Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (16 page)

 
          
 
Dear Laura:

 
          
 
Tomorrow I will finally land in
Saint Louis
and discharge my final duty to my father.
Immediately thereafter, I shall set forth upon my return voyage to
Boston
. It is possible that I shall arrive at your
door before this post. After my task is completed, I shall have no more to do
with my father, or his business. And what good riddance it is.

 
          
 
The weather has been terribly dreary, and I
reluctantly admit, my spirits have been flagging. I have had enough of gray
clouds and endless rain. The ceiling leaks here and there, and you should hear
the jokes that pass back and forth about our leaky ark. Please excuse the spots
where the ink ran. A new leak has sprung overhead, and I have had to relocate
to a drier table.

 
          
 
I have been thinking a great deal about you,
and about the possibility of our future together. Since it was Will who first
broached the subject—and since he favors such a union—I hope these words are
not too forward. I want to let you know that you have changed my life. For the
first time, I have envisioned the future with clear eyes. As a professor of
philosophy, I won't be a rich man, but I will be able to provide you with a
warm hearth, cherished love, and a respectable future. If I win your hand, you
will have made me the happiest man in all of
America
.

 
          
 
I will seal this now, and post it upon arrival
at the Le Barras Hotel. Know that I send you my fondest regards and brightest
hopes. Give your wonderful brother my regards—and, of course, your parents as
well.

 
          
 
Your Obedient Servant, Richard Hamilton

 
          
 
Richard sat at the table nearest the wet
window in the main cabin, a blanket wrapped tightly around him. He thoughtfully
turned the pages of his copy of Kant, squinting in the leaden light. Beyond the
plank walls, the patter of cold rain shifted with each gust of wind. Wood
creaked in complaint as the Virgil rattled and churned her way upriver against
the roiling current.

 
          
 
The monotonous drone of conversation within
the cabin had faded into the background, no more annoying than the coffee-shop
babble or tavern talk where Richard had done most of his studying. Every now
and then, cries of "Full house!" were followed by groans, hands
slapping the table, and the clatter of pasteboards at the card game.

 
          
 
Ah, Laura, what can I tell you about these
barbarians? How I wish I could see you again. Your smile would soothe the
depths of my soul.

 
          
 
If nothing else, this terrible journey had
brought home an understanding of how lucky he was to have
Boston
to return to.
Boston
. . . and Laura.

 
          
 
He closed his eyes, imagining her as she sat
beside a warm fire, needlework in her hand. He'd do nothing but study her by
the hour, and count himself the luckiest man alive. She'd look up, meet his
eyes, and they'd share that singular intimacy of a man and his wife.

 
          
 
He'd rise, take her hand, and together they'd
walk through the Commons, planning their future together. When he tried hard
enough, he could imagine her hand in his.

 
          
 
With irritation, then, Richard looked up as
the Virginian, Eckhart, stopped beside his table. He wore a charcoal gray coat
over a frilled white shirt.

 
          
 
"Still reading, I see. May I?"
Eckhart pointed to the chair. "It appears, sir, to be the only seat
left."

 
          
 
Richard hesitated, remembering Eckhart's
parting words. "Of course."

 
          
 
Richard resumed his study as Eckhart sat and
pulled one of the inevitable cigars from his frock coat. Kant's pedantic
language was difficult enough without blue plumes of pungent smoke drifting in
front of his face.

 
          
 
In defeat, Richard closed his book and lifted
an eyebrow at the planter.

 
          
 
"What is that?" Eckhart indicated
the book with his cigar. "Must be engrossing, sir. You're the only man I
know who could cross half the continent and see nothing but words."

 
          
 
"Immanuel Kant. A German philosopher.
This book is his Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals. ''

 
          
 
Eckhart waved his cigar. "Groundwork for
the
Meta
. . . I see. Indeed. And, what, pray tell,
does your Mr. Can't say?"

 
          
 
"Kant, sir. K-A-N-T." Think of it as
a challenge of rationality. "Kant wrote his Groundwork of the Metaphysic
of Morals to elaborate on the ideas introduced in his Critique of Pure Reason.
I refer, of course, to the second edition, the 1788 revision."

 
          
 
Eckhart blinked and cocked his head.

 
          
 
Richard steepled his fingers. "Kant makes
the following assumptions: He observes that man has two conflicting states. The
first is the sensual, or, if you will, the emotional aspect. In opposition is
the rational element of our being. Our sensuous nature provides the basis for
most of our actions. For instance, the thought of revolution may indeed be a
rational course of action—but only when passion is stirred do we find the will
to act. Rational action is generally, therefore, the slave of our emotional
nature. However, when we rise beyond our natures, moral decisions can be ipso
facto the reason for undertaking actions. From reading Kant, it is my personal
opinion that, as men, it is our duty to act from moral principle rather than
emotion. Only when we reach that state will we improve the human
condition."

 
          
 
Eckhart drew on his cigar and muttered,
"I see," in the thick cloud of exhaled smoke.

