Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (5 page)

 
          
 
Sally, the family cook, promptly appeared
through the kitchen door, aproned for duty as she carried a porcelain tureen.
She was in her late fifties, broad of hip, with her hair wrapped in white
cloth. Her black face remained expressionless while she went about her duties.
Though a free woman, she kept a room in the cellar as did Jeffry and Bit, the
household tweeny.

 
          
 
"Richard, you're late." Phillip's
gruff voice echoed in the room.

 
          
 
Late! Late! Late! It's always something, isn't
it? Richard took his chair and unfolded the napkin, eyes on his plate.

 
          
 
"For God's sake, Richard, look at
me." Phillip shook his bulldog head and muttered, "Lord God, I've
raised a rabbit." Then, louder, "It is unbecoming of a man to pout.
You're acting like a child."

 
          
 
"If you say so, sir."

 
          
 
"You are not a prisoner here, Richard. I
just want you to begin to manage your life as an adult. A whole world lies
beyond the door—beyond
Boston
. You've got to live in it .. . deal with it. You can't spend your
entire life isolated behind a redoubt of philosophy books. Reality has a nasty
habit of creeping into a man's affairs. When that happens, you're going to have
to know how to deal with it. . . and, I dare say, your philosophy hasn't given
you those skills."

 
          
 
Silence.

 
          
 
"Do you hear me?"

 
          
 
"Yes, sir."

 
          
 
"I'm not punishing you." Phillip
ignored Jeffry, who began ladling soup while Sally returned to the kitchen for
another dish.

 
          
 
"Then why won't you let me go back to my
studies?"

 
          
 
Phillip filled his spoon. "I have other
business for you now."

 
          
 
Images of moldy ledger books formed in the
depths of Richard's mind. He could picture himself bent over the pages,
squinting in the candlelight as he entered endless columns of debits and
credits with a dripping quill.

 
          
 
Phillip waggled his spoon. "I've given
thought to our earlier conversation. It has become startlingly clear to me that
you have no understanding of the world. Therefore, travel is to be
recommended."

 
          
 
Richard straightened.
Europe
?
Oxford
, or the Sorbonne, or
Salamanca
perhaps!
Europe
literally burst at the seams with cultured
people. If only he could get to
Konigsberg
!
He imagined himself in the German states, walking in the steps of Immanuel
Kant, or even studying with Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel himself.

 
          
 
With a slow smile, his father said, "I
thought you'd understand the advantages. You see, Richard, your universe has
been limited to this house, this city, and the university. A wide continent
stretches out to the west of us. That untamed land is your future. There you
should be able to see for yourself how this nonsensical philosophy of yours
stands up against the travails of life."

 
          
 
Wide continent? Untamed land? The frontier?
"Oh, my God," Richard whispered. He stared at Phillip in disbelief.
"Father, you can't mean ..."

 
          
 
"Oh come now, son. It will be the best
thing that could happen to you. Think of the excitement! To see new lands—
virgin country! If only I were younger—and hadn't stopped that damned English
ball. How I wish I could step into your shoes."

 
          
 
He longs for it! Crazy old fool. "You may
step into my shoes any time, Father. I'd never try and dissuade you from seeing
the wilderness." And God willing, a bear will eat you and I can live
happily ever after.

 
          
 
Phillip sipped the last of his soup and patted
his lips with his napkin. "Were I a philosopher, I would look forward to
it. The frontier should be a proving ground for that philosophy of yours, hmm?
I don't see enthusiasm in your eyes. Very well, I'll make you a bargain. If you
still hold with your ideals after another couple of years, well and fine, you
may return to that ridiculous university and study whatever you like."

 
          
 
"I'm not going to the frontier."

 
          
 
"I need a package delivered to a man in
Saint Louis
. You'll be carrying a substantial amount of
money—and I have no one else to entrust it to. Let us call it a gamble,
Richard. You are my son ... and you must have something of your mother and
myself in you."

 
          
 
Mother, yes. You . . . never.

 
          
 
Sally had delivered the main course, steaming
carved turkey on a platter. Jeffry held it efficiently at Phillip's side as he
served himself.

 
          
 
Phillip's sober gaze didn't waver. "I'm
making the gamble that when push comes to shove, you'll not denigrate a serious
responsibility. Isn't that one of your precious philosophical concepts?
Responsibility? Morality? The fulfillment of obligations? Or did I miss
something in my reading of Plato?"

