda clicked out NO INSTRUCTIONS,
then added her initials. In a moment, the sounder
replied:
ACKNOWLEDGED. END.
The stillness of the library was broken only by the steady
beat of the rain on the windows and the sound of
Mr. Mayor scampering through the main hall in
pursuit of some phantom adversary. Amanda stared
at the message the bank had transmitted.
"Goddamn
it!" she cried, slamming her fist down on the pad
while tears welled in her eyes. The last few
words smeared from the impact of her hand-
She knew who had moved so swiftly to convene the
Stovall board and make it impossible for her
to acquire the needed fifty-one percent. It was no
consolation that she'd increased the risk of discovery by her
decision about Mary-and that she'd made the
decision of her own free will.
When Michael returned at ten past five,
looking dour, she showed him the information from the Boston
bank:
"Stovall doubled the number of shares-and then bought
them. He or someone acting on his behalf."
"I expect so, Mrs. A."
"Because of the
Journal
story."
"Yes," Michael said. "We've always suspected
he'd be aware of steady movement in the shares over the
past year or so. The story undoubtedly prompted
him to look into it-very closely."
She covered her eyes again. "Then I've thrown
away my last chance to own Kent's-was
Michael strode to the hearth, knelt and began laying
logs on top of kindling. "I'm afraid we have more
immediate concerns than that."
She wiped her eyes and looked at him. He said:
"Something's brewing in the Five Points."
"What?"
"I saw copies of the
Journal
being passed around in three saloons.
Heard your name mentioned-was
He applied a locofoco to the kindling. As it
began to snap and blaze, he stood up.
"complus a lot of nasty talk about a runaway
nigger. I managed to draw one of the lads
into conversation. Ever since the paper came out, Mr.
Rynders has been buying
a powerful number of whiskeys for certain selected
acquaintances -"
"You think the money I paid Kathleen-and the extra you
promised-wasn't enough to pacify her?"
"That's exactly what I think. Also, Mr.
Isaiah Ryners has made no secret of the
fact that before the day's out, he's going to look up
someone at the Astor House."
"The Astor-to That's where Tunworth's staying-was
"I'm sure Mr. Rynders read it in the paper.
He's a clever bastard-Tunworth will fit into his
plans beautifully. Here's how it works. Kathleen
appeals to Rynders for succor. He spots the
Journal
piece. It's a fine pretext for his friends to do
devilment on Kathleen's behalf. They can screen
their real motive behind false moral outrage-you've
concealed a fugitive slave! You've
broken the law! Hell, I wouldn't be surprised
if some of those gang boys showed up as part of
Tunworth's search party-was
"In other words," Amanda said quietly, "you
definitely believe we'll be visited."
"Tonight," Michael nodded. "Or tomorrow."
"But there's nothing they can do! The girl's gone!"
"Why, that gives Rynders' chums an excuse
to act even angrier. I suggest we follow a
sensible course of action. Leave. Now."
"Be frightened out of my own house? I'll be damned
if I will!"
"You're also involving other people, Mrs. A. It's not
fair to the servants-was
"Can't we contact the police?"
"Not until something happens-unless you're willing
to admit the entire story-Mary included. That might
lend credence to-was
"No! Mary won't be out of New York until
tomorrow evening."
"Well, the police won't act on suspicion
alone.
especially not when Mr. Rynders is a pal of quite
a few of them-was
Amanda drew a long breath.
"All right. Gather the servants in the kitchen.
Wake Rose. And bring Louis downstairs."
VI
What Amanda had to discuss with the assembled group
seemed incongruous in the cheery atmosphere of the
large kitchen. Smells of baking bread drifted from
the huge iron stove. Three capons browned on
the hearth spit, giving off a savory aroma.
Rose puffed one of her vile-smelling
cigars-causing Hampton to cough in an exaggerated
way-as Amanda spoke:
"I've asked you here because I'm afraid the
dismissal of Kathleen McCreery may have put this
household in a dangerous position. Michael went
to the Five Points twice today. It seems clear
Kathleen won't be satisfied until she takes
revenge for the injustice she feels was done to her-was
Louis stared at his feet, scarlet.
"You're aware we've been under observation by men
hired by Captain Tunworth. The girl's gone.
But you can be sure the captain will be back. Further,
Michael said Isaiah Rynders was going to the
Astor House late today. It's possible he went
to see Tunworth-to offer the help of some of his
thugs. Hunting for a fugitive slave would
be a perfect pretext for an invasion of this house-
and perhaps worse-was
She left the thought there. But she saw from the faces
of the servants that their own imaginations were painting
vivid pictures.
"It's my responsibility to defend my own
property.
But it's not yours. You normally leave late in the
evening to go to your homes. I'd suggest you start leaving
now, one by one. Go through the alley. I don't think
you'll be stopped by the man on watch-especially when
he sees you're white," she added with a touch of
cynicism. "We might have trouble tonight, it might come
tomorrow-or it might not come at all." She tried not
to let them know she didn't believe that last.
"I don't want any of you endangered," she said.
"So decide who's to go first, and leave. Rose, that
includes you."
"Hell," the heavy woman shrugged behind a cloud of
smoke, "I don't have any clothes to wear."
"I'll loan you something."
"Won't fit. I'm staying."
"I'll stay too, madam," Brigid said. "My
old man once got his head broken by some of
Rynders' bullies, "cos he wouldn't
vote the way Rynders ordered."
"Very well, it's your choice. Louis-I want you
out of the house along with everyone else-was
"Leave you here with just Michael and Brigjid and
Mrs. Ludwig?" He shook his head.
"Louis, I really insist-was
"No, ma. I'm not scared of a fight."
As she stared at the boy, she fancied she saw
Cordoba's face glimmering in a kind of lapped
image. She smiled in a tired way.
"All right. But the rest of you hurry."
vu
By eleven that night, the house lay silent. Rose
had gone to bed after three stiff whiskeys. Louis was
keeping watch at the back entrance. The rain slashed
the sitting room windows. Michael glanced out, then
resumed his nervous pacing:
T'Still just one chap in the park. Perhaps the rain's
spared us tonight."
"The rain and Captain Tunworth failing to get his
warrants," Amanda replied. "I almost wish they'd
come and get it over with-the waiting's worse than the
battle. It's always worse-was
A moment later, noticing her odd, bemused
smile, the young Irishman said:
"Doesn't seem to me our predicament's a
subject for humor, Mrs. A-was
"No." She brushed a tired hand across her forehead;
her smile faded. "I was only thinking of how the
past comes around and around again-like a wheel. I was
remembering Texas. When I was in the Alamo
mission. By my own choice. When I got out
alive, I thought I'd surely never go through anything
similar. But here I am, besieged again-and again with no
one but myself to blame."
"Blame, Mrs. A? Why do you talk of blame?
In your position, most women-men, for that matter-would
have gone scurrying out of town hours ago. But you never
run. That's rare-and certainly not worthy of
blame."
