The Furies (33 page)

“Peaceably?” she repeated. “What other way is there?”

“There’s war.”

“Oh, Bart, the states would never fight over—”

“Slavery? Don’t you be too sure. There’s a terrible violent streak in this country, Amanda—your own experiences should prove that. In New York, just last spring, the mob nearly tore down the Astor Place Opera House—the one you can’t walk into unless you wear kid gloves—”

“I think I read a short item about that. I don’t recall any mention of the cause.”

“A ridiculous feud between Forrest, the American actor, and Macready from England. The feeling against the high-toned Mr. Macready boiled over when the Opera House booked him in
Macbeth.
The city called out more than three hundred police—the militia—even artillery and cavalry. There were thugs packing the theatre—and thousands milling in the streets. Why, Christ, before it was over, water hydrants were knocked open, the pavement was torn up and chucked through the Opera House windows—more than twenty got killed, and about a hundred and fifty wounded. The police arrested that Judson fellow—the one who writes those pieces against foreigners under the name Ned Buntline—for trying to set fire to the building—while it was still occupied! They dragged him away screaming, ‘Working men! Shall Americans or English rule?’ If people will behave like maniacs because an English actor spouts his lines on a U.S. stage, just imagine what they might do over the nigra question. I sometimes think we were immortal fools to start this country with a revolution. It’s helped put a stamp of respectability on violence ever since.”

Amanda had no answer for his assertion. Maybe he’d broken through her unspoken confidence that she could deal with any problem, no matter how large, deal with it and overcome it—without being harmed by it. He pressed his momentary advantage.

“If those Congressional compromises are put to a vote, I’ve heard Calhoun may go to Washington, sick as he is. He knows the situation’s desperate—he and Webster and Clay and the other big thinkers. A big thinker I surely am not. But I’m content with my life because it lets me stay sane—no, you hear me out. You’re a good woman, Amanda. A strong woman. But there’s another part of you that’s dangerous. In some ways you act like the windbag abolitionists—you’ve somehow got it in your head that you’re one of those avenging goddesses of the Greeks or the Romans, I forget which—I read about them at the academy when I was no more than Louis’ age. But the difference between you and one of the furies, sweet, is just this. They lived forever. You can’t. You can be injured. Back east, you’ll have to take sides politically. On either side, you’ll be putting yourself in jeopardy. And you’ve already done it by declaring war on Stovall. So you’re doubly vulnerable. I read some Bible when I was a boy, too. I remember St. Matthew. Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane—”

He gazed at her, hoping the meaning wouldn’t be lost. “ ‘All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword—’ ”

The wind murmured in the silence. The darkness was lowering rapidly. It muted the ugliness of the town below—but not the determination in her eyes.

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Yes—unfortunately—” He tried to smile. Failed. “That’s the kind of woman you are.”

“Why won’t you understand, Bart—?” Unconsciously, she touched the rope bracelet. “Jared’s death made it impossible for me to turn back. I would never have wished him murdered. But once it happened, I accepted it—and decided to make the most of it. I’ll never have the same kind of opportunity.”

With considerable cynicism, he said, “You’re certainly counting on your cousin once removed wanting no share of what belonged to his father.”

“He’s a preacher. I don’t think he’ll be interested. Besides, all I intend to ask of him is the use of the money for a while. He’ll be rewarded. Eventually I’ll give Jephtha Kent ten times what he’d earn otherwise, I’ve discovered how to use money to make money—”

She brightened then, her head lifting as she whirled to face the dark eastern sky. “Try to look at it from my side, Bart. Even apart from wanting to own the company again, it’s exciting to think of going home. There’s so much I’ve never seen. The cities. Fine houses and those huge factories they say are springing up everywhere. I want to ride a horse car and a railroad—I’ll have to educate myself, too. Learn good manners, and how to dress properly. And teach everything to Louis—”

“Staying out of the way of the political trouble all the while? It can’t be done. I especially don’t think you can do it.”

“Why not?”

“Just the way you are.”

“Would you mind explaining that remark?”

“For one thing, you have a peculiar liking for nigras—”

Amanda bristled. “And which side were you on during the Astor Place riot, Captain McGill?”

