Remember the Morning (27 page)

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Authors: Thomas Fleming

BOOK: Remember the Morning
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“How is that?”
Hughson winked. “You know how Caesar operates. He needs a place to stash his stolen goods. He's in business like you or me. We get a nice cut of the profits.”
Around them, the whores and their friends were exchanging more jokes and insults. Why, surrounded by this cheer, did Clara sense evil in Hughson's offhand words? Was the big man's carelessness about the line between honesty and dishonesty as unacceptable in its way as Catalyntie's passion for profits?
Sympathy for the ill-fated warred with Clara's instinctive honesty. The memory of Malcolm Stapleton looming over Caesar, his white fist raised to smash his battered black face, suddenly became more important than the strictures of the law. She said nothing.
S
WEAT MATTED MY HAIR, SOAKED THE pillow, drenched my nightgown. The labor pains were coming every few seconds, each one like a spike driven through my back. But I had yet to utter a sound. The doctor, a young Englishman named Tracy, was amazed. For the third or fourth time, he told Clara most women screamed and moaned and sobbed.
Clara bathed my face with a cold cloth. “She's a Seneca,” she said. “We learned to bear pain from our mothers' example.”
I had sent for Clara when the labor began. It was not because I needed her to maintain a Seneca standard of stoicism—at least, that is what I told myself. I wanted Clara to see the impact of a son on Malcolm Stapleton. The Moon Woman was still trying to exorcise her fear that Clara could take Malcolm away from her.
“I can see the head,” the doctor said. “Push! Hard! Harder!”
The pain came in blinding flashes now, darkening the room. I clutched the bedposts with both hands and pushed. Once and for all, I was freeing myself of this monster. He seemed to be sucking my insides with him. How could anyone call this natural? It was enough to make me believe
the priests and ministers were right—some original sin had inflicted this ordeal on women.
“I've got him!” the doctor cried.
Triumphantly, he held up a red creature with the pinched face of a corpse. He whacked him on the bottom and the baby unleashed a howl that shook the roof.
“A boy?” I asked. There was so much sweat in my eyes, I saw everything through a salty haze.
“A boy.”
The Evil Brother was keeping his part of the promise. Now Malcolm would never leave me. After the doctor cut the umbilical cord, Clara wrapped the child in a blanket and held him in her arms, exuding the tenderness that came so naturally to her. “He's beautiful,” she said. “You must be so happy.”
Good riddance, was all I could think. Until I watched Clara give the baby to Malcolm. He cradled the infant in his huge arms, gazing at him with total rapture. “Now we have a reason to get rich,” he said.
Rubbing the salty sweat from my eyes, I studied Clara's face. I saw regret and disapproval flicker there at hearing Malcolm subscribe to his wife's view of life. But Clara managed to maintain her smile. “I'm sure he'll be a warrior like his father,” Clara said.
The hell he will, I thought. No son of mine was going to die in battle. I would raise him to be the most successful merchant in America—and Europe. He would learn to speak Dutch and French and German and trade with all of them. He would inherit my money and quintuple it. But for now the main source of contentment was his power to bind Malcolm to me forever. Let the Evil Brother demand his reckoning eventually. I had my heart's desire, beyond all blandishments.
“What shall we name him?” Malcolm said.
“Cornelius,” I said. “After my grandfather.”
“I was thinking of Hugh, after my grandfather,” Malcolm said. “The one who fought in the Civil War.”
34
“That can be his middle name.”
“Cornelius Hugh Stapleton,” Clara said. “He sounds powerful. Important.”
“He will be,” I said.
“God willing,” Malcolm said.
Whether God wills it or not, I thought.
The next day, I was out of bed, working in the store, while the doctor tut-tutted and half our customers warned me I was risking my life. I
ignored them. I had seen Seneca mothers give birth in the morning and hoe corn in the afternoon. I carried the baby with me in a sack on my back, well wrapped in a warm blanket, and nursed him in the rear of the store when business was slow.
