In The Face Of Death (42 page)
Read In The Face Of Death Online
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Captain Wolverton watched as the last of Madelaine’s crates were loaded aboard his
Prince of Malta,
saying as the crane swung toward the open hold, “Strange to see a lady traveling with so many books.”
Madelaine was used to such observations, and only shrugged. “I think of them as my friends, and I would miss them if I left them behind.”
“And books are quite an investment,” added the Captain. “I know; my brother is forever in want of funds for more books.”
“As are all serious scholars,” said Madelaine. The morning was turning warm, but there was a sharp wind off the ocean which kept the heat at bay; standing on the deck caused her minor discomfort, but her native earth in the soles of her shoes offered some respite from the enervating effect of the water.
Captain Wolverton chuckled. “And doubtless you are one.”
“Most certainly I am, and proud to be so,” said Madelaine, her manner cordial but her intent plain. “If your brother has read my work, you must be aware of that.”
Captain Wolverton colored to the roots of his brindled whiskers. “I meant nothing disrespectful, Ma’am,” he said. “But scholarly women are so often old maids, as the Americans say, crabbed and dried up. You’re not like that.”
“But I am,” she said. “I am certainly an old maid, as you put it. I have no husband nor father living; and I never had a brother.” She looked toward the end of the wharf where a number of men were gathering. There were shouts, and a few triumphant whoops. “What on earth—”
“You’d best stay here, Ma’am,” Captain Wolverton warned her, and drew his cap down over his brow as he started down the gangplank toward the excitement.
Madelaine watched him go, and noticed that the air of joyous chaos was spreading. More men came hurrying to learn what had so excited their fellows, and when they were told, more rejoicing occurred. What was the occasion for this eruption of festivities? No one had told her of any planned events. Had the last Confederate surrendered? she wondered. And would anyone here greet that intelligence with such unmixed delight? Whatever the news, it was making the men on the wharf deliriously happy. She could hear the excited hollers and shouts.
One of the sailors who had been polishing brightwork stopped to listen, watching Captain Wolverton approach the growing throng of celebrants. He cocked his head, all his attention on the rollicking, jostling crowd. “Someone’s been shot,” he said as much to himself as to Madelaine.
“Who? Who’s been shot? “ Madelaine demanded, dreading to hear that Tecumseh was hurt, though she knew through their bond he was not; she could not keep her apprehension for him at bay.
The sailor strained, cupping his ear with one hand. His eyes widened, and he shook his head. “It can’t . . . I don’t . . .”
“What is it?” she demanded urgently, her worry increasing.
The sailor looked stunned. “They say President Lincoln’s dead.” He did not move though he was no longer concentrating on listening. “Someone shot him.”
“Shot? President Lincoln? And he’s dead?” She heard her disbelief more than she felt it. For the moment she was so shocked that no feeling could make itself known. Then she looked at the sailor. “When? Do they say when?”
The sailor shook his head and moved away from her, unwilling to speak again.
The cacophony was tumultuous now, and single words were lost in the general wash of noise. The sailor tried to make something out, then pointed down to the crowd where Captain Wolverton had emerged, a newspaper clutched in his hands, his brow set into a forbidding scowl. As a dozen more men came rushing along the wharf the Captain stepped carefully aside so as not to impede their progress.
“It’s a bad business,” said Captain Wolverton as he stepped onto his own deck, opening the paper as he did. “The President was shot night before last and died yesterday morning.” He held out the paper to Madelaine. “You’ll want to read this for yourself, I’d think.”
Madelaine took the paper and opened it, seeing the black border around the headline: ASSASSINATION. She stared at the word as if she could not decypher its meaning, and then, slowly, she began to read the report beneath it, describing how Abraham Lincoln was shot in the back of the head while watching a play, and that the assassin, reported by some to be the actor John Wilkes Booth, had escaped with an injured ankle. The man was being hunted. There was a detailed account of the President’s last hours which Madelaine did not bother to read.
“There could be the devil to pay for this,” said Captain Wolverton. “It’s one thing to have Lee surrendered, but there are those who will use this as a rallying cry to fight on, I’ll warrant you.” He narrowed his eyes and looked away from the excitement, out toward the mouth of the harbor. “We’re leaving in good time.”
“It’s . . . very unfortunate, after so many terrible losses,” said Madelaine, wishing she knew where Tecumseh was so that she could send him some word of condolence that could perhaps keep him from lapsing into the black despair that she had seen him fight before. It was folly to try, she knew; Tecumseh was on campaign and she would not be able to locate him without causing questions to be asked that neither of them would want to answer. “But you’re right, Captain,” she said, handing the paper back to Wolverton. “It is more than time to leave.”