“What?”

“You sound like you might have joined the thugs trying to keep the American stage for Americans only!”

“Nonsense. I never take sides. I was still in the Atlantic, thank God. Besides, I was just using that as an example of the way people in this country knock each other in the head over any trivial—”

“I wouldn’t call the slavery question trivial.”

“No, I expect you wouldn’t. You treat that damn Israel like an equal.”

“I treat anyone I respect as an equal! I always have.

It didn’t matter whether it was a Sioux dog soldier, or a Mexican officer, or a black man—”

“God,” he muttered, “you do have an inordinate fondness for inferior sorts.”

“Such as my grandfather? You’re absolutely right. My grandfather Philip was one of those
inferior sorts
—he was nothing when he came to this country. A penniless bastard boy. But he thought America might offer him something Europe couldn’t then. A chance to succeed because of what he could do, not what he was. I’m of the opinion this country stands for that. And if my attitude means I’ll get involved in this political furor you’re so afraid of, then I guess I will. But first of all, I’m going to bring the printing house back into the family.”

Bart shook his head. “You won’t listen to reason on any subject, will you? Do you really imagine Stovall’s going to sell out to someone named Kent?”

“I thought of that. For a while, I’ll use my married name.”

Bart’s cigar had burned out long ago. With a grimace of disgust, he flung the stub into weeds beside the path. He noticed the old man on the porch of the house watching them, roused from his doze by their loud voices.

A sense of desperation filled him then. He was convinced Amanda was charting a course much more dangerous than she was able to recognize. He had to stop her if he could. There was one possible way. He’d glimpsed death in the seas of the Strait of Magellan, and reached a decision. He
had
to tell her—

“Look, sweet,” he began, “I think I’ve said a lot more than I should have about your personal affairs—some of it in a pretty nasty way. I apologize.”

Her expression gentled. “Accepted—if you’ll accept mine.”

He waved that aside. “We’ve wandered pretty far from what I wanted to say this evening. I told you about the storm we struck rounding the Horn—”

“Yes—Lord, I was frantic with worry when the clipper didn’t arrive on schedule—”

“You aren’t the only one whose life has changed. I thought we were all going to die before we outran that blow. When we got though it, I realized it was time to make some changes of my own—”

He reached for her shoulders and pulled her against him, inhaling the fresh-scrubbed scent of her skin. His fingertips moved lightly down her back.

“I thought a good deal about what I wanted. I decided what I wanted more than anything was you. I don’t mean just occasionally. I mean all the time—”

He hugged her impulsively, and for a moment, silent in the wind, they savored the closeness. The dark had engulfed the semaphore hill and hidden them from the old man watching.

Finally Bart resumed. “I’m about to say something I never imagined I’d say to another female after I got rid of the one who played hob with my life for twelve years—”

A hesitation.

“I love you.”

She clasped him tightly. “Oh, Bart—you probably won’t believe it because of the way I scold you for some of your notions—”

“Scold me!” He managed a chuckle. “Lop my fool head off with a verbal ax, you mean—”

“You hush and let me speak.”

“All right.”

“I love you too.”

Stunning, unexpected joy welled inside him. Emotion made his words halting. “I—I hardly see how it could be possible. God knows I’m not perfect. Tonight I’ve demonstrated that amply—”

“A woman doesn’t ask for perfection and love in the same package, Bart. To love you, I don’t have to agree with every word you utter—”

“Some men expect that of their women.”

“Well, you know better than to expect it from me.”

He chuckled again. “I surely do. I reckon that’s one of the reasons you stick in a fellow’s mind—”

Holding her close, his fears of rejection began to seem groundless. He went on with rising enthusiasm. “If what you say about loving me’s the gospel truth, Amanda—”

“It is.”

