Nan Ryan (54 page)

The poor man was crippled. Scotty was supporting him, his arm around the stranger’s waist. The wretch was leaning on Scotty, his skinny arm around Scott’s shoulder. His emaciated body was pitifully covered in worn, baggy gray trousers, a threadbare shirt hung loosely from his frail chest. And he was scarred. The entire left side of his face bore scars. He must be an old man, his hair is almost completely gray. No, no, he isn’t old, the right side of his unshaven face bears no scars and it’s unlined, like the face of a young man.

Kathleen stood staring intently at the man and something strange was taking place inside her body. Every muscle was tense and strained. Unexplained sensations surged through her veins. “What is it? What is happening to me? Why am I looking into the face of a scarred, crippled derelict and feeling an overpowering affection for him? Have I finally gone mad that I would feel a need to fling myself into his dirty arms and stroke the scarred cheek. Why is the heart in my chest pounding with an excitement usually associated with love and desire? I have gone crazy! That’s it, I’m insane! I want to embrace that filthy stranger. And I want him to hold me too.”

Kathleen stood transfixed, watching Scott and the beggar coming closer until they were inside the yard. Shocked and dreadfully confused by her reaction to the man coming up the walk, she continued looking only at him. Her eyes seemed to be locked on him until she was powerless to tear them away and she knew it was all part of the insanity possessing her. The scarred, gray-haired man looked up and the pulse in her ears drummed loudly, as every piece of the puzzle fell into place. Now she knew why Dawson never came. Now she knew why Scott was late from school. Now she knew why he so willingly helped the beggar. Now she knew why her heart was pounding and she longed to touch the tall, skinny man coming towards her.

“Hunter,” she screamed and flew out the doors. She ran down the walk with tears filling her eyes and hysterical laughter escaping her lips. He watched her coming toward him and the full mouth trembled in the gaunt face, then turned up into a smile. The brown eyes turned into the soft ones she remembered so well and he opened his mouth to speak, but she never gave him the opportunity. She threw her arms around his neck and was kissing his lips, his scarred face, his gray hair, sobbing between kisses, “Hunter, Hunter,” over and over again. She moved her hands to his back, feeling each protruding rib. She clung to him with such ferocity that he was in danger of toppling over with her or top of him. Speechless, Hunter let himself be embraced, patted, felt, touched, cried on, kissed, and loved.

Scotty stood watching them, tears of happiness sliding down his brown cheeks until, embarrassed by his unmanly behavior, he fled into the house. He turned when he got inside the door and looked back. They still stood together, his mother embracing his father, and at last his father was speaking

“Darling,” Hunter whispered, “I’m so dirty, you shouldn’t be touching me.”

With her head now resting on his chest and her arms securely around his waist, she murmured, “My darling, do you really think you could keep me from touching you?” And she raised her head to look into his face.

His dreamy brown eyes were swimming in tears and he choked out the words, “I hope not,” and for the first time his arms came around her and he smiled, “Hope you’ll pardon a few scars, darling.”

“Hunter, my love, you’ve never been so handsome in your life,” and she stood on tiptoe and lovingly kissed the deep scars covering his left cheek. “But I do agree, you’re a bit soiled.”

“I’m so sorry,” he tried to pull away, but she wouldn’t le him go. “I am so ashamed, I’ve so much to explain to you tell you, and if you don’t still want me I …”

Kathleen put her lips near his ear and whispered, “I love you, Hunter, I’ve never stopped. Now come into the house where you belong.” Moving underneath his arm, she put her arms around his slim waist and said, “Lean on me, my love,” and together they made their way into the house, she supporting him and he willingly letting her. Their son waited with the door open.

After Dawson saw Hunter and Scott, he had Jim drive him directly to the river. Stopping at the wharf where the
Diana Mine
was moored, Dawson walked up the gangplank in no hurry and headed for his cabin. Once inside, he cast aside his fine waistcoat and vest. He unbuttoned his white silk shirt and sat down behind his big desk. He drew out a bottle of whiskey from the bottom drawer and poured himself a stiff drink. Resting his feet atop his desk, he lay back in his chair and slowly drank the liquor while his fingers toyed with the cameo resting on his chest. The full impact of what had happened was slowly registering and he felt a great weariness throughout his large body. He sat quietly drinking, his dark eyes narrowed, morose. Fate had again dealt him a hand to play and, although he didn’t like the cards he’d drawn, they were all he had and he must do the best with them. A wry smile came to his lips and he swung his long legs down from the desk and went to his coat. He reached inside the breast pocket and took out the small pink velvet box. He popped it open for one last look inside, holding it close to his face. He sighed, closed the box, and went to the cabin door and flung it open. “Sam,” he called up to the pilot house, “Sam, are you here?”