“And that we will. With the evening tide, Ma’am, unless Admiral Porter’s men tell us otherwise, which they may, and who should blame them? Just as well that we’re ready to stand out to sea—with this news, I’ll wager some ships will have to remain here for a time, and we’ve lost enough of that already. A pity we did not leave yesterday.” He shook his head slowly. “Why kill him now, when the war is ending? Why wait so long? It’s a bad business.”
“Yes, it is,” said Madelaine, and went to the hatch to watch her crates and trunks put in place for the long crossing ahead.
Savannah, Georgia, 18 April, 1865
The ship has been searched by Union navy men, and as no fugitives have been found tucked away with the cargo, we will be allowed to leave at tide’s turn. This delay was not unexpected, given the tragic news from Washington. The country is up in arms about the murder, and even those who are pleased that Lincoln is dead are outraged that it should have been done in so cowardly a way. . . . The most adamant Southerner does not approve of shooting a man in the back, or the back of the head while he is sitting being entertained. . . .
I have my journals with me in my cabin; I intend to try to make some sense of them during the crossing. . . . There is so much to assess and understand, if it is possible to do either. . . .
Now that I am leaving I find myself wishing that Tecumseh were here so that I could see him again, and ease some of the grief that I know he feels and is hard-pressed to admit. . . . I wish I could take leave of him more intimately than we were able to do when he left here. But that would mean he would have to have kept from his duty, and that would have been intolerable to him, so perhaps it is just as well that we have parted.
. . .
I know I shall be seasick.
. . .
EUROPE
Monbussy-sur-Marne, 25 March, 1867
To my astonishment, I have today received, forwarded by my publisher in Amsterdam, a letter from Tecumseh. He tells me he does not agree with my conclusions about Indians, but he cannot fault my observations. . . . How like him to write so formally, in case, no doubt, someone might happen to read the contents other than me. He does allow one concession, saying that he misses the stimulation of my company. . . .
What will he make of my account of the United States’ Civil War as I saw it, I wonder, when I finally finish it and deliver it for publication? Perhaps I should ask Saint-Germain to arrange for a copy to be sent to him for his comments. . . .
Garibaldi has continued his advance toward Rome, and the Risorgimento movement appears to be growing stronger. . . .
Monbussy-sur-Marne, 2 November, 1868
I have again been denied permission to go to Syria in spite of Professor del Carlos’ recommendations. . . . How vexing it is to be refused the opportunity to explore these unknown places for no reason other than I am female, for that is surely the reason I am denied. . . . It would be very useful for me to vanish while on such an expedition, so that in ten years or so, my niece or perhaps my cousin can take up where I left off. . . . It is much more difficult to vanish here in Europe, and it did not occur to me in America to take advantage of the opportunity. . . .
So America has bought Alaska from Russia. The purchase took place last year, or so I understand; I have just learned of it, Alaska seeming as remote as the moon to the people of Italy. . . . I wonder what role Baron deStoeckl had in that affair, if any? . . . The news from America is tardy here, but it is apparent that there are many changes coming in the wake of the War. . . . With the west opening to more settlers and more and more States joining the Union, it may be that Tecumseh will have his way at last and during his lifetime, with all of the United States Territories becoming States at last. . . .
I have been thinking it is time to travel; I may take the offer from Milano, after all, and lecture there on what I learned about the Indians in America. There is not much interest in the American Civil War in Milano, but Indians are enough of a novelty that a few of the academic masters are willing to learn first-hand about the differences and similarities of these peoples. . . . Saint-Germain has offered me the use of his villa near Lecco on Lake Como if ever I wanted it, and I may accept his kind invitation, although he will not be there. . . .
The last volume of my Indian monographs is finally published; I will receive copies of it in a matter of days, which pleases me profoundly, for with the railroad crossing the American continent, as it will within a year, the lives of the Indians will be altered forever. . . . If the work is as well-received as the previous volumes have been, I must hope that my reputation is at last secure, at least as long as I dare to be myself. . . . In time I must adopt another identity so as not to give rise to questions about my longevity. . . .
Regarding such matters, Saint-Germain has informed me that there have been none of his blood who have survived embalming and so there is one other way beyond destroying the nervous system through staking or burning or beheading, to keep us from rising after death. . . .
