The Americans (7 page)

**m? *SB-FCR Bay State Federalist. Verity Pleasant had begun his working career as an apprentice at Kent and Son, and had quickly advanced to his present position of responsibility. He had come to Gideon with a complaint which Gideon now presented to his stepson: "Your work isn't satisfactory to Mr. Pleasant." Carter wiped an inky hand on his apron and resorted to a dazzling smile. "I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Pleasant. I thought I'd done everything you asked." For an instant his dark eyes flickered with resentment. "Everything you ordered." "Oh, yes, you've done everything that was asked," Pleasant rumbled. "And quite a few things that were not." He stabbed a thick finger at a folded sheet lying on the corner of the desk. "I have shown that petition to Mr. Kent." "Oh." Carter eyed the sheet, pondered a moment, then shrugged. "I'm sorry if the petition offends you, Mr. Pleasant. Or you, sir. But I definitely feel that fifteen minutes is not long enough for a midday meal. Most of the other men share my opinion, as their signatures on that paper should prove." Pleasant couldn't hide his contempt. Even Gideon's relationship to the offender made no difference. "They share your opinion because you've palavered and wheedled and talked 'em dizzy. Half of them probably signed just to shut you up." "No, sir, that's not true," Carter said. "They agree with me. In fifteen minutes there isn't even time to step out for a growler of beer." Gideon laced his hands together. "Nor is it allowed. I remind you that I set the rules in this business, young man. I set them after a meeting with the craft union once a year. At that meeting, the men have an opportunity to ah" every complaint, whether large or small. My employees are paid and treated fairly. Better, in fact, than in most printing houses. I admit the noon meal period is short. But the men also get to leave forty-five minutes early because of it. A year ago, they agreed they wanted it that way." "Oh, we want to keep that early quitting time," Carter nodded. "But we also believe the noon interval should be stretched to half an hour." The floor vibrated from the rhythm of the presses and binding equipment. Gideon sighed and shook his head: "Why do you do this, Carter? You don't really care about working conditions at Kent and Son. Why do you always have to try to take charge of a situation? Is it because deep down you're doubtful of your own ability?" Carter glared. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about-sir." "Nor do I," Pleasant declared. "All I know is, I won't have troublemakers in my pressroom. He cares for naught but the sound of his own voice, Mr. Kent. Since he's your adopted son-was He reached behind him to the strings of his apron. "comI suppose you'll be wanting my resignation." Gideon stayed Pleasant's hand. "Absolutely not. When I brought Carter in here, his mother and I agreed he'd get no special treatment." Handsome as a marble statue, Carter stood motionless in a beam of sunlight falling through the grimy window. His defiant eyes seemed to be testing the older man's determination. How much of his lack of morality is my fault? Gideon wondered. And how much comes out of the past, from Louis? Gideon rose behind his desk. "No special treatment," he repeated, to make sure Carter understood. "You're discharged." For a moment, Carter looked hurt. Then he stiffened: "Sir-was "You heard me. Go find a job on your own." "What if I don't choose to find a job?" "Then you can go to jail. I won't pay a penny of what you owe for that wagon. Now get out of here." "With pleasure!" Carter untied his apron and flung it on the floor. Then he stomped down the stairs. Verity Pleasant started to offer an apology for disrupting relationships in Gideon's household. With a slashing gesture, Gideon waved him to silence. Pleasant left. Only then did Gideon raise one hand to cover his eye. He trembled with impotent fury. And he's to be one of the stewards of the Kent family in the neeaxt century? If that's the best we can offer, we're finished. Ebens Fate CARTER WAS MISERABLE about being fired from Kent and Son. But he was damned if he'd let anyone know, even though the firing created all but unbearable tension at home. It was a source of bitter" amusement to him that he realty loved his mother and, in his own way, admired Gideon. But neither of them suspected. Gideon had said one thing that was completely true. Carter did have a compulsion to control things, whether it was the way Eisler conducted his classes, or the way Gideon conducted his business. He wanted to be in charge of whatever he did, whether the realities of the situation made that feasible or not. He didn't know why he felt such a compulsion, but he'd long ago accepted it. The sooner Gideon and Julia accepted it too, the