The Seekers Page 36

  Her eyes flicked to the table. Her lips compressed. That delighted him. On the surface, however, he was polite. “It all depends on when the pilot comes aboard to steer us in. He came aboard first thing this morning. Where’s Uncle Gilbert?”

  “At the printing house.”

  “But Amanda said he’s ill—”

  “When did that ever stop him from doing exactly as he wished?”

  Jared indicated the boarded windows. “You’ve had unexpected callers.”

  Harriet sank into a chair. “Every time Gilbert writes one of his editorials, he’s pilloried in the opposition press, abused on the street—or we’re visited by vandals. The strain is getting to be more than I can bear.”

  Jared concealed his disgust. “Evidently the strain’s been worse on Uncle Gilbert.”

  “It’s his fault, not mine, if he chooses to endanger his health by working long hours for an unpopular cause!”

  Jared was aghast at her lack of feeling for her husband. He was angry, too, not only because of the callous way she spoke of Gilbert, but also because she didn’t even trouble to ask one question about how he’d gotten along on the frigate.

  Instead, she stood up, marched straight to the polished table, removed his canvas bag and set it on the floor.

  “Your uncle and I have parted company on political matters, Jared. I now attend Federal Street Church, where I find Mr. Channing’s sermons more to my taste.”

  “I see.”

  Jared knew of the church, naturally. Its pastor, the Reverend William Ellery Channing, was Boston’s most popular preacher. He’d taken a pacifist stand on the war. Jared wasn’t surprised that Harriet Kent would show her vindictiveness by refusing to attend the Kent family’s church, and by displaying herself publicly, alone, in a place of worship whose pastor was more attuned to the thinking of those whose admiration she coveted. Christ, he didn’t know how Gilbert stood the woman!

  In a few moments, the joy of homecoming was wholly gone, destroyed by the sight of those ugly planks hammered over the empty window frames, and by Harriet’s hauteur.

  His black mood drove him to pick up the canvas bag. “Here, Amanda, I brought you something.”

  “What is it, what?” she exclaimed, dancing up and down.

  “A bracelet of rope from Constitution.” He slipped it easily onto her small wrist. “I made it myself.”

  He swung around.

  “I’m sorry I have nothing for you, Aunt Harriet.”

  Her eyes showed her hostility. “I wouldn’t expect it of you, Jared. You are your mother’s child, not mine.”

  She whirled, her skirts belling, and vanished into the hall.

  Scarlet-cheeked, Jared kicked the canvas bag. Amanda hugged him again and thanked him for the present, oblivious to the hatred that had crackled between the boy and the woman only a moment earlier.

  v

  The skies grayed in the early afternoon. A chilly rain began to fall, hinting of autumn. Gilbert returned a few minutes after six, to be greeted by a complaint from Harriet: some of the kitchen help were unhappy about preparing and serving large meals in the evening. In most other wealthy homes, by nightfall the kitchens were quiet, the day’s work largely done. Why couldn’t Gilbert try to change his habits? Learn to dine in the early afternoon, as respectable people did—?

  Gilbert was wan, thinner than a month ago. But Jared’s presence put him in high spirits. He refused to let Harriet’s harangue bother him. “My dear, you and the servants will wait in vain for that kind of change in me. We are Kents first and foremost. Respectability, if any, is incidental.”

  Harriet wasn’t amused. “So I’ve discovered.”

  “Jared, come along to the table! I want to hear all about Hull’s victory—”

  Gilbert wrapped his arm around his nephew’s shoulder, walking him past Harriet’s vindictive eyes. “By God, I’ve never seen the old town in such an uproar. Do you know they’re going to give you a parade down State Street? And a dinner at Faneuil Hall?”

  “Not me, surely.” Jared laughed.

  “You’re part of the crew, aren’t you?”

  “When is the dinner?”