“Yes, suh, Cap’n Dawson,” came the sleepy answer and Dawson heard Sam’s heavy footsteps coming down to his cabin. “Sorry, Cap’n Dawson, guess I was takin’ a little nap. I didn’t know you was here.”

“That’s all right, Sam,” Dawson smiled at his friend. “Come in for a minute. Have a drink with me.”

Suppressing a big yawn, Sam scratched his head and followed Dawson into the cabin. “Cap’n, why is you here? It jest dawned on me, you is supposed to be up at Sans Souci.”

Dawson grinned sheepishly and said, “Yes, I know, but looks like my plans have changed,” and he told his understanding friend what had happened.

Shaking his big head in disbelief, Sam sympathized, “Oh, Cap’n, I is so sorry, so terrible sorry.”

“Well, don’t be, Sam, because it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good. Here,” Dawson held out the pink velvet box to Sam, “Take this, Sam, give it to Ruby or one of your other women.”

Sam looked inside and his eyes grew big and round, “But, Cap’n, I can’t take this, why it be the most pretty ring I ever did see.”

Dawson picked up his waistcoat, rolled down his sleeves, and started for the door. He turned and laughed, “Yes, you can, Sam. It’s yours. After all, if I keep this up, the damn Mississippi River’s going to be full of diamonds.”

Thirty-nine

Dawson went home to his mansion after giving the diamond ring to Sam. When the servants saw the dark scowl on his face, they dared not ask him what had happened to displease him or why he was home when he had announced earlier in the day that he would be at Sans Souci all evening. Pretending nothing was amiss, they greeted him and quickly fled his presence, knowing Jim would tell them later why the master was in such a fowl mood and why he had returned home.

Dawson stomped directly up the stairs to his own bedroom and no one saw him the rest of the day. When a tray of food was taken up at the dinner hour, he refused to open his door, so it was placed on the table in the hall where it was to remain untouched. Dawson paced the floor of his big upstairs bedroom, muttering expletives under his breath and stopping often to pour another drink of whiskey from a crystal decanter. The pacing continued all evening and far into the night. What was even more frightening to the servants was that around eleven o’clock that night they heard the master’s door being flung open and what sounded like heavy furniture being moved about upstairs.

Perspiring and tired, Dawson cast aside his shirt at midnight and continued with his work. He was moving every piece of furniture out of his big bedroom and sitting room. Even the heavy blue brocade drapes were yanked from their rods by a cursing, drunken Dawson, intent on ridding the room of all its possessions. Loud, bawdy singing replaced the cursing around three, mixing gratingly with the sounds of heavy chairs, sofas, and tables being pushed and dragged into the hall. By five, nothing remained in either large room except for Dawson’s oversized bed. Pulling and tugging, the singing once again turned into loud curses as he sweated and shoved and heaved on the heavy, stubborn bed that would not move. Refusing to give up and let it best him, Dawson continued in vain to try and move the giant bed. Holding to a huge round post, blindly drunk now and desperately tired, Dawson grunted and struggled until the veins on his forehead stood out and every muscle in his broad, glistening back strained under its burden. The bed would not budge and, exhausted and beaten, Dawson at long last sank down onto it defeated, fell over onto his back, and was fast asleep.

At nine that same morning, Dawson, surprisingly sober and immaculately groomed and dressed, opened his door and weaved his way around the stacked furniture lining the walls of the hall. Laughing at, his own drunken foolishness as he worked his way around the displaced furniture, Dawson shocked his servants anew as he descended the stairs, humming in a pleasant baritone and smiling to them as though the evening’s events had never taken place.

Instructing Jim to drive him to Crawford Ashworth’s office without delay, Dawson climbed into the back of the carriage, drew out a long, thin cigar and smoked while a lazy smile played at his full lips.