 
          
 
Richard glared hotly down the table.

 
          
 
Phillip took a turkey leg from the platter
Jeffry offered, adding, "On the other hand, if you succeed, you shall have
learned something about yourself and, I hope, the world in which you live.
Perhaps you'll come home acting like a man."

 
          
 
"I am a man."

 
          
 
"I'd phrase it thus: You've reached your
majority, Richard." Phillip smiled wearily. "You can walk out of this
house and do any damn thing you wish, whenever you wish. Patrick Bonnisen needs
dockhands at this very moment."

 
          
 
Richard helped himself silently to some breast
meat.

 
          
 
"Ah, I see. You would call yourself a
man—and assume the privileges—but only as long as I hand you the money."

 
          
 
"You are a monster, Father."

 
          
 
"No, my son. Not a monster . .. only a
failure as a father. Would that your mother had lived. Perhaps she could have
foreseen this. I never had any intention of raising a weakling."

 
          
 
"What do you know of strength?"
Richard gestured with his fork. "I have strengths of conviction. A
morality of right and wrong. A morality grounded in being a. free man!"

 
          
 
"As free as the dollars in your father's purse,
eh, Richard?" Phillip sank his teeth into the juicy meat. "Today is
Friday. You'll leave on Monday for
Saint Louis
. You are to carry my package and
partnership papers. They are to be delivered to a Mr. James Blackman of
Saint Louis
. Mr. Blackman will sign and seal the
documents, which you will then return to me along with a receipt. Blackman will
buy up silver from the
Santa Fe
trade, and ship it to my agents in
Philadelphia
."

 
          
 
"You don't really expect me to—"

 
          
 
"I don't think I must belabor the value
of thirty thousand dollars. Or does that sum mean anything to a
philosopher?"

 
          
 
Richard's teeth ground angrily. His father
planned to invest thirty thousand dollars on some mad fur-trading expedition;
yet he begrudged his only son a few hundred a year for his education?

 
          
 
"How do you know that I won't just run
off with it?" Richard asked suddenly.

 
          
 
"Oh, I'm quite sure, Richard. You claim
to be a moral man." Phillip looked positively predatory as he smiled.
"Given your penchant for what you regard as moral, I offer you a
challenge. Go ahead. Take it! I dare you." He paused. "Or have all
those long hours you've spent lecturing me on morality been for naught?"

 
          
 
Richard lifted a skeptical eyebrow.

 
          
 
"You don't have the slightest idea, do
you?" The old man's eyes gleamed. "You see, Richard, you would prove
my point that your love of philosophy is so much rhetoric. True, I'd be out
most of the year's profit—but you'd never close your eyes again without seeing
my smirking, triumphant smile."

 
          
 
Richard's fork clattered on his plate as he
threw it down. He kicked his chair back so violently it tottered, before
settling on all four legs again.

 
          
 
"I'm not hungry." He turned,
stalking from the room.

 
          
 
Phillip dropped the last bone onto his plate
and dabbed at his lips with a napkin. "What do you think?"

 
          
 
Jeffry, face thoughtful, stared at the doorway
through which Richard had bolted.

 
          
 
"He will attempt to deliver the package
to
Saint
Louis
,
sir."

 
          
 
Phillip hung his head, exhaling wearily.
"You think I'm wrong, don't you?"

 
          
 
"It's a dangerous trip, sir."

 
          
 
Phillip nodded, staring dismally at the scraps
in his plate. "Sometimes risks must be taken. God gives us no guarantees,
Jeffry. We both know that, don't we?"

 
          
 
"Yes, sir."

 
          
 
"But if anything happens to that boy
..."

 
          
 
"He'll make it."

 
          
 
Phillip raised his tired eyes to meet Jeffry's
masked gaze. "What makes you so sure?"

 
          
 
"He's your son, sir."

 
          
 
Phillip chuckled. It sounded like hollow bones
rattling in a desiccated barrel.

 
          
 
... There is a saying much usurped of late,
that wisdom is acquired, not by reading of books, but of men. Consequently
whereunto, those persons, that for the most part can give no other proof of
being wise, take great delight to show what they think they have read in men,
by uncharitable censures of one another behind their backs. But there is
another saying not of late understood, by which they might learn truly to read
one another, if they would take the pains; that is, nosce teip-sum, read
thyself.