"I ran from Stovall."
"Bosh! You canceled your plans concerning the
Phe-lans because your family's always stood for
honor. Decency-was
"Neither of which will buy Kent's now that I've lost my
lever for forcing the sale."
"We're not positive Stovall's behind the big
stock acquisition-was
"Don't try to be consoling, Michael. Of course
he is. He saw the paper."
"Well, at least you can blance the other side of the
ledger with several favorable entries. You didn't
mire yourself in blackmail. You just may have saved your
son from ruin. You certainly saved Mary from
recapture-was
"And I lost the one thing I wanted most!"
She exhaled loudly; slumped in her chair. "I
must be crazy to stay here like this-was
"Why no," Michael said, "you're a Kent.
You've always said they were a brave lot-was
Amanda studied the painting of Philip. How she
longed, this moment, for a fraction of the courage those
eyes conveyed-
She shivered as wind spattered rain against the
windowpanes
"A member of the Kent family's no different than
anyone else in one respect, Michael. Being a
Kent doesn't make me any less frightened of
what's going to happen."
Destruction
DURING THE NIGHT THE
stopped. The clouds cleared. By morning, Madison
Square glowed in winter sunlight.
Amanda hadn't slept well again. But she was up and
dressed when Michael ran into the library
a few minutes after nine:
"There's a hack at the door, Mrs. A. And some
witnesses over in the park-was
"Witnesses?" She jumped up, following him to the
hall.
"Eight or ten chaps who don't have the look of
belonging in this neighborhood. They've been gathering
for the last half hour. Expecting the hack's
arrival, I imagine-was
From the window beside the front door, Amanda saw the
men loitering near the kiosk. They were shabbily
dressed, in patched trousers and jackets too thin
for the weather. They huddled close together, their breath
making white plumes in the morning air.
Under the portico, the door of the hackney opened.
Captain Virgil Tunworth stepped down,
followed by a portly, mustached man in a black
alpaca suit and broad-brimmed hat. A bulge
on the man's hip hinted at a bolstered sidearm.
Brigid came up behind Amanda; started to open the
door-
"No," Amanda said, patting her hair to make
sure it was arranged. "I'll answer.
Puzzled by Amanda's cheerful expression, Brigid
bobbed her head and stood back. Michael
took up a position against the wall, his coppery
hair catching the sunlight. A smile of rascally
delight curved his mouth.
Before Captain Tunworth could lift the knocker,
Amanda pulled the door open.
"Captain! Good morning."
The greeting confused the Virginian. He glanced
at his companion, who was reaching into his jacket. The
portly man produced two folded legal
documents.
Recovering from Amanda's unexpected cordiality,
Tunworth snapped:
"This gentleman is Mr. Bowden-was
"United States Marshal, ma'am," the other man
said, rather apologetically. "I have to serve you with this
warrant. It permits me-was
"To search my house for the runaway girl the captain
fancies I'm hiding?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Put the warrant back in your pocket, Mr.
Bowden. It's totally unnecessary."
"What's that?"
"I informed Captain Tunworth Sunday evening that
I wasn't harboring a runaway slave. He
wouldn't believe me. You come in and see for
yourself."
The marshal stared at Tunworth. "I thought you said
she'd refuse-was
"This is some kind of damned flummery!" the captain
exploded. "She's gotten rid of the nigger-was
"Why, Captain, how ungentlemanly of you,"
Amanda said, relishing his discomfort. "You continue
to accuse me of breaking the law. Even if I had
been hiding this imagined runaway, how could she have
escaped?" She pointed past the stamping hack
horse to the men near the kiosk. "You've had me
watched day and night."
Captain Tunworth flushed; clamped his lips
together. Amanda retreated a step:
"Marshal, the house is yours. I have a guest staying
on the second floor. My friend Mrs. Ludwig.
She came to visit yesterday and became indisposed.
Brigid will show you her room-if you must search it-was
"I'm afraid we must search the entire
premises, ma'am," Bowden advised her.
"Then would you be kind enough to knock before you disturb
Mrs. Ludwig?"
She said it so sweetly, Bowden couldn't help
smiling. "Of course."
Tunworth glared as he followed the marshal
inside. Michael could barely stifle a guffaw.
As the law officer stumped into the sitting room,
Tunworth wheeled back to Amanda:
"You had a guest yesterday, right enough. But I know
she left an hour after she arrived."
"Really, Captain! You should hire reliable men, not
the dregs of the saloons. Her carriage left,
that's all."
"Goddamn it, I was told explicitly! Your
visitor got into-was
"Please don't swear at me, sir," Amanda
broke in, that charming smile still in place. "I
don't care what you were told. I'd suggest you
inquire whether the man who passed on that doubtful
information drank a little something to warm himself while he
kept watch. Something that dulled his powers of
observation-was
Her dark eyes mocked him. He in turn understood
exactly what she was telling him without words: the
black girl had departed and he had no way of
proving it; the Federal marshal's search was pointless.
But the heavy-set official caught none of that. He
came bustling out of the sitting room. "All clear in
there. Shall we proceed, Captain?"
Virgil Tunworth slapped his hat against
his leg and followed the marshal toward the library.
ii
Bowden took forty-five minutes to comb the house from
garret to basement. Now and then he ostentatiously
rapped a wall, as if searching for one of those
secret rooms so popular in ladies" novels
but seldom found in
private homes. Amanda and Michael retired to the
dining room for coffee, saying little but smiling at one
another at the occasional loud sound of Tunworth's
hectoring voice.
When he and the marshal reappeared in the downstairs
hall, Amanda went out to them:
"Are you finished?"
Bowden nodded. "We are."
"And satisfied?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry we had to trouble you.
It seems the captain was in error when he requested
the warrant-was
"The nigger was in this house over the weekend!"
Turn worth said. He waved his hat at Amanda.
"She got the the girl out. Wearing the clothes of that
harpy upstairs!"
The marshal reddened. "Afraid we did disturb your
guest, Mrs. de la Gura. Can't say
I've ever heard a female use such a collection
of cuss-words before-was
"Marshal, you come across to the park with me!" Tunworth
demanded. "You talk to the man who kept watch
yesterday. This woman smuggled my slave away in
disguise!"
"Unless someone can swear positively to having seen
a nigra person leave the house-not just a person,
Captain; a
nigra
person-you've no grounds for pressing your complaint."
The marshal displayed his search warrant. "Mrs. de
la Gura's allowed a complete
examination of her home. I can't use the other
warrant to arrest someone I can't find."
"Take her into custody! Question her!
Force
her to tell you where-was
"That exceeds my authority, Captain," the marshal
interrupted, sounding annoyed for the first time. He
settled his hat on his head and executed a stiff
bow. "Ma'am, we thank you for your cooperation."
"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help," Amanda
smiled, ushering him to the door.
Bowden went out. Captain Tunworth
stormed down the steps after him. Amanda closed the
door and moved to the window to watch, Michael at her
shoulder.
