Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (10 page)

 
          
 
In Richard's productive imagination, he had
metamorphosed into a sort of Moses in the wilderness, isolated within his own
mind. Such thoughts dominated his letters to Laura and the journal he'd begun
to keep the day after he left
Boston
. His scribblings had become so voluminous,
he'd been forced to purchase a large ledger book in
Pittsburgh
.

 
          
 
By the Lord, anything to break the monotony of
being trapped aboard this floating cage with its benighted passengers.

 
          
 
The Virgil made stops at each of the squalid
little hamlets along the
Ohio
. Places like Economy,
Cincinnati
,
Wheeling
,
Louisville
,
Portland
,
New Harmony
,
and
Paducah
. They consisted of a mixture of frame and
log houses—the latter little more than hovels with sod roofs. People lived in
dirt, even to the point of covering the decks of their fragile flat-boats with
it—perhaps so the inevitable bone rick of a milch cow could feel as much at
home as the filth-encrusted humans. Such ungainly craft now floated downriver
in ones and twos. Richard had overheard that those intrepid voyagers hoped to
make homes before spring planting.

 
          
 
Dirt into more dirt.

 
          
 
He'd seen them from the steamboat as they
passed cleared patches in the trees: generally the homestead of a gnarled man
and a hard-boned woman laboring to raise kids, corn, and pigs.

 
          
 
And this is the great destiny my father
believes in?

 
          
 
Any semblance of civilization had stopped at
Pittsburgh
. That rowdy town at the confluence of the
Monongahela and Allegheny might have met the approval of a Saxon chief, but
little more.

 
          
 
Despite his disappointment in the people, the
eternal voices of earth and water had captured his imagination. The majestic
river amazed him. At first it had been cluttered with floes of ice. The
Ohio
exuded a sense of power and propriety,
bounded by its tree-furred bluffs and somber, wooded banks. Staring out over
the water instilled in him a feeling of tranquillity he'd never experienced
before. As the river gained a hold on his soul, he began to fill the pages of
his journal with poetic musings, an amorous tone apparent in his flowery words.

 
          
 
Beyond the river lay the forest, perpetually
somber, a place of labyrinthine shadows and secrets. Richard had grown acutely
aware of its presence. Once, at a wood stop, he'd walked out into the
leaf-matted silence and stared up at the patterns of mighty limbs that blocked
the sky. He'd run his fingers down the rugged bark of oaks, hickories, and
walnuts, sensing the age and power of the land.

 
          
 
What was it that touched him? The prickle of
danger? The warning that his soul was somehow in jeopardy? At the first threads
of fear, he'd turned and bolted for the boat, relieved by the sound of human
voices, the clank of metal, and the soothing reassurance of men and their
works.

 
          
 
Even now, safely huddled in his bed, he
shivered at the memory. It was out there, just beyond the thin wall of his
cabin: a terrible presence he could not understand. The rational mind told him
he'd seen nothing but trees: wilderness. What had made him feel so small, so
meaningless?

 
          
 
Ever since, he'd watched the forest as it
passed, uneasy at what might lurk in those dim shadows.

 
          
 
Like a child hearing ghouls in the winter
wind. You're a fool Richard.

 
          
 
His growling stomach finally drove him to
throw back the blankets and climb to his feet. Shivering, he dressed, tied a
thick white scarf about his neck, and broke the crust of ice out of his wash
bowl to wet his face and slick his hair. Fingers numb, he unlocked his door,
plucked up the grip containing the money and his copy of Kant, then stepped
into the cramped corridor. Narrow black doors, each designated with a white
letter painted by a wobbly hand, lined the way. The boards creaked underfoot as
he proceeded forward to the parlor. The boat shuddered, the deck swaying in a
most unsettling manner.

 
          
 
The boat is going to shake itself apart and I’m
going to drown.

 
          
 
After his arrival in
Pittsburgh
, the Virgil had been the first steamboat
making passage to
Saint Louis
. She was a small sternwheeler, no more than one hundred and ten tons.
Two black smokestacks rose from behind the capstan in the bow, and through the
forward gallery. Richard could see them through the large windows as he entered
the main cabin. His fellow passengers, some twenty in all, had already filled
the room with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that mercifully covered the taint of
unwashed humanity. They sat at the tables, some engaged in cards, others in
companionable talk over steaming tin cups. Most glanced up, noted his arrival,
and returned to their conversations and games.

 
          
 
"Good morning, sir." The
Virginia
planter spoke with his usual politeness. He
wore a gray beaver-felt hat, charcoal frock coat, and a silk scarf that
contrasted with his blue eyes, pale face, and black hair.

