Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (9 page)

 
          
 
"I don't know, Aunt."
Willow
pushed herself to her feet, snow cracking
from her robe. Her cramped muscles ached, and the cold tightened around her
body. "But for now, here, take my hand. As dark as it is, we'll have
trouble enough getting you back down to the camp."

 
          
 
Two Half Moons shivered hard, rattling like a
cottonwood leaf in the wind. With movement, however, their bodies would warm.

 
          
 
Heals Like A Willow began picking her way
along the rimrock, glancing back only once for a final look at the rocked-up
crevice. Snow clung in the recesses among her carefully placed rocks—a pale
spider's web that had snared the last of her dreams.

 
          
 
As dreams of Laura faded, Richard blinked his
eyes open to pale morning light filtering through the cabin window. The
rattling, shaking, and clanking of the Virgil brought him back to the river and
the journey's incredible tedium.

 
          
 
His blankets were pulled up around his chin
and when he exhaled, his breath rose frost white in the dim light. Loath to
leave the warmth of his bed, he snuggled into a ball and let his eyes trace the
white-painted wooden walls of his little prison. He could hear footsteps on the
Texas
deck above his head.

 
          
 
Curse you, Father, for doing this to me.
Boston
, ah
Boston
. If only he were home instead of racing
downriver toward God alone knew what fate.

 
          
 
In his memory, Richard relived that fateful
Saturday night in Will Templeton's home—Laura would wait for him.

 
          
 
Great God, here he was, traveling ever farther
from her and the wondrous opportunity she represented.

 
          
 
It's not forever. All you need to do is go to
Saint Louis
, then return. All will be as it was before.
On his very soul, he'd never leave the city again!

 
          
 
After that last bittersweet
Boston
weekend, Jeffry had roused Richard out of
bed before the sun rose. He'd dressed by lamplight, pulling on his warmest
things.

 
          
 
Breakfast had consisted of Sally's bread
pudding, pork, and eggs. Richard had been seated across the table from his
father. Phillip watched him eat, then said, "I’ve had Jeffry pack a pistol
in your grip. Given the nature of your—''

 
          
 
"I won't need it, Father. You know how I
feel about firearms."

 
          
 
Phillip's face twitched, eyes narrowing.
"We protested the Stamp Act. We threw their tea into the harbor in
defiance of their tea tax. We told them that if they wanted to tax us, we
damned well wanted representation. What good citizens wouldn't? When they shot
us down in the streets of
Boston
, we remained loyal. We wouldn't have—"

 
          
 
"I don't need to hear this again."

 
          
 
"We wouldn't have risen against them had
General Gage not ordered the confiscation of our rifles." Phillip pointed
a meaty finger, emphasizing his point. "We didn't resort to warfare until
they marched on
Concord
to seize our powder."

 
          
 
"I know. I know."

 
          
 
'Then you also know that no
Massachusetts
man worth his spit—let alone a man from
Boston
—will ever travel without his weapons. And
where you're going ..."

 
          
 
"I won't need it!"

 
          
 
Phillip closed his eyes, shaking his head.
"Here in
Boston
you might not, Richard. But you must face the fact that no matter how
much you despise weapons, the day will come when you will need one. Either to
protect your life and property, or as the counterbalance to tyranny."

 
          
 
"Father, I am an enlightened man. There
is nothing I can't cope with by employing logic and an appeal to human
rationality." Richard wiped his mouth and steepled his fingers. "That
was the challenge, wasn't it? My belief in my philosophy against your ruthless
and brutal 'real' world?"

 
          
 
Phillip wadded his napkin and threw it to one
side. "As you wish. You may leave the pistol behind—and I will discard any
notion of my thirty thousand dollars making it safely to
Saint Louis
."

 
          
 
A long silence settled over the table, Richard
simply playing with his food. Phillip watched him with resignation.

 
          
 
Jeffry entered and announced, 'The carriage
has arrived and awaits your convenience, sir."

 
          
 
Richard pushed back from the table.
"Excellent breakfast. Jeffry, please give Sally my compliments." To
his father he added, "There's no point in my lingering. The sooner this is
over, the better."

 
          
 
Tight-jawed, Phillip jerked a short nod and
got to his feet. "Jeffry, if you would be so good as to bring the grip
from my office."

 
          
 
Jeffry nodded and left.