“Then don’t go back. Stay here with me. Away from the stump speakers and the wild-eyed philosophers and—all the things that can hurt you. Even though California’s filling up, we’ll be safer than we would be in Charleston, or New York. I’ll make a good life for you. For your boy, too—”

He wiped his eyes. When she spoke again, her words and her tone told him she didn’t yet understand all he was attempting to say. “You work out of New York, Bart—”

“In the desk in my cabin, there’s a paper I drew up three days ago. My resignation. I’ll hand it to the Ball brothers at the end of this voyage. The next time I sail to California, it’ll be for good. I can find a captain’s berth on one of the coastal packets. I know I can—”

Again that affectionate merriment in her voice. “My, it must be love if you’re willing to learn to pilot one of those hateful steamships—”

“To be with you I’d do damn near anything. Marry me, Amanda—” He held her waist and poured out all the longing that had grown within him after the perilous passage.
“Marry me.”

She drew in a breath; she was astonished. “I had no idea you meant to propose—”

“What’s so strange about it? People marry all the time!”

She kissed his cheek. “And I love you all the more for asking me. But—”

He pulled back, cold and fearful all at once. “The answer’s no?”

“I have an obligation, Bart.”

“An obligation to what? To some Latin on a cheap piece of metal?”

“Please don’t say that. I wouldn’t have shown you Jared’s medallion if I thought you’d make sport—”

“I’m
not
making sport! I’m trying to save you from what you’re going to do to yourself!”

“It’s my duty to go to Boston. I came from a family that—”

“A family that’s nothing anymore. Nothing! Your splendid
family
consists of one Methodist gospel shouter and one former owner of a Texas whorehouse—”

He could almost feel her wrath like a physical blow. “You certainly have a very peculiar way of demonstrating your affection, Captain McGill.”

“Amanda—”

“Do you enjoy being cruel?”

“I’m trying to show you the truth! I care about what happens to you!”

He spun and stalked off into the high grass, hands clenched at his sides.

He’d suspected from the first that she’d refuse him. That was why he’d been so nervous. And now her refusal had unleashed rage again. He hated her strength almost as much as he hated his own lack of self-control—

He stood with his head down until his trembling worked itself out. Then, over his shoulder but loud enough for her to hear, he said, “I’ve botched everything tonight. I’m sorry. I truly am, Amanda—”

He heard her footsteps in the grass. Felt her body against the back of his blue sea jacket. But something in him was dying. Not responding to the clasp of her arms around his waist from behind, nor to the press of her cheek against his shoulder.

“I understand why you’re upset. You risk a lot—including pride—when you propose to a woman. I only wish I could say yes—”

His last hope died then—died and disappeared as completely as the house and tower had disappeared, only a short distance above on the hill’s black summit. He blinked a couple of times, then pried her hands from his waist. He didn’t want to let her know how much he was hurting. He tried to banter. “All right. If there’s anything a man should avoid, I reckon it’s a committed woman—”

“If what you say about the east is true, I don’t think you can stay uncommitted either.”

“You just watch! Five thousand miles from New York, I won’t be worrying about anything except course and cargo.”

“No, you’re talking differently than you did a couple of years ago. You’re much more conversant with both sides of the political argument.”

“The hell I am!”

“Then, you thought men who championed states’ rights were fools. A while ago, you said the federal government shouldn’t tamper with those rights. Maybe you’ve taken sides yourself. Unconsciously—”

That fueled his wrath all over again. “Never.
Never!
”

“You
are
a southerner—”

“I’m a seaman—period. The only territory with a claim on me is the deck of a clipper!”

He stepped away from her, unwilling to discuss the subject further. She’d pointed out something of which he was totally unaware, and it had shaken him profoundly. He practically barked the next sentence.

“It’s time we went back.” Then—with a faint undertone of threat: “I’ve got a business offer to think over.”

“An offer? You didn’t say anything about—”

“No point in mentioning it earlier. I thought I’d be berthing out here from now on. Since I won’t be, this other proposition has a lot to recommend it. Gentleman approached me just before I weighed anchor this trip. The manager of the New York office of the Royal Sceptre Line.”

“Sounds like a British firm.”

“It is. Headquarters in London. Most of their trade’s with Africa and India. Guess I’ve built a pretty fair reputation with Ball Brothers—Royal Sceptre offered me a mighty handsome command on a brand-new clipper, the
Prince Consort.
Might be just what I need to get me away from the mess in this country. ’Specially since there are no personal reasons for staying—”