happier they'd all be. He toyed with the idea of ignoring his stepfather's latest warning. But if he refused to look for work, he might indeed be jailed for failure to pay a debt which he'd already agreed was his. The alternative was to run away- something he was not yet prepared to do. Still the idea had a certain appeal. If others kept trying to control his future comwell, who could say what would happen? Reluctantly he set out to find work. He had no luck. Jobs were scarce that spring, and a slight weakening of the economy was being felt most keenly among the , unskilled. After being turned away from the hiring offices of several mills on the outskirts of Boston, he reluctantly returned to the one area where he thought he might be successful-the docks. He hadn't been back since the night of the trouble, and he was still a little fearful about the possibility of encountering Ortega. The man had promised to repay him for his interference- But necessity, and the memory of something Eben Royce had said, overcame his fear. Late one sunny afternoon, he went down to the pier where Royce would anchor when he returned with the day's catch. Instead of an empty slip, Carter found Royce's boat tied up, her sails furled. She looked as though she hadn't put out into the ocean for days. "Captain Royce? Tillman? Hello, anybody aboard?" , Gulls swooped over the bright water of the harbor, wheeling and crying. An old seaman mending nets further down the pier shouted to him: "Ain't nobody about. Read the sign." He pointed to a notice board at the head of the pier. Carter had passed it, but paid no attention. Now he hurried back to it, and in seconds found the hand-printed advertisement to which the old man had referred: To be sold at PUBLIC AUCTION at her berth on Purdy's Wharf the excellent and widely-known FISHING SLOOP "ATLANTIC ANNE" Sale by order of the owner, Capt. E. Royce Carter stared at the notice for a long time; the date of the auction was the very next week. An ominous feeling came over him. What had forced the sale of the vessel that was Royce's whole life? For an answer, he turned back toward the end of the pier. The old seaman, net slung over his shoulder, was just stepping over the gunwale of a ramshackle barge. "Ahoy there," Carter called, waving. "I see the sign- but where's Captain Royce? Is he all right?" "Some say he's lucky to be alive," the old man replied. "Others-me among 'em-think maybe he'd be better off if they done the whole job, 'stead of leavin" him like he is." Andwitha final suspicious stare at Carter, the man disappeared into the barge's wheelhouse. What the old man said unexpectedly brought an image m to Carter's mind. He saw the vicious eyes of the man with the fishhook scar, and there in the bright sunshine beside the familiar, sail-dotted harbor, he shuddered.

He walked a while before making up his mind to go to the Red Cod. After all, how much harm could come to him in the daylight? He knew from experience that there would be few if any patrons in the Cod at this hour. And he wouldn't be forced to explain his absence to Josie; the serving girls didn't start work until six o'clock or later. A bell was tolling in a nearby church as Carter opened the tavern door. For a moment he could see little in the dark interior. Then an unpleasantly familiar voice hailed him. "Well, if it isn't Kent. Thought the rough crowd in here had scared you off." Carter leaned on the serving counter and thumped down one of his last coins. "I'll have a beer, Phippsy-without the insults." While the wizened landlord filled the pewter pot, Carter overcame his embarrassment and forced out the next sentence: "And if anybody in the neighborhood is looking for help, I'd be glad to know that too." Phipps served the beer, clawed up the coin and deposited it in his grimy apron. From the rear of the tavern floated the smell of the day's batch of chowder. Phipps blinked and licked his lips. "You mean you're hunting a job?" "Correct." "What happened to your fancy education?" "I decided I had enough of Harvard." "Or they decided they had enough of you?" "Look, dammit-was "All right, all right!" Phipps broke in, obviously relishing Carter's plight. "I've got nothing to offer here-was And I wouldn't work for you if you did. his comb I hear the Northeast Fishery Company's hiring. They're always hiring. It's dirty work." "Where is it?" Carter asked. Phipps gestured: "The big building three squares north. Right at the head of the wharf. Can't miss it." "I'm in your debt," Carter said, offering a mocking salute with the pot. He drank, then added, "I'd hoped maybe Eben Royce would take me on, but I see the Atlantic Anne's up forstsale. What happened?" Phipps frowned. "It's too sorrowful to talk about. You better ask him." He gestured past Carter. Carter turned and for the first time saw Tillman. The fat fisherman was seated at the same table he'd occupied on the night of the trouble with Ortega. He regarded Carter with watering eyes. He was drunk. Carter carried his beer toward the man, who stirred in a slow, slothful way and drained what was left in his own pewter mug. Most of it ran down Ris chin and dripped on the stained table. Tillman looked defeated and miserable- and Carter wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer to the question about Royce. Something grim had happened, that much was certain. 