 
          
 
Richard paced to the hallway where his things
waited: a satchel of books, and a trunk. When Jeffry handed him the grip
containing the banknotes, Richard quickly opened it and extracted the heavy
pistol. He hated to touch it, as if his flesh might be corrupted by the
inherent violence contained in that polished wood and cold iron. Like a snake's
flesh, it felt cool and slick. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he laid
it carefully on the hall chair. With a calculated swirl, he wrapped his coat
about his shoulders, pulled on his hat and gloves, and opened the large front
door.

 
          
 
Misty orange light slanted across the city,
shooting through the smoke pall over the snow-crusted rooftops. The biting winter
chill brought a rush to his blood as his frosty breath rose on the still air. A
bundled carriage driver waited by the step, slapping his arms and rocking from
foot to foot. He reached up, touched his hat, and muttered, "G'day,
suh."

 
          
 
Phillip limped through the doorway and made
his halting way down the stairs. Grim-faced, he handed Richard the grip. Jeffry
followed, delivering the satchel and trunk to the coachman, who placed them in
the boot.

 
          
 
At the door of the coach, Phillip cocked his
head. "Richard, you ... I mean

 
          
 
"Offering advice, Father?"

 
          
 
The gray gaze hardened as Phillip stiffened.
"I wouldn't presume. You seem to have all the answers already." He
half turned, then stopped, looking back sadly. "I just wonder is all. I
wonder how you and I could have grown so far apart."

 
          
 
"Keep wondering, Father. A Greek
philosopher once stated that the unexamined life is not worth living."

 
          
 
As anger reddened his father's face, Richard
placed his foot on the step and climbed in to seat himself on the cold leather.
He leaned out the far window to stare at the familiar Commons, the snow now
crisscrossed with tracks. The carriage rocked as the driver climbed up.

 
          
 
The leather crackled as Richard settled in and
the rig jolted forward. He didn't look back, preferring to watch the Commons as
it slid past and dream of the look in Laura's eyes as she listened to his every
word.

 
          
 
God, how I'll miss this.

 
          
 
January 24, 1825

 
          
 
On the
Ohio River
, four days from
Pittsburgh

 
          
 
Dear Laura:

 
          
 
I hope you received the letters I posted from
Pittsburgh
. What a horrid little town! It has few
amenities for either the civilized man or woman, though the poor residents do
make a show of gentlemanliness and aristocratic pretension. I doubt, however,
that the place will ever amount to much.

 
          
 
I am on the river now, aboard a steamboat
named the Virgil. The boat itself is quite a marvel in that it smokes, rattles,
and shakes, but makes excellent speed. The shore seems to race past.

 
          
 
How do I tell you about the river? Imagine, if
you will, dark water winding through wooded, snow-mantled hills. I've spent
hours staring into the depths, sensing the inevitable power of moving water.
Were I not the rational fellow that I am, I'd swear I could feel it, like
something alive. It has a purity, perhaps something baptismal.

 
          
 
Water and land, it is an ancient duality, but
one that is pressed upon a person out here in the wilderness. Where the river
is pure and clear, the land is foreboding, dark and brooding. As we pass along
the shoreline I can see small fields cleared from the somber trees. The fields
lie fallow, and snow-covered. Tiny cabins— little more than rude huts—are
situated off to the side, and traces of blue smoke rise from the chimneys.

 
          
 
What sort of rude beings huddle next to those
feeble flames? As terrible as the land is, the people who inhabit it are
beneath contempt. Laura, I have entered the dark heart of the benighted
wilderness. The only solace which is mine is that you will be waiting anxiously
for my return.

 
          
 
I cannot tell you how much I dwell on that
happy day when we shall be reunited. Each minute passes so slowly as to be an
hour.

 
          
 
I hope you don't think that I'm being
presumptuous. Perhaps the wilderness has given me courage to write such things
as I would never have had the temerity to do were I not so far removed from
your presence.

 
          
 
Obediently Yours, Richard Hamilton

 
          
 
Father, you exiled me to Hell.

 
          
 
The steamboat clanked loudly, intruding on the
wistful memory. He opened his eyes to his tiny stateroom aboard the Virgil He
could hear voices in the hall: men discussing the chill in the air as they
walked forward.

 
          
 
Richard stared dully at the whitewashed wall.
He kept to his cabin except when cold drove him to the forward parlor and the
stove. Succor came from thoughts of Laura and his precious books. He need only
open to a page and drop into the convoluted prose of Hegel, or the intricacies
of Descartes, and this tawdry world slipped away. The other men aboard
congregated to enjoy card games, drinking, and planning explorations along the
shore during wood stops.