  “September fifth. In the evening,” Gilbert added, for Harriet’s benefit. “Even Royal’s planning to attend, much as he loathes the war. The curious dualism of Boston continues! Bursts of patriotic fervor on one hand—widespread refusal to help the government on the other—”

  Gilbert coughed as he slipped into his chair at the head of the dining room table. Amanda took her place opposite Jared, elbows on the tablecloth. That earned her a smack on the wrist from her mother. Jared wondered whether Harriet’s choice of wrists was accidental. She slapped the one on which Amanda wore the bracelet.

  Harriet sat down at her end of the table. Her husband virtually ignored her. “Before you begin, Jared, what news do you want to hear?”

  “About the war? I only know General Hull surrendered Fort Detroit—”

  “Without shooting at the enemy once! Something much worse happened about the same time—the middle of August—but the reports took weeks to reach the eastern seaboard. Immediately the fort at Michilimackinac fell, Hull ordered Fort Dearborn evacuated—that’s at the foot of the lake in the Illinois country. Sixty-six men, women and children dutifully obeyed Hull’s stupid order, and left the fort. They were promptly massacred by Indians lying in wait.”

  Jared shook his head. “That’s horrible. I suppose the Indians were equipped by the British?”

  “Undoubtedly. If it weren’t for Constitution’s splendid performance, morale in the country would be nonexistent.”

  “Did you know Captain Hull’s going on leave?”

  “I did not.”

  “His brother died suddenly.”

  “Will Hull resume command when he returns?”

  “No, Constitution’s going to put to sea before that. I don’t know this for certain, but I heard Hull’s already been reassigned to the Boston Navy Yard, and Captain Bainbridge will command our ship.”

  “I want to hear about the fight!” Amanda said.

  Harriet leaned forward. “Such an interest on the part of a young girl is not suitable or—”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Harriet!” Gilbert said. “We all want to hear Jared describe the battle.”

  “You needn’t include me,” his wife retorted. “You’ll forgive me if I retire. I’m not feeling well.”

  Lips pursed, Gilbert stared after her as she left the room. They listened to her rush upstairs. Amanda seemed relieved that her mother was gone. She fairly bounced on her chair. “The battle, Jared—!”

  “Wait, dear,” Gilbert said. “I want to ask one question.” He looked at Jared. “Are you planning to sail out with Bainbridge?”

  “Certainly, sir. My enlistment runs for a year.”

  “Then you and I must have a chat after dinner.”

  It was said lightly enough. But from the forthrightness of Gilbert’s eyes—their dark color heightened by the unhealthy hue of his skin—Jared knew something serious was afoot.

  Amanda responded to the exchange by pouting. “And I’m to be sent to my room, I suppose?”

  Gilbert pondered. “Not necessarily. I believe it might be well if you joined us.” He showed more animation as the maid brought in their plates. “Now, Jared—every detail. From the moment you first sighted the enemy.”

  Jared obliged his uncle, omitting only his trouble with Stovall and his strange sickness. While the problem of the sixth lieutenant could have been described in a reasonably rational way, the other could not.

  And since Jared was positive his uncle couldn’t explain the ominous flaw, he saw no reason to bring it up.

  vi

  Because the rain had chilled the house, a fire had been lit in the sitting room hearth. Gilbert pulled a heavy chair up near it. Amanda snuggled at his feet, fondling her bracelet and yawning.

  Gilbert’s right hand moved gently, caressingly over her shining hair. In his other h
and he held a goblet of port. But he drank very little of it.

  Jared reveled in his uncle’s recognition of his maturity. Gilbert had poured wine for his nephew without any reference to his age. He finished the first glass quickly, helped himself to another and resumed his seat, crossing his legs. His polished boots reflected the firelight. He had changed to civilian clothes for dinner. His fob hung below his trim purple jacket.

  “I appreciate your thoughtfulness in bringing me that bit of wood from your ship,” Gilbert said. “I’ll treasure it.”

  “It’s really of no value, Uncle—”

  “On the contrary. And the fact that you chose that sort of gift says something interesting about you.”