Louis came running from the kitchen with half a
sweet bun in one hand and sugar showing at the corners
of his mouth.
"Oh, ma, you sure fooled "em! I never saw
anyone as mad as that captain when he paraded through the
kitchen-was
"He's still fuming," Michael said, pointing
outside.
The marshal and Tunworth stood by the hack's open
door. Amanda couldn't make out the words, but it was
obvious Tunworth was insisting on further action,
and the marshal was refusing. Finally, red-faced, the
marshal thrust both warrants into Tunworth's hand,
climbed into the hack and jerked the door shut.
The hack clattered off. Tunworth glared at the
house, then stalked across the street. He went
straight to the crowd of rough-clad watchers near the
kiosk and disappeared in their midst. Amanda drew a
tense breath when a couple of the men spun away and
started walking toward the house.
Tunworth immediately caught them and pulled them back.
Presently, the men began to drift away.
Captain Tunworth headed for the opposite side
of the square, alone, and was eventually lost from sight in
dray and carriage traffic.
"Well," Michael said, "that's it-for the moment."
"I should think we've seen the last of the captain,"
Amanda said. "There's nothing more he can do."
"There's nothing more he can do
legally.
But I'll bet a gold piece those boyos who
came to watch the girl's capture are friends of
Rynders-was
After a moment he added, "And they operate best after
dark. We've not gotten out of the woods yet."
III
Despite Michael's pessimism, Amanda
couldn't help) being elated about frustrating
Tunworth. She went up to see Rose, and
described the search in detail. Rose complained
profanely about having two men poking around her
room while she was still in her bed-clothes-
Amused, Amanda asked, "Did they see something they
shouldn't?"
"Hell no. They wouldn't even give me a
second glance!"
"That's
why you're angry-to "
"Not funny," Rose barked, lighting a cigar.
Presently she dressed and joined Amanda
downstairs. The two ate lunch. At the end,
Amanda suggested her friend go home, to insure that the
black girl was taken to the White Star pier on
time:
"There's really no more danger here, Rose." She
sounded more confident than she felt.
Rose finally agreed. Michael walked her across the
square to catch the horse-car, returning to report
the park free of Captain Tunworth's spies.
Amanda was more convinced than ever that Jephtha's
father-in-law wouldn't bother them again. She told
Michael that in the morning, he was to take the
carriage and collect the servants. Meantime, he
and Louis could resume their work repairing the broken
stall in the carriage house.
In the library, she laid a fire, lit it and
settled down in a chair to read through Israel
Hope's manuscript. She couldn't concentrate
on it The morning's elation was quite gone.
She thought about using the telegraph to query the
Rothman Bank concerning the stock situation. But she
decided against it, sadly certain she'd
hear nothing to cheer her up. The item in the
Journal of Commerce
had totally wrecked her scheme to force Stovall
to sell Kent's. The more she thought of that, the more
depressed she became.
One simple choice-one moment of commitment to the
welfare of a girl she'd undoubtedly never see again
comhad undercut the effort of the past two years-and the
hopes, the hard work, the struggle of many more years
than that.
Amanda had never been one to dwell much on past
mistakes. But with the problem of Captain Tunworth
resolved, she couldn't escape a deepening
despondency. If she used the telegraph, the
bank would only confirm that Boston Holdings had
failed in its mission-
Was the freedom of one uneducated and frightened black
girl worth the sacrifice of what she wanted most
in the world?
Foolish question. She knew she couldn't have refused
to help the runaway. In that kind of situation, a
Kent could never refuse-
But the price of Mary's safety was so high; so
unbearably high-
Again she tried to read what Israel had
written. It seemed pointless; by its very existence, the
manuscript mocked her. It would never be published
with the Kent imprint-
The words blurred. The sentences lost all meaning.
The strain and exhaustion of the past few days finally
caught up with her. Sometime after three, she dozed
off-
She awoke with a start to find Brigid hovering beside
her. Except for the glow from the hearth, the library was
dark.
"Visitor, ma'am. In the hall-was
Her palms turned cold. Not Tunworth again-
"Who is it, Brigid?"
"He didn't present a card, ma'am. But he
says his name's Stovall."
"Stovall-to "
Amanda seized the arm of the chair. The pages of
manuscript spilled off her lap.
"Where's Michael?"
"In the kitchen, ma'am. He and Louis are eating
a bite of supper I fixed. T'isn't as good as
cook's fare, but I did my best. I looked in
at seven to see if you'd want some, but you were
asleep-was
"Seven? What time is it-?"
The clock showed half after eight.
Tense, Amanda picked up the manuscript pages
and piled them at the foot of the chair. Brigid
noticed her extreme nervousness.
"Would you like me to tell the gentleman you're
indisposed?"
"No, Brigid, I-was Fear crawled in her like
some venomous invader. "comI'll receive him."
"In the sitting room?"
Amanda dabbed at her perspiring upper lip; glanced
from the objects on the mantel to the painting of her
grandfather. Her voice grew a little firmer:
"In here. Light the gas, please. Did you bolt
the front door again?"
"Of course, ma'am."
"All right. I'll see to the visitor-was
Still plagued by an ominous feeling, she left the
library and walked toward the front door where
Stovall waited, his gold-knobbed cane under one
arm and his silk hat held in his gloved hand.
Outside, Amanda heard a carriage horse
stamp. The immaculate white scarf bisecting
Stovall's face had a silken sheen in the
gaslight. His visible eye sparkled bright as a
bird's.
Staring at him, her sense of dread worsened. Her
gaze went past his shoulder to one of the narrow windows
flanking the door. Except for the flare of the lantern
on his carriage and the dimmer lights on the far side
of the square, she saw nothing but darkness. Somehow that
terrified her too-
"Kind of you to receive me, Mrs. de la Gura,"
Hamilton Stovall said with a slight bow. "Or
would it be more proper if I addressed you by your
correct name? Kent?"
IV
From a shadowed place in the hall, Mr. Mayor
miaowed. The sound of Brigid's footsteps faded
at the rear of the house. She kept her voice as
steady as she could:
"Whatever you prefer, Mr. Stovall. Please come
this way-was
"Thank you."
Amanda's arm trembled as she held the library
door open. Inside, the gaslight glowed.
Stovall went in. She wanted to strike him. But
she held back, struggling for control; for mastery of the
inexplicable mixture of loathing and terror his
presence generated.
Yet he behaved politely enough, taking
the chair she'd vacated beside the hearth. She walked
around the desk and sat beneath the painting of Philip,
almost as if she needed some sort of physical
barrier to prevent her from attacking him.
Stovall acted quite relaxed. Smiled-though there was
no cordiality in his eye. His artificial teeth
glimmered
like old bone as he laid his cane across his knees and
set his silk hat on the floor.
"It seems my suspicions weren't entirely
unfounded," he said.
She didn't answer.
"You
do
recall our little encounter at the Douglass
lecture-?"
"Quite-quite well."