Rho, Lombardia, 11 July, 1869
This place is near enough to Milano to permit me to travel there easily, yet far enough away that I do not encourage visits from either students or other instructors, which suits my purposes very well. . . . I have examined the sanctuary here and found it of some interest, as much for the Roman ruins I suspect are under the Renaissance buildings as for the recognized treasure. . . .
My villa is not large, but is pleasantly situated at the back of a grove of cypress, with a splendid garden twice the size of the villa spread out on three sides. The long avenue approaching the villa is shaded and easily overlooked, which suits me very well. . . . I have five servants, two for the garden, one for the stable, and two for the house. . . . Angelo and his brother Teobaldo are both somewhat simple in mind, but they do their work well and the plants do not mind that they cannot discuss philosophy. . . . Marcantonio is a very capable man-of-all-work, and I may ask him to come with me to de Montalia and fix that crumbling north wing when I leave here; I understand he is a widower whose children are with his sister’s family in San Donato Milanese. . . . Susanna manages the household for me and sees to the meals of the staff. . . . She thinks me very eccentric for insisting on taking care of my own meals, but she dismisses it as a peculiarity of the French, which I encourage. . . . Quinto is a man of mature years and long experience with horses and coaches. . . .
I am having a number of cases of books shipped to me here, as well as a half dozen crates of good de Montalia earth, so I will be comfortable for some time to come. . . . I had not thought to leave France so soon after my return from America, but there were those in the village who were too curious about me, and I decided it was best to put distance between their speculations and myself. . . .
How distressing the news is from the rest of the world, with unrest everywhere. Prussia, Spain, and Serbia are all in upheavals of various sorts. . . . How strange to think of this part of chaotic Italy as an island of quiet in a turbulent sea. . . .
Rho, Lombardia, 23 December, 1868
So Tecumseh’s old friend Grant is about to be the new President in America. I wish now I had met the man, because I have been asked my opinion on him several times and could only repeat what I had been told, and from what source. . . . I wonder how this sits with Tecumseh, given his scorn of politics? His friendship with Grant has survived many difficulties; it should survive this as well. Yet if Grant has been pulled into the fray, how will Tecumseh avoid it? Given all he has done, it would be astonishing if the politicians did not seek to recruit him for office, hero that he is. . . . His father-in-law would doubtless be pleased if Tecumseh were a Senator or some other high official, which would dismay Tecumseh as mightily as it would gratify his wife, I suspect. . . . I should not dwell on him this way, as I should not long for Saint-Germain, as both are useless exercises. . . .
I visited Marcantonio in sleep again last night; he is a willing participant in his dreams, and there is satisfaction in this contact, but I doubt that he would welcome me awake, so I must forego the intimacy that lends savor and comfort to necessity. . . .
Rho, Lombardia, 15 May, 1869
I have been reading
The Moonstone
by Wilkie Collins, and have found it very evocative, though not so innovative as some think it to be. . . . I have been in contact with William Harris and Sons of Philadelphia, to arrange to purchase books from America, both new ones and those from my years in that country. . . . I left many wonderful volumes behind and now I would like to replace them. . . . There are a number of magazines as well as books that the bookseller carries which might provide me with information. . . . I am puzzled by the eagerness with which I am offered English titles, as if I could not easily procure the works of Dickens directly from London, not that I read Dickens now. . . .
They are once again trying a Parliamentary government in France. May they succeed. May something succeed at last. France has shown a capacity for turning reform to disaster before, however, and I am not as sanguine as many are about this development. At the same time I do not like the notion of the state depending on a single leader as they did for so long with that opportunist Napoleon. . . .
There is a reception next week for a party of visiting Americans in Milano and I have been asked to attend. . . . There is a small chance that Saint-Germain may come, and that delights me more than I can express. . . . He has been traveling in Poland and Hungary, and is looking to establish himself in the west again. . . . He has a schloss in Bavaria, but with matters as they are, he has indicated he would prefer Switzerland where he has a pleasant holding, or perhaps Belgium, although that is so near to Amsterdam it might prove difficult, for he has colleagues there who might recognize him and ask unwelcome questions. . . .
It will be pleasant to be among Americans again, I hope. . . . If only I do not miss Tecumseh too much. . . .