Business was soon worse than slow, it was terrible. We had sold the best cloth and a hefty percentage of the rest of the stock that Captain Van Oorst had brought from Holland on his most recent voyage. I had been forced to replenish my shelves from Nicholas Cruger and other large importers from England, driving my prices up and my profits down. As I fretted over the prospect of a sinking income, Captain Van Oorst arrived in town with a cargo of beaver skins and suggested I join him on his voyage to Amsterdam. I could meet my Dutch suppliers and perhaps persuade them to give me enough credit to launch the Mohawk store I planned to compete with Philip Van Sluyden's monopoly of the fur trade. My pregnancy—and the slow pace of my lawsuit against my uncle—had forced me to postpone this grand ambition.
Over Malcolm's objections—he feared for the baby's health while I was gone—I decided to make the voyage. Once more I was calling on my Indian heritage; Seneca men took care of the children while the women worked in the fields. I hired a wet nurse—an Irishwoman named Bridget McCarthy who had recently given birth and whose breasts still had plenty of milk—and was ready to depart.
“Adam can run the store,” I said. “Malcolm, you must press the new governor to settle the suit against my uncle. You're in a perfect position to do it. He needs you in the assembly. Get him to issue a writ of error and set up a special chancery court with him as judge and jury.”
“But that's so dishonest. People will say we're misusing the law—exactly the way Nicolls did.”
“Who gives a damn what people say? We've got Uncle Johannes on the run. He's lost his assembly seat, his protector Nicolls. Now is the time to finish him off. I thought you were a soldier—a warrior.”
Fury mottled Malcolm's face. “I can see motherhood isn't going to change you.”
Slamming doors behind him, he stamped out of the house. For the rest of the week, the argument raged, with Malcolm resisting my idea. I mocked him. Did he or didn't he want to get rich? Did he care about our son? I was risking my life on a winter passage to Amsterdam to expand our business. Still he said no.
I suddenly realized why. “You've talked to Clara about this, haven't you?”
He said nothing. “Damn her! Why and how has she appointed herself the keeper of your conscience?”
“She said I should remind you of a promise you made her—about me. What was it?”
“Never mind,” I said. The memory unnerved me for a moment. Quickly, the Evil Brother whispered:
But you promised nothing about your own actions.
On the day before I sailed, Cornelius Hugh Stapleton was christened at the First Dutch Reformed Church. Governor Clarke and his wife were among the guests at a reception we gave for our friends after the ceremony. A portly, avuncular man, the governor had already displayed more than ordinary friendship for Malcolm. Like him, he was a member of the Patriot Party's American branch. His Excellency was convinced it was time to assert English power in Europe and America instead of trimming and truckling to the French in Prime Minister Robert Walpole's style. He was in thorough agreement with Malcolm's ideas about the importance of winning the fur trade war with the French in Canada.
Finding Malcolm and the governor chatting in a corner of the front parlor, I joined them. “Your Excellency,” I said. “I'm sailing to Holland tomorrow to attempt to borrow enough money to save my business. If I don't survive the voyage, I wonder if you would consider doing a kindness for my little son—”
While Malcolm watched in mute dismay, I told the governor the story of my lawsuit against Johannes Van Vorst. I produced enough tears to dampen my cheeks and melt his politician's heart to putty, describing my parents' murders, adding spontaneously invented horrors of my Indian captivity, and embellishing my return to find my estate looted.
“My dear Mrs. Stapleton,” the governor said. “When you return from Holland, you'll find your estate restored to you—or my name is not George Clarke. This is something we shall undertake together, eh, Stapleton?”
“I would be … honored,” Malcolm choked.
That night—which we both knew might be our last night together—Mr. and Mrs. Stapleton lay beside each other in the darkness after Malcolm snuffed out the candle. An autumn wind howled off the Hudson, suggesting the dangers of an Atlantic passage at this time of year. But Malcolm could find no words of tender farewell.
“You're determined to turn me into a scoundrel, aren't you?” he said. “Have you thought about what might happen if you succeed?”
“I'm trying to turn you into a man who sees the world as a place of strife—as demanding of nerve and courage as your imaginary battlefields. There's no room in it for your patriotic moonshine.”