Never had ordinary speech required such effort;
never had she churned with such overpowering hate. At the
same time, her fear of
him
grew; she was terrified of his assured manner; that
skull's grin-
Almost as if he were chiding an infant, he continued:
"You lied to me. Your motive for wanting
to buy Kent and Son was not entirely a matter of
business-was
"That conclusion hardly seems a sufficient reason
for you to call in person, Mr. Stovall."
He wouldn't be prodded:
"You can imagine my stupefaction after I browsed through
Monday's
Journal
and saw the mention of your relative-was
"Get to the point!"
Her outburst amused him; he clearly enjoyed
unsettling her. Breathing loudly, she brushed a
stray lock of white hair from her forehead.
"Certainly," he murmured. "I drove here
to satisfy my curiosity-and to pass on two
items of information. Shall we take those in order-?"
He leaned forward slightly:
"Who are you?"
"The cousin of a young man named Jared Kent"
He sat bolt upright; a point scored.
"That's right," she said. "The boy who served with you
aboard
Constitution"
He touched the white silk with a gloved finger. "The
boy who attacked me-was
"Oh, that's very funny-you speaking of an attack.
Wasn't it the other way around? Once in your
cabin? And once on the deck?"
Now, finally, she'd cracked his defenses; he
spoke with soft, seething fury:
"Jared Kent forced me to live my life as a
grotesque -"
Flick
went the gloved finger against the silk. "He gave me
this." He held out his gloves, palms up. "And
these. Hands so scarred, I can't display them in
public-
"I think you extracted payment ten times over. You
stole the printing firm from my stepfather-was
"That foolish Piggott? My dear woman, I
won a wager from him!"
"Not honestly, I suspect."
StovalTs lips pressed together in prim
pleasure. "Impossible to prove, of course."
"Of course. When my cousin shot your companion-was
"Poor old Walpole. Retired now.
Hopelessly senile."
"comy never took steps to correct Jared's belief
that he'd done murder."
"Great God, woman, what do you expect
from a man who's been the target of a pistol?
Charity? Compassion? Besides, your cousin fled
Boston-was
"Thinking he was a murderer. He carried the guilt
all his life."
"May I ask where he is now?"
"He died in California over two years ago."
"While you amassed your wealth partly in-was
A supple gesture of his right glove.
"California! Now I begin to perceive the pattern.
A reunion. A pledge of retribution-in the form
of regaining the family business. Really rather cheap
theatrics, don't you think? Well, you have at least
satisfied my curiosity. And as regards your
effort to buy-or in the case of the stock manipulation,
I might say steal-Kent and Son, you have failed."
He leaned forward again.
"How utterly you've failed is one of the points I
wish to impress on you this evening."
She watched the play of firelight on his flesh and the
concealing silk. She felt unclean. He was more than
a physical grotesque; the shine of his eye said
Ms very soul comif he had one-was malignant.
"Happily," he continued, "I checked your little
stock scheme in time, thanks to the fortuitous
appearance of the Kent name in Monday's press. I
am not entirely the thoughtless and unqualified steward
of my own affairs that I sometimes appear to be,
Mrs. de la-forgive me. I simply can't use
that name any longer. Mrs. Kent. For some months,
I've been aware of a good deal of movement in
Stovall Works shares. Much more than the firm's
reputation merits, I might add. But if
investors had confidence in my company, excellent!
That I failed to scrutinize the movement more
closely is a tactical error I readily
admit. My head's been busy with other things.
Attempting to float a loan. Courting a young
woman-at any rate, I was not aware the
acquisitions of Stovall shares were in any way
organized until the
Journal
item prompted me to make certain inquiries-and very
rapidly, I don't mind telling you. Naturally
the information was there-in the hands of the bankers who act as
registrars of the stock. Those fools had neglected
to see any significance in the pattern and hence had
never called it to my personal attention. All the
individual purchasers, it seems, re-sold their
shares to a company known as Boston
Holdings. Whose principals, I learned, are the very
same Jew financier and the very same attorney who
attempted to arrange your purchase of Kent's-was
He kept smiling that hateful, insincere smile; his
teeth glared red in the firelight.
"What was your ultimate goal? A majority
position in the stock?"
She could barely nod:
"Yes."
"Which you would then exchange for control of the company you
wanted?" "Yes."
He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "I don't
accept that lightly, my dear woman. Not lightly
at all. You maneuvered against me-was
"Get out," she breathed. "Get out of here before-was
"Before what, Mrs. Kent? You've no trump
cards to play-they're all mine. As you'll soon
see-was
She shivered. His voice had dropped low. He
lightened it, almost teasing her:
"Naturally when I unearthed your little manipulation
on Monday, I acted. At one thirty in the
afternoon, I convened the available members of the board-which
now includes my prospective father-in-law, by the
way. By two, we had agreed to issue the
new stock. Thankfully, Mr. Van Bibb had
already agreed in principle to invest in the Stovall
Works. Instead of making a loan to the company, he and
two associates subscribed the entire new
issue. Between us, Van Bibb, his friends and I now
hold a commanding majority-was
He pressed the tips of his gloved fingers together.
"You want Kent's very much, don't you? I never
cared for that idea once I learned of
your-ah-democratic philosophies. Now I have
an even more compelling reason for keeping the firm out of
your hands. I assure you, my dear-it's never going
to be yours."
"Mr. Stovall, you're exhausting my patience.
You've made it clear that you've defeated me-was
"But I haven't! Not completely! You overlooked
one additional possibility-was
Her hands pressed against the desk, she whispered:
"What possibility?"
"Why-the mortality of human flesh. I am older
than you by several years. Suppose I were to be
struck by a sudden illness. Suppose I were to die.
My estate-to be handled by my future wife and my
two cousins who sit
on the board-might very well accept any
reasonable offer for Kent and Son. But it will never
happen now. I intend to issue explicit
instructions to Miss Van Bibb- to my cousins-and
to my attorneys-that you never be permitted to purchase
the company. Never as long as you live. Nor any of
your heirs, for that matter. Ah, that hurts,
doesn't it? Well, suffer with it. Till the moment
you die, suffer with the knowledge that even tens of millions of
dollars will never give your family what you've
striven so desperately to acquire-was
Amanda absorbed the words almost as if they were
physical blows. She knew he meant every one.
He'd outpointed her again; she'd never thought of the
contingency he'd described-
"That's what you came to tell me, Mr.
Stovall?"
"That and one thing more. I want to learn a little more about
you-was
The teasing smile twisted his lips. She was frightened
again, trying to decipher his intent.
"That's correct-I want to know more about your
background. Your life in California-and wherever
else you've been. I plan to dispatch a pair of
trusted investigators to the gold fields. I'm
sure a woman as-determined as you can't have
survived merely by the exercise of piety and the
performance of good works. I'd like to know how checkered your
past really is-was
Amanda shook her head, still unable to fathom his
purpose. What could he possibly learn that would
hurt her? That she'd shot a man? That she'd run
a brothel in Bexar? Neither fact would be to her
credit if it were made public. But scandal couldn't
prevent her from continuing her business affairs, any
more than it had prevented him. And she had no hope
of being accepted in the higher echelons of society.
