Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (3 page)

 
          
 
He stepped into the gracious hallway, bracing
himself on the handrail as he walked to the head of the stairs. Plush carpets
lay underfoot, carried here from the
Ottoman Empire
. Walnut wainscoting rose to white-plastered walls. The giant
brass-mounted ship's clock tick-a-tocked monotonously where it hung next to the
oak-banistered stairway that led downstairs. Phillip stopped at the head of the
stairs, looking down at the first-floor landing. To the left, a double doorway
led into the office where he met with his agents and factors. To the right sat
the hall chair with its tall mirrored back, and beyond that the French doors
which led into the dining room.

 
          
 
Jeffry stood between Richard and the door, a
hand extended as he asked, "May I take your hat and coat, Master
Richard?"

 
          
 
Richard pulled off his frost-crusted hat,
baring his light brown hair. His shabby black coat hung loosely on his skinny
frame. The boy wasn't eating right again; his normally pale complexion looked
death-pasty in the dim light.

 
          
 
Jeffry stepped away, bearing his tattered
prizes to the cloakroom with stately grace.

 
          
 
"Richard? You're late." Phillip
struggled to keep his voice from turning gruff. "I suppose philosophers
don't pay much attention to time.
One o'clock
is just about as good as two, wouldn't you
say?"

 
          
 
"Yes, sir. I—I mean ... no, sir."
Richard lowered his eyes.

 
          
 
Damn it, did the boy always have to look like
a whipped puppy? "Join me in the study, Richard."

 
          
 
Resigned, Richard climbed, eyes focused on his
wet boots. They left droplets on the walnut steps. At the head of the stairs,
he sought to muster a smile that died stillborn.

 
          
 
Phillip could hear Richard's nervous breath
rasping in his throat as he gestured the boy through the doorway. Phillip
hesitated, fingers on the cool oaken door. Richard jumped when the door closed
solidly behind them.

 
          
 
Phillip sighed and limped toward his ornately
carved desk and its neat piles of papers. The fireplace popped and crackled,
the brass wood bin beside it half-f. Books covered one wall from floor to
ceiling. From the bulging bay window behind Phillip, the
Charles River
could be seen, ice-choked now, the water
pewter in the afternoon light. Two whale-oil-filled glass lamps, one to either
side, illuminated the desk. A crimson Persian carpet cushioned the floor. In
one corner sat a globe, and behind it, the Charleville musket, powder horn, and
bullet pouch Phillip had carried in the Revolution.

 
          
 
Phillip reached the overstuffed French chair
and, with effort, lowered himself behind the huge desk. Here he was in his
element, everything in place: the quills in their stand; the ink in its well; a
solitary copper button he'd ripped from the scarlet jacket of a British officer
he'd killed at
Breed's
Hill
; and beside
the left-hand lamp, his ledgers. Finally, his wife's heavy leather-bound Bible
lay just at the extent of his reach to the right. He sighed before pulling some
papers from a stack. Thick fingers pinched his glasses onto his nose.

 
          
 
Richard remained standing. From the way his
long fingers crumpled his stained black trousers, panic was fraying the last of
his composure.

 
          
 
"Now then," Phillip began. "I
have here a list of expenditures accumulated for the last four months at the
university. If I do say so, you have already spent more than enough time at
Harvard." He glanced up over the rims of his spectacles. "Not to
mention money."

 
          
 
Richard wet his lips. "Father, I have
more studies. I must continue my education!"

 
          
 
"Why, Richard?" Phillip asked
woodenly. "I see no progress in your work. I pointedly refer to progress
in useful studies .. . those which will prepare you to deal with our modern
world. At this point you have all the education required of a gentleman. You
know the Classics, speak Latin and Greek as well as French, German, and a
smattering of Portuguese. What more does a gentleman need?" Phillip spread
his hands. "To what earthly use will you put this 'philosophy' of yours?"

 
          
 
"To become a professor, Father." He
knotted his thin white fingers into bony fists.

 
          
 
"A professor? When I sent you to the
university, it was to learn about the world so that you could take a position
here, with me. I can't run the company forever, Richard. You have
responsibilities to me, to society. And by that, I mean American society. I
refuse to treat you like a child any longer." Phillip paused as he picked
up a quill and rolled it between his fingers. 4 'Nevertheless, I shan't be
accused of denying you a defense. Tell me . . . what have you learned?"

 
          
 
"I—I've learned a lot. I just...just
don't think you would . . . well. . . understand, sir. That's all."