 
          
 
—Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan

 
          
 
Cold this numbing was unusual in
Saint Louis
. Travis Hartman had survived worse—but that
had been up in the mountains, far to the west, at the birthing place of the
rivers, where the peaks rose in ragged white majesty against skies of
crystalline blue. The cold felt different up there in the
Shining
Mountains
—a crispness that bit at the skin. This wet
flatland cold in
Saint Louis
sucked at a man's heat like swarms of hungry flies.

 
          
 
Hartman led his horse along the frozen street.
Snow twirled out of the night sky in endless masses of fluffy flakes and
crunched under his tripled moccasins. The footing was uneven, ruts had cut the
now-frozen mud, and the snow hid treacherous ice. Even the brick-hard piles of
horse manure could turn a foot and sprain an ankle.

 
          
 
To either side, squat buildings hunched
against the storm. Here and there yellow squares of windows shone with candle
or lamplight that gave the swirling snow a golden glow. Odors of smoke, manure,
and refuse mingled in the biting air. Despite the cold, dogs trotted past in
packs, shivering, snow-backed, pausing only to sniff distrustfully at him and
the horse before vanishing into the night. No one else seemed to have any
desire to brave the cold and snow.

 
          
 
Main Street
, so the joke went, was the only navigable
watercourse in town for larger craft, while streets like Walnut and Olive would
serve for pirogues and bateaux. To accent the point, Hartman's foot slipped on
snow-covered ice and he caught himself at the last instant, startling his
horse.

 
          
 
"Easy there, Shelt. Whoa, old hoss."
A mittened pat on the neck reassured the sorrel gelding. "Weather like
this, I otta be ridin' a mule!" He paused. " 'Course, no mule would
be silly enough ter be out hyar, neither."

 
          
 
He wore a heavy buffalo coat, snow-caked now,
with a soft beaver-hide cap covering his long gray-white hair. A ragged woolen
scarf was wrapped about his neck under the frozen beard. Once the scarf might
have been red; years of grime had turned it a shiny gray. In one mittened hand
he carried a heavy half-stocked Hawken rifle. His powder horn, possible sack,
and bullet pouch hung over his shoulder. What looked like black leather pants
had begun life as honey brown buckskin—the finest Crow workmanship, smoked to
pungent perfection. Over the months, soot, grease, blood, mud, sweat, and all
manner of things had stained the leather to its dark sheen.

 
          
 
Hartman looked up into the dark snowfall. He'd
had enough of cold and snow during the last two months, while
Saint Louis
had been his destination. Well, tired and
hungry, he'd finally arrived.

 
          
 
He didn't like cities much, although
Saint Louis
was better than most he'd set foot in. Too
many strangers. People who didn't know him always stared. Sometimes the ones
who knew the story stared, too. It bothered a man, seeing them start, then
flinch at the sight of his face. Even
Saint Louis
was wearing thin; each time he came here,
the city had changed. New buildings had been raised. More people, dressed like
Easterners, flocked the streets. Some damn jackass in the legislature would
have proposed a batch of new laws—and the other jackasses would have passed
them. Hell, who knew, it might be that a man would get his arse arrested for
spitting in the same streets he'd been spitting in for years. Cities always
brought him trouble. Yet here he was plodding down the morass of
Main Street
.

 
          
 
He puffed out a frosty breath and squinted
through the falling flakes.

 
          
 
Then he saw his destination. It stood proudly
on the corner of Oak and
Main
, rising
like a telltale castle of old. The Missouri Hotel, built of stone, four stories
tall, with high gabled windows. Six years old now, it hadn't changed. The first
state legislature had sat there in 1820. Made a man feel right important just
to see it. And, of course, Travis had special memories of the place. Three
years back he'd been thrown out the back door after trying to gut some Yankee
son of a bitch who dared to refer to Manuel Lisa as a greasy cheating Spaniard.

 
          
 
Now he walked up to the double doors under
their sunburst fanlight and tied his snow-dusted horse off on the hitching
post. He reached for the door, then remembered that he'd reentered civilization
and batted the white crust of snow from his head and shoulders. The ice in his
beard would just have to take care of itself.

 
          
 
In reassuring tones, he said, "You mind
yerself, Shelt. Won't be long. Injuns won't be trying ter sneak ye off."