Unearthing the past seemed a wholly futile
exercise-
Or so she believed until she asked, "Why?"
She turned icy when he said, "You have a son, do you
not?"
Oh God, no,
she thought. Of course that was the reason.
"An heir to the name of your pretentious family?"
"Come, I know you do! And I'm sure you have high
ambitions for him. Commendable. Let's hope
his
reputation isn't blackened too terribly by whatever
I might discover. Because I'll make it public,
I assure you. Any shame which attaches
to you will attach to him. In short, I'll do everything in
my power to make his life difficult comto prevent
him from rising in the world-I will smear and stain your name-and
his-until any aspirations you may have had for your
son achieving respectability will be quite gone. No
one attacks me with impunity, my dear woman-was
The skull smile widened.
"No one."
"Stovall-was She could barely speak.
"Ah! I've touched a genuinely sensitive spot
at last!"
"Don't do anything to harm my boy. This is only
between us."
"Indeed it is not. And I'm encouraged by your
reaction. There must be something you don't care to have
aired about-was Abruptly, he seemed nonplussed
for the first time. "I fail to understand why you're smiling."
It was a smile bordering on tears:
"Do you? I'll tell you. I once had a plan
to use much the same strategy on you."
"What do you mean?"
"Your affairs in the Five Points-with a young man and
woman named Joseph and Aggie Phelan-was
StovalPs gloved hands clenched. His cane slid
off his knees to the floor.
"I know about them. At one time I thought of informing
Van Bibb's daughter."
Warily: "But you didn't-was
"No, I didn't."
He breathed loudly, relieved. "Scruples.
That, of course, is the difference between us."
"I didn't do it, Stovall-and I ask you to be
decent enough to act with similar restraint. I don't
care what kind of filth you spread about me. Just
don't hurt my son-was
Almost weeping, she bent across the desk:
"Let's call a truce. You have the company.
Isn't that enough?"
She was desperate now. If his inquiry agents
followed the trail of her past from San
Francisco to Los Angeles, then back
to Texas, every chance Louis had for a respectable
life could be wiped out-
His mother murdered a man.
His mother kept a whorehouse.
His mother was
scum-
Humiliated and hating the man smiling at her beside the
hearth, she did the hardest thing she'd ever done.
She begged:
"Please,
Stovall! A truce!"
He laughed in a merry way. "A truce?" He
raised a glove to the white silk. "With a family
who did this-?"
The glove lifted the silk. She pressed her
knuckles to her mouth as sour vomit climbed into her
throat. She averted her head; squeezed her eyes
shut-
When she looked again, he had let the silk fall
back into place.
"No, my dear Mrs.-Kent, a truce is out of the
question." His voice grew steadily louder. "If it's
humanly possible-and one or two of your inadvertent
reactions make me think it is-I'm going to see that
your boy is never welcomed hi the kind of home where
I'm sure you'd wish him welcomed. Let him
live with your money. Let him derive what
satisfaction he can from that, because he'll never have the
satisfaction of being called a
gentleman-nor the satisfaction of owning Kent and
So-was
The rest of the sentence was blurred by the explosive
sound of shattering glass.
Hamilton Stovall grabbed up his hat
and cane, leaped to his feet, spun toward the
library doors. Another window broke. The
front sitting room-
She heard the scream of a frightened horse; Michael
shouting from the kitchen-
Stovall loped toward the doors. He was two
steps from them when Louis burst in.
The boy stopped in the doorway, glanced briefly
at Stovall, then at his mother. Amanda saw the
panic on his face:
"Ma, there are men out front! Twenty or thirty-
come from nowhere-was
She heard shouting; cursing; the heavy thud of fists
pounding the front door.
Rynders" thugs. Waiting until dark to strike-
Stovall realized the danger, even though he
didn't understand its source or cause. With a shrill
yell-"Get out of the way!"-he bolted for the hall.
Louis didn't react quickly enough; didn't step
aside. Stovall's cane slashed wildly. The
gold knob struck the boy's temple.
Louis fell sideways, his head slamming the heavy
woodwork of the door frame. He cried out; tumbled
to the carpet as fists beat harder on the front
door-
He's killed him,
Amanda thought, all the hatred bursting loose within
her.
HE'S KILLED LOUIS-
Screaming for his carriage driver, Stovall stepped
over the still form sprawled in the library entrance.
Amanda wasn't even conscious of tearing open the
drawer of her desk, pulling out the old Colt and
firing.
A red splotch appeared on the dark fabric of
Hamilton Stovall's coat, between his shoulders.
He pitched forward, his hat rolling in one
direction, his cane in the other. He fell at the
feet of Michael Boyle, who had appeared
suddenly from the rear of the hall.
Unable to speak, Michael stared at the woman behind the
desk. Her right arm was extended to its full length.
The gun in her hand showed no sign of motion. A
tiny wisp of smoke curled out of the foot-long
barrel.
VI
Abruptly, Amanda came back to life. She
ran to the fallen boy, flinging the Colt on the
carpet as she knelt between Louis in the doorway and
Stovall's body in the hall. She touched
the boy's lips-
"He's breathing!"
"What in God's name did Stovall-?"
"Hit him," she said. "With his cane-was
"There she is!"
someone outside yelled. "That's the one who hid the
nigger!"
She twisted around; saw white, distorted faces
pressed against the narrow windows on either side of the
front door.
Another voice: "Where's Mickey? Mickey
has the pistol-was
A third: "Don't wait for Mickey! Break the
goddamn door!"
Mr. Mayor miaowed at the noise of shoulders
battering the wood. The door gave off an ominous
crack. The cat arched his back and crept away from
the shouting; the thudding; the fist that suddenly smashed
window-glass and reached around for the bolt-
Amanda jumped up. "Take Brigid out the back.
Briid and Louis."
Michael scowled, pointing at the darkening skin just below
the boy's hairline:
"It could be dangerous to move him-was "It'll be a
lot more dangerous if he stays here! Get
him to a doctor!
Now!"
"I can't leave you to face-was
"Michael, I'm not going!
You can carry Louis better and faster than I. There
are things here I have to protect-was
The front door splintered. Scraps of wood
fell inward. The disembodied hand, bloodied by the
broken glass, was still groping for the bolt.
Michael's face showed his agony as he tried
to decide what to do.
"I'll be all right!" She held up the revolver,
turned the cylinder. "I've four more shots-and I'm
sure the neighbors have already summoned the police-was
From the portico came another strident yell:
"Shoot the fuckin' horse, Mickey!"
An explosion. A wild scream of animal pain.
"There goes the driver!
Catch him
-!" With a grind and crash, the carriage was
overturned. Michel and Amanda heard the driver's
shrieks- "Damn you, Michael,
go!"