 
          
 
"The problem becomes more distinct when
placed in context with
Newton
's discoveries in physics." Richard flexed his fingers. "Kant
is the first man to realize the importance of
Newton
's work vis-a-vis philosophy.
Newton
believes the universe to be predetermined,
functioning just as reliably as a clock. And if this is the case, what role
will autonomous play? As men, we must define the nature of moral decision on
its own merit, and not just in relation to the attainment of a certain goal.
Otherwise, we become as mechanical as the clock."

 
          
 
Eckhart nodded politely, his eyes oddly
unfocused.

 
          
 
"Science, passion, and morality must all
be brought into focus in our modern world. Thus, if you remember my reference
to revolution, we must ask ourselves: Are we engaging in this action to attain
something, for our own gain"— as my father would do —"or for a
grander moral purpose?"

 
          
 
Eckhart sniffed. "Revolution, sir, is for
freedom from tyranny."

 
          
 
"Indeed, sir? And do the slaves working
in your fields feel free from tyranny?"

 
          
 
Eckhart stiffened. "I have heard, sir,
that such notions were gaining popularity in
Boston
. Am I to understand that you, Mr. Hamilton,
are an abolitionist?"

 
          
 
"One need but read Epictetus to question
the very nature of slavery, sir. And Rousseau indirectly brings the entire
debate into focus in his Discourse on Inequality, but lest you should become
offended, I might add that my father, a Bostonian of no little influence, keeps
slaves in his house." And if you knew how offensive that was to me, you
would no doubt demand satisfaction on the field of honor, or something equally
. . . Virginian.

 
          
 
At Eckhart's relaxation, Richard experienced
an unexplained relief. But why did I back down?

 
          
 
The cigar stabbed in Richard's direction.
"Then, sir, I take it that you have no objections to the institution of
slavery?"

 
          
 
"I do—but within the groundwork I have
just outlined. In Kantian terms, I believe it is morally improper. One human
being should not dominate another."

 
          
 
"You are assuming, sir, that the Negro is
as much a human being as we are. I find your words curious, however."
Eckhart pointed at the rain-slick window. "I have noted, Mr. Hamilton,
that you have similar reservations about many of your fellow passengers, white
though they might be. I refer to the ones huddled under their tarps on the main
deck. From your own lips, I have heard you call them animals. To the contrary,
I do not believe my slaves to be animals, though I think we can agree to accept
that their race is not equal to ours in intelligence, ability, or nature."

 
          
 
"Well done, sir," Richard said
softly. At the hard look in Eckhart's eyes, his nerves had begun to prickle.
Somewhat uncertainly, he continued: "I must argue, however, that the human
condition which I abhor is an artificial one. The ignorant and unwashed masses
have been created by the very nature of our civilization. I think we can agree
that the institution of slavery is also an artifact of social, religious, and
commercial aspirations. The question remains: What is the state of man in
nature? To find truly free men, we must go beyond the frontier, beyond the
reach of the slavers, and find the pure man in his unspoiled state. If Rousseau
is right—and I believe he is—only there will you find man living in a truly
free and egalitarian condition."

 
          
 
For a long moment, Eckhart stared thoughtfully
at the ash on his cigar. "I think, Mr. Hamilton, that you've been too long
in your books. If I follow the current of your conversation, you think that all
the things that make us great, our institutions, our industry and independence,
are, at their core, evil."

 
          
 
Richard tapped the heavy pages of his book.
"It is only after you begin to examine the nature of civilization that you
begin to understand; but to do so, you must uproot the entire thing. Look
beneath the very foundations. Civilization, by nature of its very existence,
must exploit the many for the advantage of the few. It finds itself, therefore,
in constant opposition to the moral progress of humanity."

 
          
 
Eckhart watched Richard through thoughtfully
lidded eyes. "You have the most interesting ideas, Mr. Hamilton. However,
were I you, I would consider this: It's this same civilization that you so
decry, along with its institutions, that allows you to ride up here in warmth
and comfort while your rabble down there on the deck are wet, miserable, and
shivering. Civilization, sir, keeps the savages from dragging you out of your
door at night and using your books for firewood. You may talk philosophy all
you want, but without civilization, you'd be out in the forest as we speak, and
I dare say, fairly unwashed yourself."

 
          
 
Richard chuckled. "Indeed I might, Mr.
Eckhart. Assuming, that is, that my mind was less keen than it is. However, it
is an incontrovertible fact that I have the knowledge that I have. Fait
accompli. No matter what the circumstances, I will always remain a moral man
dedicated to the study of philosophy."

 
          
 
"Sir, I don't believe you heard a single
word I said to you on the deck the other day." Eckhart paused. "For
your sake, I hope you can always hide your true self behind your books and
speeches. My father once told me that a man's values had to be lived, and not
talked. If you will excuse me, I see a chair has opened up at the card table."
Eckhart stood, tapping the brim of his hat. "A most refreshing
conversation, sir. Good day."