“Crawford, sorry to come without an appointment, but I’ve something important for you to handle.”

“Sure, Dawson, have a seat. I’m always glad to see you.”

Not pausing for small talk, Dawson told his friend and attorney the reason for his visit. “I want to make my will immediately.”

“That’s a good idea, son, everyone should have a will. I’ve got a lot going right now, but let’s set up an appointment for sometime next week and we’ll draw it up.”

“No. We’ll do it right now,” Dawson smiled at his old friend.

“Just what’s the hurry?”

“God, I’m almost ashamed to tell you,” Dawson looked at Crawford sheepishly and related the story of Hunter’s unexpected homecoming.

Crawford’s eyes filled with concern for the man sitting across from him and he started to sympathize, “Dawson, I’m so sorry.…”

Dawson waved a brown hand to quiet him, “I’m not here for any of your outpourings of pity and other nonsense. Get out your pen and make up my will. I want to leave everything to Scott Alexander. I want it put into trust until he is eighteen, then it’s all his to do with as he pleases.”

Crawford’s concern turned to alarm and he said loudly, “Good Lord, Dawson, you can’t do that.”

“It’s my money, I can do anything I please with it, so write it up.”

Crawford rose from his chair and came around his desk, sitting on its edge, leaning close to his friend. “Dawson, in the first place I’m sure you’ll live to a ripe old age so I don’t see the urgency of writing your will today. But in the second place, if something should happen to you, God forbid, in the near future, don’t you think it would cause a bit of a problem for all your money to go to Scotty?”

“For who? Scotty? I told you, he won’t get it until he’s eighteen. Then, I’m sure he’d be delighted to inherit a large sum of money. What kid wouldn’t?”

“Dawson, I’m not speaking of Scotty. I mean … well, what would Hunter think? How would he feel about it? You have to consider other people, why, Kathleen and …”

Dawson smiled, but straightened in his chair, bringing himself up to his full, imposing height until his face was only inches from the man standing over him. Very softly, he said, “Crawford, I think I’m a decent man and I’ve always tried to be very careful of other’s feelings. But, I’ll tell you something, I am going to leave my money to my son, my own flesh and blood. I fathered him and no matter how many people wish the facts were otherwise, they are not. So, as to how Hunter Alexander would feel about it, although I met him once and he seemed like a very nice man and I am sure he is a good husband and father, you’ll forgive me if I tell you I really don’t give a damn how he feels about that or anything else.”

“Now, Dawson, you don’t mean that. I know you don’t, why …”

“I do, Crawford. I’ve lost them both, through no fault of my own, but I’m a big boy and I’ll accept it. But I’ll be damned if I intend to worry about the delicate feelings of the man who took them both.” He rose from his chair and said when he reached the door, “Draw up the will, I’ll be back in an hour to sign it.”

True to his word, Dawson returned in an hour and, with Crawford and the young assistant attorney as witnesses, Dawson signed the document and said, “I appreciate it, Crawford. I’m going to tell Sam what’s in my will, so send him a copy. I’m relying on you and Sam to carry out the wishes of my will should the need arise.” Then he smiled and added, “Don’t look so worried, old friend, I intend to live to be a hundred.”

Forty

The January night was bitter cold. No stars shone down from the heavens and the murky gray clouds filling the sky threatened to bring drizzling rain before the dawn. Chilling winds blew restlessly, cutting through even the heaviest of greatcoats like a sharp-bladed knife, and made an eerie moan as it roamed wantonly around the clapboard buildings, seeking entrance at every door.

Inside the small crowded saloon on Silver Street in Natchez Under, the air was warm and stuffy. A blue haze of cigar smoke hung suspended, moved intermittently by the front door being swung open to allow another soul shelter and comfort from the biting Mississippi norther’. Tinkly piano music greeted any new arrival and loud voices and boisterous laughter made the thin walls of the little room vibrate with their timbre.

At a card table near the center of the room, a dark, slightly dissipated gentleman sat playing draw poker with four men. The tall man, a dark stubble of a beard evident on his lean brown face, sat smiling, a long, thin cigar clamped tightly between his white, even teeth. Coatless, his fine white shirt was open, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A glass of whiskey sat at his right hand, a dish of discarded cigars near it. Directly in front of the man, tall stacks of poker chips rested in the circle of his arms laying on the table.