The young Irishman rushed to Louis, lifted him in
both arms. With one last look at his
employer, he hurried toward the dining room. He
moved swiftly; yet Amanda was conscious of the
extreme care with which he held the still figure of the
boy- Let him get away, she prayed.
Let my son live
- The red hand found the bolt at last. As she
retreated toward the library, the already-ruined front
door swung inward, wrenched off its top hinge by the
force of the men crowding against it. In the drive, the
coachman was still screaming.
Just as she started to close the library doors, she
glimpsed a lick of flame. The carriage set
afire-
Burly, oafish, the men spilled into the long front
hall.
One who was faster than the rest leaped at Mr.
Mayor. The frightened torn started to run. The thug
caught him by the tail.
The white cat yowled, claws slashing. The thug
swung him hard. The cat's head broke open,
spattering the wall-
Amanda saw that an instant before she locked the
doors. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead
against the wood, listening to the sounds of the carnage:
shouts; filthy language; furniture
breaking; windows smashing; draperies being ripped
down-
She stumbled around behind the desk. She put the Colt
on a pile of papers; picked up the display case
containing Jared's medallion. She carried it to the
mantel and set it up beside the tea bottle. She
retrieved the Colt, returned to the mantel and
stood there, waiting-
Bart said it would come to this. Take up the sword
-
perish with the sword.
Perhaps if I hadn't hated Stovall so much
-
or wanted Kenfs so badly
-
Louis wouldn't have attacked Kathleen
-
Nor
this mob come
-
And Stovall wouldn't have hit my son
-
,
IF!
comthe complexities of cause and effect
tormented her as she waited for the first onslaught against
the library doors-
Shoulders slammed the outside of the panels. Her
heart beat frantically as she positioned herself two
steps out from the mantel.
The bolt housing tore loose.
The doors swayed.
Buckled-
"There's the bitch!"
"Give her what-for-was
"For Kathleen McCreery!"
She had a wild glimpse of half a dozen men
milling in
the hall. One had his penis in his hand, urinating on
the carpet-
The men charged her across the wreckage of the doors.
She shot the first one in the chest.
He screamed and slapped his frayed jacket,
slammed backwards into the arms of his companions.
While she revolved the cylinder, the thugs
retreated into the hall again, yelling and cursing as they
tried to free themselves from the weight of the dead man.
One thug stepped on Stovall's head.
"Mickey, damn ye, where are ye, boy?"
"Mickey, bring your gun
-!"
The whole house thundered: heavy boots slammed the
ceiling; glass crashed and tinkled; great thumps and
thuds and splintering sounds built to a deafening din.
The thugs advanced cautiously outside the library
doorway, using the walls to hide themselves from Amanda.
One bearded face suddenly peered around the splintered
frame. She aimed the Colt. The face
disappeared. In the distance, bells clanged.
Police wagons. Blocks away, but coming fast.
Distracted by the sound, she failed to see the hand that
snaked around the doorframe clasping a small,
shiny-plated pistol. The moment she did see it, the
pistol gave off a loud pop.
She started to duck behind Michael's favorite
chair. Something struck her below her left breast.
She glanced down, faint all at once. Her
dress was stained dark red.
She dropped to her knees, one hand on the chair so
she wouldn't fall. The wound began to hurt.
"You got "er, Mickey!" a man howled, charging
into the room. "Let's tear the fuckin" place
apar-was
She shof him between the legs. The bullet lifted him
off his feet and hurled
him
on top of the man she'd shot in the chest.
The library was smoky now. She gasped for-breath;
stood up despite the pain; stretched out her left
hand, groping for the mantel-
The pain was constant; hard to bear. But she wouldn't
let them reach her. She wouldn't let them pull down
the sword or the rifle. Wouldn't let them smash the
green bottle or the case with Jared's medallion-
Another man tried. He almost had his hands on her
before she blew away half his face.
That sent the attackers fleeing back into the hall, out
of the line of fire.
The bells clanged louder. Hoofs rattled on
concrete. Iron-tired wheels screeched. Under the
portico, someone yelled:
"Police-to "
There were panicked cries; the sound of pounding feet;
a last crash of glass from somewhere at the rear of the
house-
Amanda held onto the mantel with all her strength.
The left side of her dress was soaked red from
breast to hip-
"I
killed Stovall,
she thought, gazing down at the blood.
And comwhat did Jephtha say
-
his
Without blood there is no remission of sin-"
Her blurring eyes moved to the wall clock.
Fifteen until ten.
Fifteen minutes more and the steamer would put out from
North River bound for Canada-
She almost smiled.
She let go of the mantel and the Colt revolver at
the same time, unconscious before she struck the
carpet
Judgment
AMANDA KENT DE LA GURA lived
seventeen days after the attack on her home. She
lay in her bedroom on the second floor,
conscious for short periods, and in relatively little
pain at first. During one of the brief periods of
wakefulness, Michael Boyle told her eight men
had been caught and arrested by the police; the rest had
escaped. No connection between any of the eight
prisoners and Isaiah Rynders could be
established, he informed her somewhat cynically.
Occasionally Amanda heard unfamiliar
voices; the fault rasp of saws on the first
floor; the rap of hammers. Workmen had already begun
repairing the damage, estimated at eighty thousand
dollars.
In Amanda's room, there was no evidence of the
attack. The draperies had been replaced. The
damaged furniture had been removed. The thugs
had destroyed furnishings throughout the house; smashed
great holes in the plaster; ripped up carpeting and
defecated on the floors. But while Amanda
slept, Michael supervised the quiet work of
making it seem as though her bedchamber hadn't been
touched.
Sometime on the second or third day, a doctor
bent over her. She didn't recognize him.
Since moving to New York City, neither she nor
her son had ever required a doctor's care. In
fact she couldn't remember the last time she'd been
seriously ill.
Now, however, it was a different matter. The doctor
told her the pistol ball had lodged in or near
her left
lung, and couldn't be removed. She knew from his
expression she was going to die.
"I've also been attending your son," he
said.
"Where-was At times, speaking even a few words was
difficult. "Where is-?"
"Mrs. Ludwig's home. We'll move him here
as quickly as we can. Young Mr. Boyle got him
to me in time. He suffered a wicked concussion but I
believe he'll pull through."
She fell asleep weeping.
II
On the fourth day, Michael brought her a
Tribune
with the account of Hamilton Stovall's funeral, and a
letter postmarked in the nation's capital. She could
barely find strength to hold the envelope:
"I can't read it, Michael. The hand seems
familiar-was
"I opened it, Mrs. A. It's from your cousin's
son."
"Jephtha? He's alive-?"
"In Washington. He doesn't think he can go
back to his family."
"Is-is there an address?"
Michael pointed it out. "A Methodist
parsonage."
"Write him. Tell him-to come here.
Shelter-was
"What, Mrs. A?" He bent close to her.