Rho, Lombardia, 29 September, 1869
If one more bewhiskered professor attempts advances to me, I shall be hard put not to break his neck. . . . Professor Ettore Zanetto has made an annoying pest of himself for more than a month, trying to find ways to be private with me, and then putting his hands all over me and claiming to be under my spell and unable to resist me, not that there is any evidence that he has made any effort to do so; before him it was Professor Bonifaccio Adama, who was truly odious until Saint-Germain had a word with him last June. . . . But Saint-Germain is in Stockholm for a brief stay, and I cannot be forever pestering him on this issue. . . . If either of those men were ones I would welcome as lovers, matters would be quite pleasant, but as it is, I refuse to permit any of these salacious old goats with doctoral degrees to take advantage of me, while threatening to revoke my position as lecturer if I am not willing to accept their fumbling self-congratulatory lust. . . .
Marcantonio is beginning to regard me with a degree of speculation that is not entirely disinterested. . . . I will probably have to cease visiting him in dreams, so that he will not come to suspect what transpires while he sleeps. . . . But I refuse to entertain one of those dreadful instructors as a substitute for Marcantonio; I would have to be truly desperate before I would want their blood mixed with mine. What an appalling thought. . . .
Rho, Lombardia, 19 February, 1870
The weather has been severe and the roads are all but impassable—there is nothing but freezing mud from here to Bologna, or so I have been told. . . . I have not left the villa for well over a week, and I am growing bored. . . . I look at the thousands of books on the shelves lining the walls and I cannot find anything I want to read. . . .
My own work holds few attractions for me when I am in so sour a state of mind . . . Try as I will, I am not able to achieve the degree of distance from my experiences that would permit me to evaluate all that I saw and learned while I was in the Confederacy . . . When I try to write of these times, it all comes back so vividly that I am left thinking of the wasted lives and ruined land and the clamor of battle . . . and Tecumseh. That is the one, over-riding memory which haunts me: my time with Tecumseh. . . .
I have asked Saint-Germain about this, hoping he could assure me that in time it will fade. He answered from Vienna, where he is remaining for the winter, reminding me that he has lost none of his bond with me, nor I with him, and that where blood is knowingly shared, there is no lessening of that bond. He was compassionate, as I knew he would be, recalling what he called the stubborn honor of some of the women he has loved who were determined to uphold their responsibilities against all odds and his own advice . . . His letter mentions one woman in Toledo, one in China, and one in Germany. . . . He also reminds me of the bond between us, which is at once his greatest joy and his greatest pain. . . . I cannot think of this without feeling the same in myself. . . . If only I could have the consolation of his love as I had it in life. . . .
Near Lecco, Lake Como, 22 August, 1870
It is very beautiful here, and with the mountains to shield us from the heat of the plains below us, the nights are not stifling as they have been in Rho. I should have accepted Saint-Germain’s offer of this place two years ago, but at least I have rectified my blindness now. . . .
I have brought with me the latest shipment from William Harris and Sons, with a letter from Charles Harris, who is now running the business for his father. He has informed me that he wants to continue to serve me and has included a list of recently available titles for my perusal. . . . I have spent three days lollygagging—that is a wonderful word, I think: lollygagging—about, reading Harte’s
The Outcasts of Poker Flat
and Twain’s
The Innocents Abroad,
and missing America, and Americans. . . .
There are many foreigners here, coming to enjoy the beauty of the place, and to escape the demands of summer, whether of nature or human origin. . . . Today I saw a group of Austrians sailing two boats in competition, yesterday three Spanish nobles arrived with their families and servants at the villa across this arm of the lake, and this evening I am asked to a reception with English and French guests at the home of a Russian aristocrat who has exiled himself to Europe, claiming he prefers European uncertainty to Russian. . . .
Paris looks to be in trouble again, with the Germans trying to force their will on the place. . . . I do not feel the affection to that city most French are supposed to, not after Saint Sebastien, the Terror and that dreadful incident with Fouche. . . . So many of my experiences there have been terrible that I look upon the place as a site of misfortunes, from the death of my father to the execution of my servants. . . . Though I did meet Saint-Germain there, and for that I cannot dismiss the place entirely, nor regard it as wholly without merit. . . .
Rho, Lombardia, 17 November, 1870
I have been reading
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
and having a delightful time of it. Though I do not know the professors in question, I certainly know their counterparts; Professor Dodgson has a very sharp eye and a sharper tongue. The book has made returning to lecture less of an ordeal than it would have been, for I am able to amuse myself in casting the various professors around me as various characters in the book: Professor Roselli is very definitely a Dormouse, and Professor Stagno is certainly a Mad Hatter. I have not yet decided if Professor Senape is a Flamingo or a Hedgehog but he is undoubtedly someone’s plaything. . . . And Professor Zanetto is clearly a March Hare. . . .