The Furies (34 page)

“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—”

“What?”

“Will you at least stay with me while you’re in San Francisco?”

“Maybe it would be better if I didn’t—”

“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—”

“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.”

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—aeolina—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”—he forced himself to grasp the other man’s hand and shake it; the mulatto looked startled, then pleased—“I 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—”

“Besides that,” Bart said, “I’ll 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—and 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—”

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—”

And I don’t think I’d want to see how you’ve been hurt.

Or how you may have hurt others
—

“Goodbye, sweet.”

“Bart—!”

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.

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. Perm. 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.

J
ANUARY THE 17TH.
A MOST DISAGREABLE
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 counterargument 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 underground 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.”