"Shelter him,"
she whispered as her eyes closed. "Help
him
comstart again-was
III
On the sixth day, Th@eo Payne arrived from
Boston in response to a telegraph message
Michael had sent. Amanda smelled the whiskey on
Payne's breath the
moment he entered the bedroom, turning his hat brim
nervously in his hands.
He sat on a chair at the bedside, listening
attentively: "Downstairs-there's a
manuscript. I want-Kent's to publish it. I
want-you to stay on as-the editor." "Stay on?"
"Mr. Benbow-has approached the Stovall
estate. They are-willing to sell. The executors
have no-have no-was She struggled to get the words out.
"comobjections to my politics, and-and my money is
as good as-anyone's. I want you to teach my son
all you know, Th@eo. I want the firm to-to stand
for something again."
"You know my position. I am strongly in
favor of abolitionism. I would even propose
starting a newspaper similar to the one Kent and Son
once published." Eagerness livened his voice.
"I've had experience in that line, you know-was
"If you do start a paper," she whispered, "it must do
more than-than support freedom for the slaves. It
must comx must stand for that and-preserving the Union too-was
Payne looked downcast. "I'm not sure both can
be done together-was
A moment later he leaned forward. "What did you
say?"
Silently, her lips formed two words:
"Must be."
After several minutes had passed, he assumed she
wasn't going to waken again soon. He began
to tiptoe out.
"Th@eo-was
He started, unnerved by the unexpected loudness of her
voice. He turned back. Her eyes were open;
clear and alert.
"Th@eo," she said, "clean the sign."
"The sign? Oh-the one in front of the firm-was
"Better still, have-a new one painted. It's a
goddamn disgrace."
He watched her eyes close again, then
continued to the door, vaguely ashamed because he wanted
to whoop with joy.
iv
Rose visited on the seventh day. It was a tiring
experience for Amanda, because Rose seemed all
bluster and profanity:
"Damn it, Amanda, you've got to-to get out of
that bed-I don't have-another friend who'll tolerate
my cigars or-or go out with me in public
wearing-trousers-Jesus Christ, how horridly
I'm behaving! I can't help it. I
can't help it-was
She hid her face with both hands.
On the ninth day, summoned at Amanda's request,
William Benbow, Junior arrived from Boston.
With the door of the bedroom closed, the attorney showed
her the papers transferring legal guardianship of
Louis Kent de la Gura to Michael Boyle.
"Only one-mistake," she said. "Scratch out-de
la Gura. His name is Louis-Kent."
Old Benbow helped guide her hand so she could
write her signature. It was all but illegible.
VI
On the eleventh day, Amanda felt sufficiently
alert to hold another short conversation with
Michael. She wore a lavender bed gown that
Brigid had helped her put on.
Her hair, unpinned, lay fanned on the pillow,
so nearly white that it was almost indistinguishable from the
linen. From time to time, her wrinkled face constricted with
pain.
"Michael-?"
"I'm here."
She clutched his extended hand, treasuring warmth.
"Louis is-?"
"Perfectly fine, though still sleeping a good deal."
"I wish I could see him."
"Why, you will, Mrs. A. You'll be up and ab-was
"No, I-was She coughed. "comwon't and you know it.
I think I-forgot to ask before. Did anyone-find
Tunworth-?"
"The night of the attack? No. I expect he was
safely in the Astor House when it took place.
He's gone home minus one nigger."
"About Jephtha-was
"I wrote him. I invited him here to live."
"Good. Remember, all the Ophir money-is
his-a-long with the profits of the issues I bought with
part of that money-was
"I'll see he gets every penny."
"You-mustn't-say that word again, either."
"What word?"
"Nigger. I-don't like it. You're not a slum boy
any longer, Michael, you're-part of my family
now. You are all I have to depend on-the only one
who-can take Louis in hand-see that he grows up
to be- straight and decent-and learns the business under
Th@eo Payne-was
"I won't say the word again, Mrs. A,"
Michael whispered. "I don't think I'm fit
for the responsibility you've laid on me. But
I'll try to be worthy of it."
She sighed, a faint, reedy sound. "I did so much
that was wrong-was
"And so much that was right"
"But-was She seemed not to hear. "At least Kent's
will be back in the family."
"Yes. Benbow says all's proceeding
smoothly."
"Michael-was Frantic pressure from her feeble
fingers. "You must promise me-was
"What?"
"Never tell-Louis how-Stovall died."
"I had already decided I wouldn't. One of the
mobsters was found dead with a pistol on his
body. A copper whacked the fellow too hard with his
stick. So the story is, the dead chap's the one who
shot Mr. Stovall. The press has already printed
it that way. The ball from your Colt was of much larger
caliber. But the police overlooked that. I-
I'm
afraid I bribed them to do so. There's little point in
them prosecuting a woman who-was
He stopped abruptly.
"Who is going to die?"
A long silence.
"Michael-?"
"Yes?"
"When you put up a headstone-in Watertown-was
"Oh, Mrs. A, what's this morbid talk of
headstones?"
"Listen to me. Along with my husband's name, I
want the name Kent on it. Amanda Kent de la
Gura-was
She began to drift off, murmuring it over and over:
"Kent. Kent-was
Crying silently, Michael Boyle held her hand
long after she was unconscious.
vu
One the fifteenth day, she thought she had
begun to hallucinate. She saw a familiar
face; gray eyes; hair whiter than she
remembered it-
"Bart?"
"Yes, sweet, it's me."
"How-how is it possible?"
"Why, the story of the mob's attack has been
telegraphed to papers all over the country. Along
with the account of how you probably helped a nigra
girl escape to Canada. You should hear them cuss
you in Charleston! That's where I read about it-was
"Charleston! I-tried to write you in London-was
He shook his head. "I went home. Damned if
I can altogether explain why-unless it was the feeling of
starting to grow old among people I didn't know very
well. The folk in Britain are marvelous.
Polite. Hospitable comandthe Royal Sceptre
captaincy paid far better than I'd expected,
once I added in the primage. But after I lost you,
somehow I came to feel I-I didn't have anything.
Not even a home. If a man doesn't have a
woman-and I swore I'd never fuss with another
until I met you-I suppose he should at least have
a home. I never figured I'd do it, but one day
I gave notice to Royal Sceptre and
walked out. I confess I damn near bawled when the
steamer sailed in past Fort Sumter and Fort
Moultrie and I saw the Battery in Charleston
again. I'm running a little cotton packet up and
down the coast-was
She tried to laugh; it came out as a faint rasp:
"You-took sides after all."
"Guess I did, in a way."
"So did I-was An image of Jared's medallion
drifted into her mind. "You were right, no-no one can
stay out of it."
"Listen, you'll never get me to a political
meeting, sweet! I'm content to savor the southern
climate as is -I stay far away from platforms
where Yancey and Rhett and some of the other secessionist
fire-eaters puff out their sulphurous
rhetoric-was
"There's-so much hate on both sides now-"
"Yes, there is." He looked at her with forlorn
eyes. "It'll tear this country apart."
