Hunting Midnight (25 page)

XXIII

F
rom August to December of 1808, I went upriver with my father every month for at least a week at a time in order to learn his trade. After a time, however, Father began
concentrating
his instructions on surveying and mapmaking. It was now his solemn intention that I ought to put my drawing lessons to good use by becoming a draftsman.

Throughout October and November I made good progress, and in early December Papa told me he was satisfied that I would now be able to find employment either as a junior draftsman or even surveyor’s assistant for the Douro Wine Company. When we were not involved in our lessons, Father remained withdrawn. I sometimes heard him leave Macbeth’s Castle at two or three in the morning in our carriage, to visit a nearby brothel, I guessed. This bothered me, but not nearly as much as I thought it would. Though his adultery put to rest my hopes of a reconciliation with my mother, I reasoned that if he no longer loved her, then he might as well find some small consolation elsewhere.

When we were not at our work, Papa was generally morose. I should have liked to beg him to simply play cards with me or tell me a story set in the Scotland of his youth. I yearned to build a bridge to him, to prevent him from plunging deeper into his own misery. Indeed, I fooled myself for months that this bridge would be provided by our new relation as master and apprentice. I tried to shine as his student, so that he might remember I was his son.

Father did reach out to me once, however, just prior to Christmas week, our last night in Macbeth’s Castle.

“I shall give you your presents now, if you don’t mind,” he
said, patting my thigh. “Rather than in Porto.” After retrieving a small wooden case and a fabric pouch from his room, he handed them to me. “For all your hard work.”

Inside the box I found a glistening razor with a bone handle and handsome badger-bristle brush. Father had often said that teaching a lad to shave was a necessity, so he would never have to submit his face to the dirty fingers of a barber nor risk
disfigurement
through a drunken slip of the hand.

Winking, he added, “You will appear more handsome to the lasses once you have shaved yourself properly. You know, John, I am heartily proud of you. I do not believe I say that enough.” His voice caught in his throat. “I am not even sure you wish to hear it. But I am very proud indeed.”

I was greatly moved and told him I was forever grateful he was my father.

In the fabric pouch were my first pair of proper trousers, which had only recently come into fashion in Portugal. “Papa, they’re wonderful,” I assured him, and he smiled in a way I had not seen for ages.

“Life moves fast, son. I see that now. Tomorrow is here before we have taken a good look at today. So the important thing is to think out the consequences of what you do. Think them out in advance. That’s why we have been working so hard at this new trade of yours. To make sure you are prepared for your future.”

He had begun to fill his pipe, and I asked if I might prepare it for him. It had been years since I had asked to do this. He was taken aback but nevertheless handed me his tobacco
good-humoredly
. I did my work with renewed affection and respect for him, then clamped the stem of his pipe in my jaws in imitation of his technique, cupped the bowl in my hand, and lit it with kindling from the fire. I had never before taken a serious puff, and I almost choked.

Instead of thanking me, or even laughing at my incompetence, Father looked upset. Trying to hide his unhappiness, he said I needed practice at smoking but it was not a habit I ought to take up for another year or two.

I was at a loss to understand what I had done wrong until,
lying in bed that night, I recalled how Midnight would often share a pipe with him at the fireside.

That night my father came into my room and woke me.

“What’s wrong?” I said, sitting up.

He sat by my side. His candle created stark hollows of light and dark on his face. I imagined he had again suffered his nightmare of being alone in our house, with the rest of us dead.

“I almost forgot, John,” he said.

I held his arm. “Forgot what, Papa?”

As he leaned toward me, I smelled brandy on him. Panic seized me and I rushed to speak, but he interrupted me. “Expect nothing from anyone, son. Then you will never be disappointed.”

“Papa? Papa, what’s wrong?”

“Just listen to me, lad. Expect nothing. For though you may, if you are lucky, get some assistance in your life, it will not come from the people from whom you most expect it. They will nearly always disappoint you. I advise you to always remember that people are small beasties, son. In Britain and Portugal both.” He gripped my foot through the blanket. “Listen to me now, lad! Always do what you need to do. Always work hard. Be selfish if you have to be. And count on no one. No one!”

With that, he stood up and shuffled, barefoot, out of my room.

In the morning, Papa took me into his bedroom, stood me in front of his mirror, and taught me how to shave. He was calm and steady and made no reference to his speech the previous night.

When remembering him at this time in our lives, I sometimes think of Goya’s “Colossus.” Alone, seated under a crescent moon, his back to the viewer, the once-powerful giant turns around with a hopeful look, wanting to find a loved one waiting there to whom he can say a final farewell.

Our last trip upriver was at the end of the first week in January 1809. We were forced to stop going after that because the war against Napoleon in Spain was going poorly and the blue light of warning had been posted at all our borders.

Early March brought the arrival of General Soult’s
twenty-five
thousand French soldiers into Portugal, at our northeast fringe of mountains. After he took the town of Chaves, refugees began making their way to Porto. The poor carried their entire lives in wooden barrows.

Benjamin and I gave out bread and honey to these
downtrodden
creatures now forced to sleep in our squares and on our beaches. Seeing them filled him with awe, as he said they were the Old Testament made present. When I asked what he meant, he said, “They are the Israelites in exile, and they were each and every one of them present at Mt. Sinai for the giving of the Ten Commandments. Don’t you recall? You and I were there too!” Summoning me closer to him, he whispered in my ear, “Moses’s teachings are for each and every minute of existence, John. Each time we see how the Torah is reflected in our lives, we stand again at the foot of Mount Sinai.”