  Amanda yawned again. The goblet sparkled with fiery highlights as Gilbert raised it toward the mantel where the French sword hung above the Kentucky rifle. The green glass tea bottle shimmered directly below the gun. “You are—instinctively, it seems—a Kent. A collector of mementos. That’s good. But in other ways, you’ve changed remarkably in a very short time—”

  Though Gilbert spoke matter-of-factly, Jared was disturbed. He had a strange feeling the conversation was about to take a gloomy turn. The rain ticked against the planks nailed over the windows. By the light of the fire, Gilbert looked weary and withered—

  Jared tried to fend his uncle’s comment with a smile. “It’s mainly because my voice has gotten deeper, I think.”

  “No, it’s more than that. The way you carry yourself, for instance. I’ve been told danger can gray a man overnight. If that’s true, I see no reason why it can’t pull a boy from childhood to manhood in a month.”

  Gilbert set the goblet on a table beside his chair. Amanda had closed her eyes. Careful not to disturb her, he rose and approached the mantel.

  “I am not a man of particularly morbid temperament, Jared. But all of us are mortal, and in my case, the time granted me on this earth may be shorter than that granted to others. May be,” he repeated, a hand raised to silence his nephew’s automatic protest.

  “I say that only because my physician has said it to me. I don’t like to borrow trouble. I’ve always believed, however, that those who are blind to future possibilities are certain to be punished by them.”

  “Amanda told me you were ill again,” Jared said. “Do you mean to say it—it’s more serious than we know?”

  “I’ve no idea whether it is or not. I just have—oh, call it a premonition.”

  That was the moment Jared knew his uncle was concealing something. “Uncle Gilbert, please tell me the truth. What has your doctor said?”

  Gilbert waved. “The usual nonsense about too much work. The strain of trying to convert others to my viewpoint—a lot of twaddle. I’ll probably live to be an old horse.”

  Jared stared into his uncle’s eyes and didn’t believe it. Neither did Gilbert, he realized with a jolt.

  “But since you are old enough to discuss such matters, it’s wise for us to at least recognize the possibility that I could be removed from the affairs of this family at any time.”

  With a glance, Jared tried to warn his uncle that Amanda had awakened. She was listening, her head leaning against the chair, her eyes large. Gilbert appeared not to notice that, or Jared’s warning. “In that event, what would be your attitude about a career with the firm?”

  “I’ll have to answer you honestly—”

  “I’d have it no other way.”

  “I don’t know if I’m the sort to run a printing house.”

  “Very well. Should anything happen to me, you must then rely on my general manager, Franklin Pleasant. He would be a good steward of the Kent interests until such time as you might decide to throw your lot with the firm—or, barring that, sell it. Naturally I’d hate to see it sold. But I won’t force you into a mold of my own devising. Your father was almost—never mind, that’s extraneous. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Jared nodded slowly. He hesitated to speak what was in his thoughts. But his uncle’s frankness and the fire-shot darkness conspired to make his mood as somber as Gilbert’s. “I think you’re saying decisions should not be trusted to Aunt Harriet.”

  “Yes, God forgive me.”

  “I still think it’s premature to imagine something will hap—”

  “Perhaps, perhaps,” Gilbert interrupted. “But indulge me a little while longer, if you please. It’s often struck me that a man’s life is something like one of those gambling games the clerics abhor. In cards, for instance, the outcome depends partly on what you’re dealt and what you draw by chance. At the same time, you have the opportunity to make choices—to show skill or lack of it, boldness or cowardice—in your disposition of the hand. A man also has certain things given to him. His capacity for learning. Sometimes his health—but those factors needn’t control him completely. They needn’t defeat him if they capriciously take charge for a while. That happens in this world, despite our best efforts to order our own lives—”

  Jared remembered Stovall, remembered Ollie Prouty’s death.

  “I know.”

  “I want to share some thoughts about your life, Jared. How you might control and guide it in the years to come. As I said before, I’d never tell you exactly what to do, for reasons we won’t go into. But whatever you do and wherever you go, I do want and expect you to remember one thing. You are a Kent. A member of a family not content to simply prosper without concern for this country which makes prosperity possible for all. Everything we are—you are—is summed up in our odd penchant for collecting little souvenirs of the times in which we’ve lived. I’ve noticed the books and scientific samples in your room, for instance. During your absence, your aunt wanted to store them away. I said no. Those things are signs that you’re a Kent—as is that splinter of wood you brought home.”

  He returned to the mantel. “As a Kent, I want you to share the reverence I have for these objects”—a hand encompassed the sword, the rifle, the bottle—“because they are the sum and symbol of the way your grandfather pledged his life to what he believed. Many men—and women—pledge themselves to nothing but their own self-interest. That’s not the Kent way. Not my way, and I hope not yours. If Kent and Son must vanish one day because you choose another course, don’t let these objects vanish—or what they represent. Guard them as you would your own life. Humor me in this, Jared—promise me you will revere and protect what you see before you.”

  In a whisper, Jared said, “I will.”

  And the voice of his doubt whispered in turn, If I am strong enough. If I am not what my father was—

  He was conscious of Amanda’s upturned face, evidently still unnoticed by Gilbert. With an almost mystical fascination, she stared at the bottle and the firelit weapons.

  “See that you live up to the words on that fob as well.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Finally—take care of your cousin. I fear you are the only one who can do that adequately.”

  Jared opened his mouth, ready to tell his uncle Amanda was listening. Young as she was, she apparently sensed the reason Gilbert spoke as he did; she understood his references to poor health and the possibility of death. Nestled against the chair, she had tears in her eyes.

  Jared said, “I’ll take care of her, sir.”

  Gilbert walked to the front windows, stared at the rainy darkness beyond the one remaining glass.

  “If we survive and win this war—as we must—there will be great challenges for a man who is willing to look for them without fear. We are gaining new territory all the time. The pace of invention and technical progress is astounding. The United States can expand, and prosper. Despite greed and faulty thinking and all the cruelties and aberrations of the human condition, this nation can become something unlike any other state or kingdom in the world’s history. Your grandfather recognized that, I have tried to, and I want you to do the same. I hope you will not be drawn into selfish byways, but will stay on the high road—the road of cause and contribution and comm
itment. In the Kent family, that’s a kind of religion. Those are its altarpieces”—Jared’s gaze followed the slender hand back to the mantel—“and you are called to be one of its priests. Strong men of conviction will be needed, Jared. They are always needed, but they will be needed more and more urgently in the years ahead.”

  He began to pace. “The country’s still in its infancy—growing, experimenting. Like a child, it could fall and flounder—and be abandoned by the march of history. Many questions over and above the immediate ones of this war remain to be resolved. The nation’s survival depends on their resolution. One is the matter of the franchise. I have thought long and hard on it, and I’ve concluded that although the men who founded this country had great wisdom and courage, in some respects they were narrow traditionalists. Influenced by an English heritage—a heritage of aristocracy. It was natural that American aristocrats should lead the drive for independence. It’s easier to find leaders among the rich simply because the rich can concern themselves with issues larger than making a living. But we’ve gone past that stage. If the principles of freedom Mr. Jefferson expressed so well are to have any validity, all men must have the basic right to control their government through their elected officials. All men, not merely those who meet their state’s voting requirements—so much money, so much property, so much education. Such requirements must be abolished or the democratic ideal is a sham.”

  “Did President Jefferson really believe in freedom, Uncle? He still keeps slaves down in Virginia, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, he does. Like all human beings, he’s a study in contradictions. I doubt he’d ever favor granting the vote to a black man.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “I’d be horsewhipped for saying it, but I feel it must come. First, however, the whole slavery question must be addressed—and God knows where that confrontation will lead.”

  “Would you even let women vote?”

  “Oh, no, I draw the line there! Men are temperamentally suited to the tasks of the world. By their very nature, women are domestic creatures.”