111 Tillman wasn't too drunk to take advantage of Carter's curiosity. Of course he'd relate the sad story of Eben Royce-if Carter refilled his mug. Carter sat down, signaled Phipps and wrinkled his nose at the fat man's sour smell. Presently, drink in hand, Tillman unburdened himself: "Goddamn shame, it is-fine man like Eben. Happened eight, nine days after the last time you was in here. Eben had his supper-that very table-and he was heading back to the boat when three men jumped him and dragged him up Hampshire Alley. They put a rag in his mouth to keep him quiet, then they went to work on him. They broke his legs, both wrists, and all his fingers. His hands are like this-was Tillman formed a claw. "And they'll never be right again. Takes him two, three minutes just to pick up a spoon now." Dry-mouthed, Carter swallowed and managed to say, "Good God. Who did it?" "Eben says it was Ortega and his brother, who was in port a few days. Dunno the third man." "What's anyone done about it?" Tillman shrugged. "Nothin', lad. Down here we don't have much truck with the damn crooks on the police force. We settle things amongst ourselves. But Ortega left town right after it happened, an' no one's set eyes on him since. His brother shipped out again. Round the world, this time. Least that's the story. They say Ortega is down in New York, but figures to come back when he thinks it's safe. So you ought to be careful, too." Carter shivered again. "Did Eben really have to sell the boat?" "He says he did, which amounts to the same thing. With what they did to his hands, he surely can't handle lines or the wheel or a net any more. And you know Eben-a working skipper, and not content to be any other kind. I'll tell you, Kent-he only seems to care about one thing these days." "What's that?" Tillman made smacking sounds as he drank, then squinted into the empty mug. Carter said he had no more money with him. It was a lie but Tillman accepted it with a sigh, then answered the question: "Gettin' even. He's just waiting for Ortega to show up. Oh, it's bad business-was Tillman shook his head and gave Carter a melancholy look. "It put the whole crew on shore, but what's worse, it's did something terrible to a good man. It broke more than Eben's bones. It broke his spirit. He's always been sound and healthy-but since they hurt him, he's acted queer. We asked him to stay on as the owner of the Anne, and let us do all the skippering, but he wouldn't hear of it. He just sits in his rocker in his little room, talking wild talk about getting even with that Portugee." Back in the kitchen, Phipps querulously called for more potatoes in the chowder. Carter heard a scurrying along the wall on the other side of the fireplace, but refused to look to see what kind of creature was at large. The fading daylight through the bottle glass window cast a deep yellow glow on sections of the tavern floor. Tillman roused again: "I think Eben would be mighty glad to see you, if you'd care to drop in. He doesn't get many visitors." "Sure, of course." Carter nodded with a quick, uneasy smile. "I'll try to get to his place first moment I can. But I'm in a tight spot, Tillman. I need money. I'm trying to find a job." "You take a job, you'll have to dance to somebody else's hornpipe," Tillman said. "That isn't your style, is it?" "I'll make it my style-was Carter quickly controlled the sarcasm, adding, "I'm certainly sorry to hear about Eben. At least he has that woman to care for him. She's beautiful, and she loves him-that counts for something." Tillman gave him another strange stare. "Not as much as you might think." "What do you mean?" "Nothing." Tillman heaved his huge body out of the chair and lumbered toward the door. Carter asked another question but the man wouldn't elaborate on his remark. The door opened. Tillman Jooked like a great black balloon against the brassy light of the sky. "Bear in mind what I told you," he called. "They do say Ortega isn't gone for good. And those who were around after the fracas that night said he spoke your name nigh as often as he spoke Eben's. Have a care where you walk." The door closed, leaving Carter in the amber-tinged shadows, the palms of his hands suddenly much too cold for the spring day. IV He was soon on his way back to Beacon Street. He glanced over his