 
          
 
"Good morning to you, too, sir."
Richard gave a slight bow and turned toward the pantry where what remained of
breakfast—crumbled corn bread, a well-hacked joint of venison, and shreds of
smoked side pork—rested in tins on the warming shelf over the stove.

 
          
 
Richard seated himself by the window across
from the
Virginia
planter and made the best of the fare. What
would it be like to be married to Laura Templeton? She'd always be there, ready
to listen to him, supportive of his studies of philosophy. He could imagine her
bustling about the room, ensuring that the house was immaculate.

 
          
 
And later, they'd ascend to the bedroom. He
swallowed hard, a flutter in his chest. Unlike the rest of his fellows, he'd
keep himself sacred unto her, and her alone. In his imagination, he could feel
himself snuggling under the covers, her warm body next to his.

 
          
 
What was it like, to have intercourse with a
woman? Obviously better than those shameful occasions when he ejaculated in his
dreams. Did the idea of intercourse worry her as much as it worried him? Or
were women different when it came to such things?

 
          
 
The steward had no more than removed the plate
when the
Virginia
planter rose and stepped to Richard's
table.

 
          
 
"Cigar, sir?" The Virginian extended
a prize specimen. "Charles Lamont Eckhart, at your service, sir."

 
          
 
"Richard Hamilton." Damn! The image
of Laura had slipped away. Richard opened his copy of Kant and looked up.
"Thank you, sir, but I don't smoke cigars."

 
          
 
The Virginian raised a dark eyebrow. "Now
is as good a time as any to start, sir. I offer my private stock, produce of my
own fields."

 
          
 
"I'm sure they are wonderful, but I must
regretfully decline your offer."

 
          
 
The cigar was withdrawn to a deep coat pocket.
"
Boston
, aren't you, sir?"

 
          
 
Richard stifled a sigh as the Virginian seated
himself across the table. "Yes,
Boston
."

 
          
 
"Your speech gives you away."
Eckhart used a thumb and forefinger to flick breadcrumbs from the scarred
table-top. "What brings you to the frontier, Mr. Hamilton? I would assume
from your books, writing, and demeanor that you are a scholar."

 
          
 
"You are correct, sir. Philosophy."

 
          
 
Eckhart rubbed his smooth chin, eyes
thoughtful. "You are going to
Saint Louis
to teach?"

 
          
 
"Business."

 
          
 
"
Santa Fe
trade, I suppose." Eckhart pulled out
his cigar, lit it, and exhaled a cloud of acrid blue smoke. "Yes, a smart
young man should do very well. . . provided, of course, that you have the
ambition and character necessary for the frontier life."

 
          
 
Richard chuckled. "I can already tell
you, I don't. My duty, sir, is to go to
Saint Louis
, see to some arrangements, and return to
Boston
with the greatest dispatch. Thereafter, I
shall retire to the university, and never again endure such bad food"—he
gestured at the pantry—"ill company, or the human dregs such as you see
floating along on flat-boats."

 
          
 
"Dregs, sir? Our fair countrymen?"

 
          
 
"I shudder to think of the society such
men will create out here in the wilds. Anarchic ignorance does not breed
greatness." Richard pointed at a flatboat coasting slowly along the south
bank, the craft nothing more than a tent pitched on a log raft. Two men,
dressed in what amounted to rags, used long poles to fend the craft from the
bank. "Imagine, the noble red man has been made to give way before such as
them. At least when
Rome
sent out her shining legions, they were followed by the administrators,
engineers, and merchants. Now, in our modern world, at a time when the works of
men like Rousseau should occupy the finest of minds, we've unleashed a horde of
unwashed animals as the vanguard of our advance across the continent. How will
history judge us, sir?''

 
          
 
"You speak of Americans more like Mongols
than countrymen. Many of us see these settlers as the first foot soldiers of
civilization in a virgin continent. Just as my own—"

 
          
 
"Civilization?" Richard raised an
eyebrow. "I pray you, sir, were you to ask that farmer floating along out
there to discuss Plato's parable of the cave, I fully expect that he would
reply that a cave was good for the storage of whiskey, and little else."

 
          
 
"And Aristotle would be an excellent name
for a mule, I suppose."

 
          
 
"Indeed, sir. Thus, the question is: What
sort of state shall these rude bumpkins build out here?" Richard tapped
his copy of Kant. "One based on rational and moral principles, or on the
basest human passions? These frontiersmen are a bestiary of vermin. I fear any
society they should create would reflect their animalistic propensities.
Therefore, sir, I shall discharge my duty in
Saint Louis
, and be most hasty about my return to
Boston
with its enlightenment and a more genteel
society."

 
          
 
"I admire a man who knows his path so
well." Eckhart smiled thinly. "If I might offer a word of advice
..."