"The Union has to survive. The
country
has to
survive-was
"Not certain it can, sweet."
"There's too much that's good at stake. Too much that
was hard-won-was
"But it's a matter of principle on both sides.
And the voices keep getting louder-was
"There are other voices. Kent's will be one soon.
Against slavery-was
"Well, there you go!"
"But against bloodshed too-was
"Amanda," he said, "it's an impossible problem.
The north will never countenance slavery, and the south will
never-give it up. Each wants its own way. That
always leads to but one conclusion. "Perish with-" his
Abruptly, he cut off the sentence, realizing it
had a closer and more painful meaning.
She recognized his discomfort:
"You were right about that too. Stovall's dead. I shot
him. He attacked Louis-might have killed him-was
"Yes, the Irish lad informed me."
After a moment, she said:
"Bart-I wish you'd bend down and kiss me. That-
that's a frightful thing for an old lady to ask, isn't
it?"
He put his face near hers.
"No."
"I expect I should have married you-was
"I know you should have, sweet."
"I did what I had to do. But I love you."
"Yes, I love you too. More than I can begin
to tell
y-was
Silence.
"Amanda? Did you hear-?"
In panic, he felt for her pulse-
Thin. But it was there. She was only sleeping.
vii
On the morning of the seventeenth day, with the draperies
open to admit the sun of another bright winter morning,
she felt unusually lethargic. Breathing was
difficult. She was struck by the certainty that she
wouldn't live much longer.
One hand rested on a blue-covered legal document
The agreement of the Stovall estate to sell Kent and
Son. It had arrived by messenger from Boston late
the preceding night. Michael had brought it up and
laid it at her bedside so she saw it the first thing
when she awoke. She wished she could have spoken
to Louis, But he was still recuperating; still sleeping a
good deal, Michael said.
All at once she! heard a faraway melody.
The piano. The piano in the music
room; the piano no one had ever played-
And now familiar, melancholy notes rose
upward through the house- Bart. The Chopin piece.
Somehow the music soothed her. Seemed not
melancholy but full of sweet promise and healing.
She let her mind range peacefully back across
all the years, from the tepee of the young Sioux,
Plenty Coups, to her marriage to Jaunie de la
Gura-the turmoil in Texas-Cordoba and the
birth of her son-Bart in California- And the end of
her life here in New York. It was time for an
accounting. On the credit side, she'd preserved the
family. Put it in trustworthy hands. With
Joshua Rothman and old Benbow and Th@eo
Payne to assist him, Michael Boyle coma Kent
in spirit now, if not in name-would serve well until
Louis achieved his majority. She only prayed
she hadn't warped her son's character too severely;
prayed Michael would be able to mold him into an
honorable man. At least there was a hope of it-
Perhaps Jephtha would help when he came to the city.
On Jephtha's side too, the family had
heirs; his sons. Whatever their position on the
divisive issues tormenting the country, they were
Kents. With the proceeds of the Ophir
claim in Hopeful, andwiththe promising reports from the
Sierras, they would be wealthy men-
If there were no war to destroy them; to destroy the
nation-
On the debit side, she knew she had at times
been ruthless in order to survive; ruthless in
obtaining her ends. So ruthless, Louis had very
nearly been sacrificed. Yet from her ruthlessness
had come the restoration of the Kent fortune. Perhaps that
entry had a place on both sides of the ledger.
And the company. The company belonged to its rightful owners
again. Her hand moved over the blue-covered document;
a kind of caress-
All at once she felt quite sleepy. The
sunlight burned her eyes. Details of the room
melted away in the glare-
The appearance of that intense light told her the end was
very near. She was terrified of dying alone. Bart and
Michael had gone downstairs for breakfast with
Rose, who had sat with her through the night. She
tried to grasp the bell pull-
She was too feeble to reach it.
Weary and frightened, she gave up trying to assess
her own life. She remembered the Mandan legend
of the vine; the great womanly hands left the
vine alone, or tore it, denying paradise. The
meaning of the legend brought a certain comfort. Only a
Divine intelligence could fully and accurately
judge a human life, and find it worthy or
wanting-
She'd taken lives. The man in Hopeful-and
Hamilton Stovall-lingered most acutely in her
mind. Those
acts would weigh heavily in the judgment, she knew.
But the judgment itself was beyond her.
lama Kent.
I did what I had ta.
Let the verdict come down.
An almost child-like expression of pleasure came onto
her face. Settling her head more comfortably on the
pillow, she turned toward the intense light. She'd
quite forgotten the light shone through a window in a
specific house in a specific city in
America-
Or did it?
She felt her strength waning. She was suddenly
ashamed of her own fear.
Guilty she might be. But what human being was not?
There were things in her past she needn't be ashamed of;
things to be proud of; she wouldn't surrender
so meekly to a condemning judgment-
Thafs not what grandfather would have done.
Slowly, her eyes closed.
It was puzzling. The light remained.
Growing steadily brighter-
Suddenly, clear and sharp, she saw the vine
to paradise.
She spit on her hands and began to climb.
Afterword
The American Bicentennial Series has
produced an immense and positive response from
readers. One question is frequently asked: "What's
true and what isn't?" A short comment may be in
order.
The Kent family, of course, is fictitious-but
at all times, an effort has been made to make
each of the Kents
representative
of a certain type of person living in a particular
era in American history. For instance:
The grim circumstances faced by several of the family
members in Volume III, THE SEEKERS,
reflect the reality of the period: life on the
cutting edge of western expansion was stark; brutal.
Many were defeated by it; many others persevered.
(but to romanticize or prettify the historical
realities of such a period, it seems to me, would
diminish the courage and determination of those who endured
and overcame its hardships. were
Factual details have helped shape the lives of the
fictional characters. A good example from this volume is
the escaped slave in the packing box. (what
author would have the nerve to invent such a device?) In
the period described, a man named Henry "Box"
Brown actually made his escape to the north in this
fashion.
As to actual events and people, I made a mental
pledge at the beginning of the Series that I would never
deliberately or knowingly distort the record,
whether of a battle, or the character of an historical
figure as I saw him or her through the lens of
research. One or two small liberties with
chronology have been taken in the
first four novels, but that is the only sort of
deviation I feel is defensible in books which
attempt to relate the story of our common past.
I must admit to one compromise. Before I undertook
the writing, I acknowledged it would probably be
impossible to cover so much history without committing
errors; hopefully, careful research would
keep them minor comz in Volume I, THE
BASTARD, which originally included a sequence in which a
match was struck-long before matches of that sort were
available. That one, mercifully, was caught in the
galley proofs.
Accepting the probability of unintentional error was
the price of seeing the work reach readers in a
reasonable time; I either had to run the risk or face
taking a lifetime to do the writing. Happily,
the approach, with all its hazards, seems to have been
the right one. A great number of men and women have
written to say the Series has re-kindled a
desire to delve deeper into American history.
No writer or publisher could ask for a greater
reward.
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.