shoulder every block or so, and walked wide of the mouths of unfamiliar alleys enroute. Tomorrow was time enough to look into the job at the processing plant; tonight he was glad to be going home. He knew Gideon and Julia would be gone by six o'clock; some civic banquet or other. He spent his last few cents for a large tin pail of beer, entered the house by the rear entrance and took the back stairs up to Will's room. His relationskip with his stepbrother was the one bright spot left in his life. The younger boy continued to take Carter just as he was, faults and all. He never mentioned the recent troubles which were common knowledge even among the servants. "Greetings, little brother," Carter said as he entered Will's room. "Look what I brought." He displayed the compail. Grinning, Will jumped up from his desk. "Beer?" "Right you are. Lock the door. Some of the servants are too blasted nosey to suit me." Carter had given Will his first taste of beer only a couple of months earlier. The younger boy didn't care for the stuff, but he was anxious to make Carter think he was grown up and worldly. And he was more than happy to put his geometry text aside. He liked his courses at the Boston Lathi School about as much as he liked beer. Still, good marks were necessary for admission to Harvard. Carter continually encouraged him to go there, even after his own dismissal. So Will studied hard. Without being fully aware of it, he was already trying to disprove what the voice from the past said about him. He bolted the door. Carter propped a couple of cushions against the black haircloth sofa and sat down with his back against them. He swigged from the pail, then handed it to the younger boy. . "Where have you been all day?" Will asked. "Still hunting for a job?" Carter nodded. Then, sounding almost irritable, he said, "Go on. Drink up or let me have it back." Will frowned. He lifted the pail to his lips. Carter watched his stepbrother drink, wince, and stifle a cough. But he didn't laugh. He wouldn't have embarrassed Will for the world. "That's good," Will declared without conviction. Carter reclaimed the pail and gulped as the younger boy went on, "I'm sorry you're having a hard time finding work. I'm sorry you decided to quit the publishing house." "It was either that or be fired." He'd told Will that the decision had been his. Gideon had never said anything to the contrary in Will's presence. "I hate to say anything against your father, but he acts pretty high and mighty around that place. I got tired of him ordering me around." "Don't apologize. I'm starting to feel the same way myself." "Well, don't let me influence you." Carter took another long drink. Will observed the older boy's every move, admiration in his eyes. "Gideon and Mother still have confidence in you," Carter went on. "They've given up on me. Mother thinks I'm too much like my real father to amount to anything." Will looked shocked. "She doesn't say that, does she?" Carter's answer was a truthful one: "No, never in so many words." "They why do you feel it?" Carter's dark eyes seemed to search past the younger boy into some lost time or place. "I don't really know. But I'm positive she and Gideon believe I'm a good-for- nothing-exactly like the late Mr. Louis Kent." "Maybe you feel that way because too many people have told you how bad your father was." A shrug. "Like father, like son. There must be something to an old saying like that. Else why is it a saying in the first place?" He gulped from the pail again. Carter's dour mood upset the younger boy. Will sat down beside his stepbrother and changed the subject: "What are you going to do now that you don't have to go to Harvard?" "I hear there's a fish processing plant looking for men. I'm going to inquire there tomorrow. What a comedown for a member of the Kent family-smelling like hake or market cod twenty-four hours a day." "I didn't mean what are you going to do about working," Will said. "I mean what are you going to do for the rest of your life?" "It's easy to answer that." He smiled in a humorless way. "I'm damned if I know." Then he thought of Willie Hearst. The smile grew cynical. "I'll probably wind up a politician, or go to hell by some other, equally direct route. I've finally realized I'm stuck with talking my way through life because I don't know how to do anything else." He held out the pail. "Want any more?" Will shook his head, his expression unhappy. Carter noticed. Instantly, a smile spread over his swarthy face: "But don't fret about me, little brother. If I'm headed for hell, I promise you I'll have a fine time getting there." Will refused to smile. He continued to stare at his stepbrother for a long moment. Then he said very softly: "Well, you'd better not leave Boston." "What's that? Why not?" "Because-was Avoiding Carter's eyes, he forced out the