“You're wrong. Every man needs a cause—king and country, Protestant freedom against Catholic tyranny.”
“Bosh. Men fight for glory, power, fame.”
We left it that way—my Dutch alienation from English patriotism and his worship of it lay like a wall of brass between us. Bitter experience would teach me that Malcolm was right, especially in his case. Without his ideal vision Malcolm would become a hollow man in front of my mortified eyes.
Only as I said good-bye to the baby did I waver about leaving him. What if this little creature died? The Evil Brother was capable of every imaginable treachery. Malcolm would blame me and I would lose him forever. I clutched the child to my breasts, then handed him back to the wet nurse.
“If there's the slightest concern for his health, consult Clara Flowers at Hughson's Tavern. She'll know what to do.”
“Aye, ma'am.”
I had more confidence in the prayers and spells we had learned as Senecas than I had in Dr. Tracy's pills and potions. I had seen the village shaman retrieve more than one member of my longhouse from the brink of death.
Sending my trunk to the ship, I rushed to Hughson's. Clara was behind the bar, serving drinks. The taproom was quiet at midday, but none of the customers were the sort of people I would let into the Universal Store. Once more I was confounded by Clara's preference for the poor and downtrodden of this world. I felt no such pity. It was simply foreign to my soul.
“I'm sailing with the tide, as you probably know,” I said. “If the Atlantic swallows me like the first Catalyntie, I will you the child—and Malcolm. Find a way to love him in spite of your infirmity. Consult Adam. He may know something about such things—having committed the original hurt.”
We embraced, almost sisters again for a moment. “I wish you wouldn't go,” Clara said. “I had a bad dream about you last night.”
I almost abandoned the voyage on the spot. “What was it?”
“Never mind.”
“Did I looked drowned?”
“No. Very much alive.”
“Then dream on. I'll dare the Evil Brother to do his worst as long as I have life in me.”
Clara looked grave. Did she sense I was serious? Whatever she thought, she said nothing. We kissed good-bye and Clara said: “I'll pray for you every day.”
For the next six weeks, I clung to these words as Captain Van Oorst's ship battled the howling winds and mountainous seas of the North
Atlantic. I was the only passenger. More than once I wondered if the leaky old freighter, quaintly named
The Orange Prince,
35
could possibly hold together as immense waves laid her on her beam ends. Several times, the mainsail sheets parted and the sailors had to struggle aloft to seize the flailing lines before the great square of canvas flapped itself to pieces.
But Killian Van Oorst was a canny sailor. He conned his ship through the murderous waves and winds and by December 1, we had passed the French and English coasts and were in the whitecapped Zuider Zee. Soon, under bright sunshine, we were gliding up the ice-choked estuary of the Amstel, the river that had given Amsterdam—originally
Amstelleddamme
—the dam in the Amstel—its name. Snowflakes swirled down as Van Oorst expertly docked at one of the wharfs. I gazed in astonishment at the thousands of ships and the immense city they sustained.
I staggered like a sailor as I tried to negotiate a paved sidewalk that did not pitch and toss like the
Orange Prince
's deck. Captain Van Oorst laughed and caught my arm. Two of his sailors commandeered a wheelbarrow for my trunk and followed us inland to a street of magnificent houses overlooking a canal. Their fronts were lined with marble and dozens of servants were out scrubbing every inch of them, standing on ladders and platforms.
Although hundreds of people hurried along the sidewalks, wrapped in cloaks or fur-lined greatcoats against the intense cold, there was none of New York's clamor. All was quiet and orderly. Even the horses pulling big sleighs across the numerous canal bridges were sedate and virtually noiseless. There was also not a trace of New York's stenches and garbage in the streets. The sidewalks and gutters were as clean as the floor of my New York parlor. The size of the houses, the glimpses of countless other streets radiating from some central point to the horizon, were overwhelming. How could a stranger make an impression in such a place?
“This is the Heerengracht,” Van Oorst said. The Lord's Canal, I quickly translated.

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