Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (13 page)

 
          
 
February 9, 1825

 
          
 
Mississippi River
, just below the Chains

 
          
 
Dear Laura:

 
          
 
At last, we've entered the
Mississippi
. What a broad and manly body of water it
is, but so different from the

 
          
 
Ohio
, which I consider to be a Greek river, for
it has the clarity, beauty, and grace that would inspire a Hellenic poet. This
Mississippi
, however, is Roman in its nature, brawny,
without nonsense or faint virtue. Caesar would have approved. The water of the
Mississippi
has a very different taste than that of the
Ohio
. I've noticed the distinct bouquet of must
lingering on my tongue after taking a drink. The morning coffee has begun to
leave a film of grit on the teeth that was missing before. Not that I should be
surprised: Flotsam and brown foam dot the surface.

 
          
 
As we travel northward, more farms have been
cut into the forest. Unlike the high bluffs on the
Ohio
, the hills on the
Illinois
side of the
Mississippi
are low, generally farther inland. Ragged
outcrops of gray rock, angular and cracked, stand on the eastern shore, while
the western side of the river disappears into a maze of trees.

 
          
 
My dear Laura, the world is filled with trees,
endless trees. The wary sense of a hunted animal has grown within me when I
look out into those sylvan shadows. What a wretched country this is. I am not
without my shield, however, against the wild tangle. I clutch my volume of Kant
to my chest as a legionnaire would his scutia. Behind it, I remain invincible.

 
          
 
Dear Laura, how do I tell you this? Despite my
education and rational mind, it defies acceptance that this could be part of my
world. Does Harvard really exist? Does Professor Ames still lecture about Hegel
and Rousseau somewhere on this earth? And, most of all, I ask, are you sitting,
even now, your wondrous blue eyes shining?
Boston
, wondrous
Boston
, how distant it all seems. It is real,
isn't it?

 
          
 
Or have I been carried by some terrible
nightmare to a place as dark and ominous as Hades? High above, in the tortured
morning sky, patches of shredded cloud are whipped and curled. The moist breeze
carries a bitter chill.

 
          
 
As I write this, I am sitting on the gallery,
nodding to the now familiar faces of the other passengers as they pass. My
comrades have all come to some sort of amiable relation, addressing each other
by first names. But I have remained steadfast, and am still referred to as Mr.
Hamilton, or simply "the scholar"—which suits me fine. Thus far, I
have been able to maintain my bargain with myself. I remain a gentleman, no
matter what.

 
          
 
Please do not feel that I presume upon our
short acquaintance, but your face fills my dreams every night as I fall asleep.
I may be bold, but you have become a source of strength for me, Laura. No
moment passes but that I think of you, and count the days until I may pay my
respects to you in person again.

 
          
 
Your Obedient Servant, Richard Hamilton

 
          
 
PS: Give my best to Will, and tell him that I
remain a fortress!

 
          
 
Chuffing and clanking, the Virgil steamed
north into the
Mississippi
's current. The notion hadn't quite sunk into Richard's skull that speed
was relative to current. Whereas the Virgil had raced down the
Ohio
, she now plowed along at a quarter her old
speed while the stacks belched black smoke. At night, sparks streaked out of
the scalloped tops.

 
          
 
As he walked along the gallery railing, he
looked down on the heads of the huddled people who couldn't afford a stateroom.
They camped on the lower deck amidst barrels, crates, and bales, wrapped in
blankets or worn coats, and sheltered by bits of canvas strung to whatever was
available. A shift in the breeze carried the odor of unwashed humanity to
Richard's nose. A child squalled, and Richard located the young mother: little
more than a bone rack surrounded by four other clamoring children. Without
concern, the gingham-dressed woman bared a dirt-smudged breast and gave the
shrieking infant her nipple. At the same time she harangued the older children
in a twangy nasal voice.

           
 
"Dobe! Y'ain't t' knit at yer bruther! Stoppit!
I'll lallup ya one if n ye don't!"

 
          
 
The murdered English grated on Richard with
the same irritation as sand on window glass.

 
          
 
And this, Father, is the frontier. They shall
build a nation of brutes where once pristine nature flowered. Describing this
wretched state to Laura would take the most delicate of language. How did one
communicate such unpleasant truths to a lady?

 
          
 
"Good day, sir." Charles Eckhart
walked up and leaned his elbows on the gallery railing. He wore a dark frock
coat, tailored trousers, and white shirt. A pale pink scarf covered his throat,
and his beaver hat topped his head

 
          
 
"And a good day to you, too, sir."

 
          
 
"It appears we've made good time. When
last I made this journey, the engine stopped. Evidently the piston needed repacking,
whatever that means, and we lay tied off on a small island just below the
Chains until parts could be brought."

 
          
 
Richard gestured below. "And the hoi
polloi camped on the deck the whole time?"

 
          
 
"Some did. Others were ferried over to
the western shore to walk the rest of the way into
Saint Louis
. They had the better of the deal, and
reached the city before the rest of us."

 
          
 
Richard shook his head, watching the woman
with her dirty children. She'd seized the oldest boy by the ear and was dragging
him screaming into the shelter of her canvas, the infant still suckling her
flattened breast.

 
          
 
Richard lowered his voice. "Look at them.
How can human beings— rational beings—live like that? You've seen their farms,
the flatboats. The difference between these wretched beings and mere beasts is
but a distinction of language, not nature."

 
          
 
Eckhart reached into his pocket for the
inevitable cigar, but having no light, simply rolled it around in his mouth
like a brown stick. "My father always taught me that if every man was a
king, we'd all die of cold and hunger because no one would build the castles,
grow the food, or cut the firewood. Now, me, I've never been to
Boston
, sir. I, however, find it difficult to
believe that all men there are kings."

 
          
 
"Assuredly not, but they don't live in
mud and excrement, either." The domestic squabble below ended with a meaty
slap.

 
          
 
"People do what they must," Eckhart
said. "I dare say, sir, that while you and I, both gentlemen with
advantages of station, honor, and education, might abhor the conditions and
actions of others, the Holy Book teaches us charity in thought and action.
Opportunity
comes of breeding, sir. However, a
gentleman should also seek to understand the plight of those beneath his
station."

 
          
 
"A philosopher, sir, does not concern
himself with charity, but with truth and understanding. I have dedicated myself
to the study of our nature, and what it means to be a man. I confess, as I
watch these people, I find nothing outside of shape in common with them."

 
          
 
"And should your station change, Mr.
Hamilton? As an educated man, I assume you have read Shakespeare. Kings, like
all mortals, rise and fall."

 
          
 
Richard made an airy gesture. "Fall I
might, but I can promise you this, sir. I will be dead before I ever consent to
live as they do."

 
          
 
Eckhart carefully removed his cigar, bowing
slightly. "A man of honor and integrity, sir, should never have to. Thank
you for a pleasant discussion. Should you be interested, we will be starting a
game within the hour. Just in case, sir, you'd be challenged by something so
unscientific as luck."

 
          
 
"Thank you, but I believe I shall find
leisure with my studies. As always, the conversation was my pleasure."

 
          
 
Eckhart studied him with thoughtful eyes,
started to turn away, and then spoke in a low voice: "Mr. Hamilton, most
of my companions on this journey consider you to be a most irritating young
man. For myself, however, I think you're just frightened, hiding behind your
books and arrogance so that you don't have to face the world. For a philosopher
to hide seems counterproductive to the search for truth."

 
          
 
"I don't see that that is any of your
concern, sir."

 
          
 
"Perhaps not, Mr. Hamilton. But. . .
well, I suppose you could call it friendly advice. Something you may or may not
have had acquaintance with in the past. Good day."

 
          
 
Eckhart touched his hat and strolled along the
gallery toward the forward cabin.

 
          
 
Of all the . . . Richard started to turn, then
froze. Francis, the boatman from
Fort
Massac
, leaned against a davit, arms crossed,
beard and sash toyed with by the wind. Richard met those deadly blue eyes. His
soul shivered for an instant before he forced himself to turn away.

 
          
 
Just coincidence, that's all. Many people
travel to
Saint
Louis
.

 
          
 
He'd made but a step when Francois's voice
called up, il Mon ami, I have something for you. A gift!"

 
          
 
Richard kept his back straight and walked
away. He's an animal, nothing more. Ignore him.

 
          
 
Heals Like A Willow slept, curled on her side.
She'd drawn her knees to her chest, arms tucked tight, like a lost child.
Layers of heavy buffalo robes covered her. Her long hair had twisted until it
covered her face in a black web. Her hands twitched in time to the mewing
sounds locked in her throat. Outside, the icy winter wind worried the thin
lodge walls that protected her from the brunt of winter; they whispered around
the narrowed smoke hole. In the firepit, faint eddies stirred patterns in the
glowing coals. Patterns— like the shape of Power.

 
          
 
Willow
dreamed . . .

 
          
 
I can sense it coming ... something terrible,
i look around, seeing the mountains in the distance, so clear that I could
reach out and touch their rocky heights. Snow blows through the sagebrush
around my feet and whispers through the tough stems. It seems to be laughing,
mocking me. The feeling is worse; something is very wrong. I look around,
searching desperately for the danger. I see nothing, only smooth bluffs and the
glass-bead blue sky overhead.