 
          
 
Hartman stomped the snow off his feet, climbed
the steps, and opened the door to the small lobby. The warm air carried scents
of tobacco, oil lamps, and fabric. A flowery carpet didn't hide the squeak in
the wooden floor as he strode to face the primly dressed man who sat behind the
wooden fortification of a desk. The fellow looked up, one eyebrow raising. Then
came the familiar reaction: startled horror. From the expression on his
smooth-shaved face, Travis could guess him for a newcomer to the city. A Yankee
Doodle, certain sure.

 
          
 
"Might... might I help you, sir?"

 
          
 
"Reckon ye might." Travis pinned the
man with his hard blue eyes. "I'm a-looking fer Dave Green. Got word he
wanted ter see me. Name's Hartman. Travis Hartman."

 
          
 
The clerk nodded slowly. "I'll inform him
of your arrival, sir. A moment please."

 
          
 
Hartman waited while the Doodle slipped from
his warren and paced hurriedly for the tavern. A soft chuckle escaped

 
          
 
Hartman's thin lips. What does that little
dandy think? I’m here to scalp him?

 
          
 
As he waited, Travis inspected the lamps on
their high shelves, the upholstered chairs, and the porcelain spittoons. He
craned his neck to see the big ledger book resting on the counter, and mentally
growled at the senseless black scratchings. Water had begun to drip from his
beard, and he pulled back before he made a mess on the paper.

 
          
 
"I'll be damned!" the bluff voice
called. Dave Green, smile splitting his wide face, walked forward with a hand
outstretched. Familiar blue eyes took in Hartman's soaked garb and mud-stained
moccasins. "You just arrived?"

 
          
 
Hartman pulled his mitten off and took Green's
hand, engaging in the old game of testing his grip. "Been nigh on four
years? Five?"

 
          
 
"Five." Green said, the warmth of
the smile growing. "Been missing you, old coon."

 
          
 
Hartman fingered Green's heavy cloth coat and
poked a callused finger at the ruffled white silk scarf. "What's all this
foofawraw? They done made a Doodle out of ye?"

 
          
 
Green chuckled. "Price of success."

 
          
 
As Hartman took in Green's shiny black boots,
the slim trousers and white shirt, the clerk slipped into his warren, still
eyeing Hartman nervously.

 
          
 
Green cocked his head, the angle making his
broad face seem broader. "Had anything to eat?"

 
          
 
"Not since
noon
."

 
          
 
"Come on. I think the kitchen can produce
something that will fill your hole."

 
          
 
Following Green down the hallway, Hartman
found himself in the dining room, the white-plastered walls supporting a wooden
ceiling. Long tables and chairs of various shapes and styles—all of local
manufacture—crowded the floor. Travis leaned his rifle in a corner before
shucking his coat and scarf. He took a seat self-consciously, relieved that the
lamps cast only dim light.

 
          
 
Green spoke to one of the servants and then
took a chair opposite Hartman's. He grinned and rubbed the end of his thick
nose. The light glinted in his blond hair. "You don't look much better
than the last time I saw you."

 
          
 
Travis fingered the scars crisscrossing his
face. "I'd look a sight worse if n ye'd not taken care of me, Dave. Ye
were a damned fool risking yer scalp that way." Hartman smiled, aware of
what the action did to his face. "But this child's plumb grateful ye
did."

 
          
 
Hartman didn't look up as the plate slid in
front of him. The server retreated rapidly. Hartman glanced up to see the woman
wincing. At that, he became aware of his sweat-stained buckskins. "Reckon
I'm a hair ripe. Winter's not the time fer bathing. Not in cold like
this."

 
          
 
Green waved it away. "Get yourself a bath
tomorrow."

 
          
 
Travis reached for the hot roast pork on his
plate, caught himself halfway there, and picked up the fork, grinning.
"Reckon it's been a while since I had the hang of a God-honest eating tool
a'sides me knife."

 
          
 
"How have you been?" Green asked,
dropping his voice. "You still got hair under that hat, or have the
Blackfeet taken your topknot?"

 
          
 
"Still got hair." Hartman attacked
the steaming meat, washing it down with strong ale from a tin mug. As the plate
emptied, Green motioned for more. They sat in easy silence as only old friends
can do.

 
          
 
Three plates later, Hartman pushed the dish
back and belched long and loud. "Good fixings, I dare say." He
glanced at Green over the rim of his mug. "I was settling down ter a
pleasant winter by the fire, doing a mite of hunting, and swapping lies at
Pratte's post. Got word there that you wanted ter see me in
Saint Louis
. Cal Cummings run me down."