 
          
 
Phillip tightened the corners of his mouth.
"I see. A matter of understanding. Very well, I confess to be a man of
open mind. Tell me something of the nature of man. I've heard you use that
term. Let me hear it. . . and how it will put bread and meat on your table. Let
me hear how it will keep a roof over your head."

 
          
 
Richard took a deep breath and locked his
knees to keep from trembling. Did he act this way standing before Professor
Ames? Were that the case, they should have thrown him out long ago.

 
          
 
"From ... from what idea, if any, does
the idea of... of chains ... I mean ..." Richard winced.

 
          
 
"Chains?"

 
          
 
"Rousseau, Father. I—I'm sure you've
heard of him. Man was born free and everywhere he is in chains. It's . . . It's
because man has fallen from the natural grace and virtue of his creation."
The words began to flow. "Once we were all happy, living in a state of
innocence. Unlike the scriptures, which blame the downfall of man on an apple,
Rousseau blames the first man who enclosed a piece of ground and called it his.
From there it was only a matter of time until inequality riddled society. Possessions,
property, they are the root of envy and struggle. They condemn us ... the
foundation of tyranny."

 
          
 
Phillip's heart warmed. "You would tell
me of tyranny? Your father, who stood at the foot of
Breed's Hill
?" He thrust a finger toward the old
Charleville in the corner. "There, boy, is the only counter to tyranny—and
you'll notice it's a 'possession,' the kind you so easily spurn."

 
          
 
"But don't you see? Possessions have
separated us from our natural instincts. In the beginning we were concerned
with existence. The products of the earth fulfilled our needs—not the products
of factories, or ... or of suppressed labor. To realize our true selves we must
return to the land, recover our freedom by rediscovering our natural state.
This drive for things has corrupted our souls, made us slaves of our
society!"

 
          
 
"And I take it you don't approve of our
society."

 
          
 
"No, Father, I don't." Richard
shifted uneasily. "What have we become? Possessed by the demons of gold,
silver, silk, and luxuries! What about your soul, Father? You're as bad as the
rest. What about the uplifting investigation of higher ideals?"

 
          
 
"I go to church three times a week."

 
          
 
"I'm not talking about corrupted Anglican
values. I mean true inquiry into the soul! The discovery of who you really
are!"

 
          
 
"And you think philosophy does
this?"

 
          
 
"Yes, Father!"

 
          
 
"Boy, I happen to like this society we've
begun to build. I began as a loyal subject of the Crown. I grumbled about the
taxes and the—"

 
          
 
"That has nothing to do with what
I'm—"

 
          
 
"Don't you dare interrupt an elder!"

 
          
 
Richard winced and swallowed hard.

 
          
 
"I can't believe I'm hearing this from
you. By condemning American society—which I have struggled, fought, and bled to
build—you're indicting every ideal I hold dear." Phillip threw his quill
across the desk and rubbed his forehead. "This civilization you rail
against has given you everything, Richard; your philosophy, your music and art.
As for your scorn of possessions, I would remind you that you've eaten off the
finest china, slept warm in the worst of storms, and enjoyed leisure to pursue
your. . . studies. Assuming that you really despise such a life, the door is
open. You may step out into the street and pursue nature and its benefits to
your heart's content."

 
          
 
There, the gauntlet had been cast. Phillip
raised an eyebrow. Come on, boy, show me some backbone. Turn on your heel and
stomp out of here.

 
          
 
"I told you that you wouldn't
understand." Richard's expression betrayed a growing panic.

 
          
 
Phillip smacked his desk. "Tarnation!
Very well, enlighten me. Where is the flaw in my argument? Hasn't civilization
given you everything you now have? If life is so bad—and yes, I've heard about
your Rousseau—you can bloody well go live with the savages beyond the frontier!
Go, boy, nothing is stopping you!"

 
          
 
"That's nothing more than the Socratic
argument, Father. There's more to . .."

 
          
 
But Phillip had lost the boy's words. The
savages beyond the frontier? He glanced from the corner of his eye at the
carpet bag that sat just to the side of his old musket.

 
          
 
Richard raised his hands, the gesture that of
desperation. "We owe something to ourselves, Father. Not just the state.
Surely, if you've studied Rousseau, his arguments must have made you think,
caused you to reconsider your own role in our hypocritical society. And what
about the savages? What right do we have to inflict our society upon theirs?
We're ruining them! Turning them into little copies of ourselves in an obscene
foundry of civilized ideas. The ones that don't form just right, we break and
toss in the rubbish! How can you call that morality!"

 
          
 
Phillip's attention had fixed on the heavy
grip. He muttered, "Rousseau was a fool, primarily because no one ever
shot at him."