By the Twenty-Second of March, we received confirmation that Braga, thirty miles to the northeast, had been taken. Late that morning, Father announced that he had made plans for us to leave the city. Three carriages belonging to the Douro Wine Company would be leaving secretly at three in the morning from a tiny wharf at the far eastern edge of the city, just below the Bishop’s Seminary. Mother and I were to go, but Papa was to remain behind.

“It is time I fought,” he said. “If Porto falls, I shall join you upriver as soon as I can. Don’t worry, the French will not take me.”

“Papa, this is sheer madness. You must come with us. I’ll not allow you to stay.”

“Look who’s giving orders!” he joked.

Despite his sudden good humor, he looked exhausted and reeked of brandy. I didn’t trust him to care for himself in the state he was in. “Papa,” I said, “if you refuse to come with us, then I shall stay too and fight alongside you.”

“John, this is not a request. You shall wait for me upriver with your mother. I have not raised you these eighteen years to see you felled by a French bullet.”

Mama agreed as Papa embraced me. I tried to push him away, but he held me firm and kissed my cheek.

“Goodness, man, you might shave a little closer,” he moaned. “It’s still rough. The lassies will not like it.”

Before he let me go, he took a hard look at me, perhaps imagining what I’d look like as a grown man. “Please be patient, son,” he said apologetically. “We shall be apart for only a short while.” He reached into his fob pocket and took out his gold watch with the mother-of-pearl face. The chain had been the one used by the witch to shackle him when he was a toad. “Hold on to this for me,” he said, handing it to me. “I shall want it back soon.”

Then, as though embarrassed by his gesture of affection, he stood with his hands behind his back and stared out our window.

I accepted his gift gratefully, but it troubled me. I looked to my mother for support in continuing to encourage him to leave with us, but she was so lost within herself that she said nothing.

I spent the rest of the day in a state of gloom. After supper, I bid good-bye to the Olive Tree Sisters, who were remaining behind, as they refused to leave their art collection unguarded. “If you don’t come back soon, John, we’ll never let you look at another Goya!” Luna warned.

I also visited Benjamin with my father. His two sons had already left the city, but he had decided to stay put. “An apothecary is always needed after a battle,” he said, “so I am quite sure that the French will do me no great harm.”

Mother went to see Grandmother Rosa, to tell her that Father had reserved a place for her in our carriage, but the windows of her home were boarded up. Neighbors said that she had already left for Aveiro to stay with her sons.

Father, Mother, and I went to bed that night but scarcely slept, as we had to be awake at two o’clock. When Papa poked his head into my room to wake me, I said, “Are you sure you will not come with us? I’m so worried – I can’t think of anything else.”

“No, I can no longer let other men fight for me. Portugal is my home now. I’m too old to go back to England or Scotland.”

“You aren’t too old, Papa.”

“I’m fifty years of age, John.” He shook his head. “You have no idea how tired I am.”

“We all get tired, Papa. You work too hard, and you worry all the time. We could go to England and stay with Aunt Fiona for a time. I can find work there and you will be able to sit by our hearth and read. I shall support us all.”

“That is a generous offer, son, and if times were different I might even take you up on it, but I am too old to change. You will understand when you are my age.”

“But do you promise you will join us upriver?”

“John, life is unpredictable. These are promises I cannot make, even if I wanted to.”

“I’ll not leave unless you swear to join us.”

“Very well, I promise to join you and your mother upriver.”

He spoke too matter-of-factly for me to believe him. But before I could say any more, he pressed his lips passionately to mine, as though we were departing lovers. Then he clapped his hands together and said, “Now, get up and get dressed! In fifteen minutes we leave. There will be food in the carriages, even tea. I said that if there were no tea my son would turn into a Scottish monster of the lochs – a wrathful
kelpiel
!”

I said good-bye to Fanny and Zebra, who would stay behind with Father, as they weren’t allowed in the carriages. I hugged them both and told them to take care of him. Fanny jumped up and stood on my shoulders just as she had on St. John’s Eve so many years before. Through my tears, I told them not to bark even once if they heard soldiers. By way of reply, they simply licked me. I felt as though I were leaving my heart behind with them.

Mother, Father, and I bustled out of the house into the cold and windy darkness. I was carrying my musket and Father his pistol. He began to softly sing “Barbara Allen.” I joined in, and we held hands as we walked.

Mother said nothing, though she glanced furtively at Papa – in grudging admiration, I think. She must have noticed that he and I had made an attempt toward reconciliation over the past weeks. I believed that she approved of this for me, but not for herself.

Then Papa hummed a tune I didn’t know. Being good at
melodies, I was able later to scribble it out in notation and send this transcription to Healy’s Music Shop in London. I received a reply naming the song as “Now O Now I Needs Must,” by the Elizabethan composer John Dowland. I would hazard a guess that Mama knew this tune equally well and that Papa hummed it for her benefit, as a last attempt to win her forgiveness. The lyrics must have closely mirrored his feelings and his hopes for the future on this occasion: