The Americans

It was the whip-end of an era-when innocence died and money lust was-'enthroned. The new generation of Kents was locked in a feverish race for wealth-even as Europe's millions poured stacr the seas, to change the face of our nation and reap its forgotten promise among the pushcarts of Mulberry Street, the c hardnosed docks of Boston, the steaming Barbary Coast. Gideon Kent, his health failing, fears for the future of his lost dynasty. His actress-daughter, Eleanor, learns what it is to love an alien in the land of the free. Con-man Carter drifts cross-country in search of a lazy fortune. It falls to young Will, broken by his mother's madness, to redeem Philip Kent's American dream. The Americans At the turn of the century, America waltzes in the grand ballrooms of the Vanderbilts, prints yellow journals that can steer a nation with lies, and opens its arms to the Old World's fugitive children. It is electrified by a young Dakota rancher named Teddy Roosevelt and believes that the giddy rush of champagne and power will never, never end . . . The Kents-Eleanor, Carter, Will-are heirs to this land they have never earned and a faith they are bound to keep. It is they who must face the challenge of immigrant America, of dark-eyed strangers who cry for justice in the slums, who claim the golden name of THE AMERICANS THE KENT FAMILY CHRONICLES, Volume VIII The Kent family Chronicles With all the color and sweep of American history itself, THE AMERICANS continues The Kent Family Chronicles-a mighty saga of heroism and dedication, patriotism and valor, shining spirit and abiding faith. Here is the story of our nation-and an amazing family living in the turbulent times that make up the American Experience. This magnificent series of novels is more than absorbing, entertaining reading-it is a resounding affirmation of the greatness of America. NOVELS IN THE SERIES THE BASTARD 1 THE REBELS 2 THE SEEKERS 3 THE FURIES 4 THE TITANS 5 THE WARRIORS 6 THE LAWLESS 7 THE AMERICANS 8 THE KENT FAMILY CHRONICLES VOLUME VIII JOHN JAKES A JOVEBOOK His Copyright [*copy] 1980 by John Jakes and Book Creations, Inc. Produced by Lyle Kenyon Engel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to: Permissions, Jove Publications, Inc., 200 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016 First Jove edition published February 1980 10 987654321 Printed in the United States of America Jove books are published by Jove Publications, Inc., 200 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016 For Nina Chapter VI Chapter VH Chapter VIII Chapter DC Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Contents Prologue LOST Book One THE CHAINS OF THE PAST AT THE RED COD 29 BRAWL36 CAUGHT44 HEARST51 AT HOME ON BEACON STREET60 MIDNIGHT VISITOR69 DEFIANCE77 EBEN'S FATE83 THE GREEK WOMAN91 CAMPAIGN YEAR99 THE SECRET DOOR112 A FATHER'S FEAR119 vii Chapter XIVA VIOLENT LESSON** be Chapter XVA DETECTIVE CALLS1 Chapter XVITHE NOTE were' Chapter XVHTHE PROMISE3 Chapter XVIHCARTER'S CHOICE1 Book Two THE JOURNEY OF WILL KEN- Chapter IUNHAPPY HOMECOMING 1 Chapter H ELEANOR AND LEO1 Chapter m WELCOME TO THE BAD LANDS2 Chapter IVA TILT WITH MR. MAUNDERS2 Chapter V8HASTEN FORWARD QUICKLY THEREFF"2 Chapter VI THE HORSE CORRAL2 Chapter VH AMBITION2 Chapter VIH NIGHT THUNDER2 Chapter K THE VICTIMBLEB Chapter X OLD DOC DEATH- 2 Chapter XI A PLAN FOR THE FUTURE2 Chapter XH MAUNDERS AG2

Chapter XIV A SUCCESSFUL MAN283 Chapter XV JOURNEY'S END292 Book Three THE UPWARD PATH Chapter IIN GALVESTON299 Chapter IIBEHIND BARS306 Chapter m JO310 Chapter IV THE STUDENTS318 Chapter VTROUBLE AT MADAM MELBA'S330 Chapter VI MARCUS- 336 Chapter VH THE PENNELS343 Chapter VIH THE LIONESS350 Chapter DC A DOCTOR'S DUTY359 Chapter XLAURA'S VICTORY366 Chapter XI CASTLE GARDEN greater-than 374 Chapter XH BIRTH383 Chapter XIH "THE WRETCHED REFUSE OF YOUR TEEMING SHORE"392 Chapter XIV THE ONLY HOPEBLEDJJ IX THE WATERS ROAR Chapter I THE TROUPERSBLEDAG Chapter H THE OTHER CHEEKBLEDBF Chapter I'll A DREAM IN THE RAINBLEDCA Chapter IV ATTACKBLEDDB Chapter V STRANDEDBLEDDI Chapter VI ADRIFT ,bledeg bar r Chapter VH DANGER ON A 1* DARK STREET460 Chapter VHI THE WEAPONBLEDFI Chapter DC THE BLIND BOSSBLEDGH Chapter X STEAM BEERBLEDHE Chapter XI PUNCHER MARTINBLEDID Chapter XH THE DELUGE504 Chapter XIH FLOOD TIDE510 Chapter XIV FIRE IN THE WATER516 Chapter XV CONFESSION525 Chapter XVI "NOT KNOWN TO BE FOUND'*536 THE MARBLE COTTAGE Chapter I SUMMER OF '89553 Chapter II QUARREL562 Chapter IH NEWPORT570 Chapter IV THE SHACKER577 Chapter V MAISON DU SOLEIL584 Chapter VI WHISPERS593 Chapter VH LOVE AND HONOR' 600 Chapter VIII ACCUSATION609 Chapter IX SUMMONS615 Chapter X PARTING621 Book Six THE EDUCATION OF WILL KENT Chapter ITHE BEND635 Chapter HUNEXPECTED HELP640 Chapter in "ONE NOTCH ABOVE HELL"648 Chapter IV WARNING654 Chapter VTHE POLICEMAN " 660 Chapter VI STALE BEER668 Chapter VII THE TENEMENT678 xi r Chapter VIII JO'S CONFESSION 685 Chapter IXTHE RAID690 Chapter XULTIMATUMBLEFII Chapter XIQUESTIONS707 Chapter XIIWHAT FENNEL SD8713 bar Chapter XfflCARNAGE720 Chapter XIVUNDER THE KNIFE, 731 Chapter XVLAURA'S CONFESSION740 Chapter XVIREUNION747 bar Chapter XVHSOMEONE WAITING752 v Chapter XVHI THE SECRET7592AR Chapter XIX THE BROKEN PROMISE 767 Epilogue . . . AND MAKE A MARK 783 XII "But as you already know your rights and privileges so well, I am going to ask you to excuse me if I say a few words to you about your duties. Much has been given to us ... and we must take heed to use aright the gifts entrusted to our care. It is not what we have that will make us a great nation; it is the way in which we use it. I do not undervalue for a moment our material prosperity; like all Americans, I like big things; big prairies, big forests and mountains, big wheat fields, railroads . . . big factories, steamboats, and everything else. But we must keep steadfastly in mind that no people were ever yet benefited by riches if their prosperity corrupted their virtue." July 4, 1886: Hon. Theodore Roosevelt, addressing the first Independence Day celebration in Dickinson, Dakota Territory. Lose Forty, Gideon Kent thought. Before the year's over, I'll be that old. The country - and the Kents - have survived a great many disasters in that time. So have I, for that matter. But what about the next forty years? Will I live that long? Of late he'd begun to wonder. He'd been experiencing some pains that alarmed him; pains about which he said nothing to anyone else. His father had died at a relatively young age. And he was already edging close to the limit of an average man's life expectancy-forty-seven years and a few months. The approach of his fortieth birthday merely emphasized that fact. still may have only a few years left to set things in order. And once I'm gone, who will bear the burden of leading this family? Above all other worries, that one beset him almost constantly. During the day it ruined his concentration, and during the night it ruined his sleep. Again this evening- the close of the first day of January, 1883-x made him uneasy and restless. A half hour after the evening meal was over, he looked in at the door of the sitting room belonging to his wife Julia. He told her he needed a bit of air. Her concerned expression and wordless nod said she understood some of the turmoil he was going through. Downstairs again, he flung a long muffler around his I neck and set an old top hat on his head. In recent years he'd taken to wearing a full beard. Along with the leather patch on his blind left eye and the gray streaks in his tawny hair, the beard lent him a piratical air. He looked as if he belonged in some deadfall near the docks rather than in the splendid, brick-fronted residence on Beacon Street from which he emerged into swirling fog. still i The night was damp but exceptionally warm for January. He turned eastward without a conscious thought. His solitary walks always took him to the same destination; a place which usually brought solace, and the answers to whatever questions had driven him to walk in the first place. Lately, there seemed to be no answers anywhere. He was upset about the country's drift toward materialism and sharp dealing. The worst excesses of the Grant years were growing pale by comparison. Only success mattered, not the means by which a man achieved it. Appearances counted for more than substance, which seemed not to count at all. Newspapers, including his, were guilty of paying more attention to the guest lists for opulent dinner parties than to the plight of the poor starving in urban slums. It seemed that in America, a man's highest ambition was no longer to live in liberty, at peace with his conscience, but rather to be accepted by, and live in the thrall of, a few elderly women who ruled what everyone called Society. Gideon realized he might be cynical about Society because he would never be admitted to it no matter how long he lived. It was human to dislike what was denied you. But even if Mrs. Astor had kissed his foot and begged him to attend one of her fancy balls, he still would have loathed Society and all it represented. He might have gone to the ball, though. Just to smoke a few cigars, sing a few old cavalry songs, and ruffle the hostess. But his most pressing concern these days was a caret rift he saw in the family. A drift that might well presage the decline of the Kents. He was far from young. The pains were a telling reminder of that. He was beginning to fear that when his mortality finally caught up with him, no one would be ready to take over the leadership of the family. And he feared no one had the desire. He strode up the sloping street toward Charles Bulfinch's magnificent State House. Its great dome dominated Beacon Hill and the city's skyline. The building was one of those which led people to call Boston the Athens of America. But tonight Gideon was oblivious to the attractions of the local architecture and all but unaware of the emptiness of the streets. Last night, they'd been thronged with noisy revelers welcoming the new year. As he approached a hack standing at the curb, he reached into his coat for a cigar. The hack driver sat motionless on the high seat, an indistinct figure in the fog. Gideon struck a match. By its light, the cabman recognized him: "Why, hello, Mr. Kent. Foul evening for a stroll." "Oh, it isn't too bad, Sandy. Looks like business is slow." The driver surveyed the empty sidewalk and chuckled. "You might say. But last night I did double my usual, so it all works out. Thank the Lord I didn't forget my best friend when I left home in Roxbury." From his lap robe he pulled a pottery bottle shaped like a coachman complete with whip, greatcoat, and top hat. When he tugged on the hat, it came away from the neck of the bottle with a pop. The cabman tilted the bottle and swigged. Then he held it out to Gideon: "Care for a tot, Mr. Kent? I short myself on a lot of things, but never on bourbon." "Don't mind if I do." He reached up for the bottle. The picture he must have presented-a Beacon Street Bostonian tippling on the curbstone-amused him. Such behavior was one reason the Kents would never be welcome in Society. One reason, but not the main reason, he thought as fragments of the McAllister Incident of two years ago flickered in his mind. The whiskey slid down smoothly, but was still powerful enough to make him blink and catch his breath. "Very fine stuff, Sandy." "It's Kentucky, Mr. Kent. The best." "Easy to tell that. Thanks for sharing it." "Don't mention it, sir. Just send me a fare if you come across one." Gideon waved and walked on. The bourbon made him feel a bit better, and a bit ashamed of his own pessimism. Why couldn't he be content? he wondered as he continued eastward. He had a wife he loved deeply, and who loved him. He had a thriving publishing house, a successful newspaper, a very large fortune which continued to increase thanks to rising profits and prudent investment. And he was lucky enough to live in what he considered to be one of the world's finest cities-the first American city his ancestor, Philip Kent, had seen when he stepped off the ship from Bristol. The Kents had been back in Boston since 1878. Gideon loved the place as much or more than he loved New York. From the Common and the adjacent Public Garden to the new neighborhoods of the expanding South End, it was a bustling blend of the traditional and the modern. The city had a healthy economy produced by foundries, rubber and shoe factories, and the commerce of a harbor always filled with ocean vessels, coastal packets, ferries, barges, and the new steam tugs. In such a prosperous setting, culture flourished. Boston was a fine book town, for example. One bit of evidence was just ahead, at the intersection of School and Washington Streets. William Ticknor's famous Old Corner Book Store. Gideon paused to look at several titles from Kent and Son displayed in a window. One of the volumes was an expensive fifteenth anniversary edition of Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, a favorite ever since its publication. Miss Alcott wrote fiction appropriate for the whole family under her own name, and more lurid material under pseudonyms. She was one of Gideon's neighbors on Beacon Hill. Others included elderly Mr. Whittier, the Quaker poet; Dr. Holmes, the physician and author of popular light verse; and Mr. HoweLls, the editor, critic, and novelist. Boston was a good theater town, too. Top touring companies regularly played the Tremont, where Dickens had lectured on his second American tour in "67, and the Boston, said to be New England's largest playhouse. There was vaudeville to be seen at the Howard Athenaeum, and fine music to be heard at the Music Hall opposite Park Street Church. Gideon loved music; all sorts of music, familiar or new. Just a little over a year ago he and Julia had been among those at the Music Hall when George Henschel conducted the Boston Symphony in a performance of the Symphony Number Two by Henschel's friend, Johannes Brahms. Gideon thought it a splendid, stirring work. Yet many people had walked out during and immediately after the allegro non troppo. The Kents had stayed through the remaining three movements, and later some of their friends had teased them about their taste for modern music; had jokingly called them "brahmins" because they'd liked the symphony. Gideon also shared the city's affinity for sports. He liked nothing better than to stroll along the shore of the Charles at twilight and watch the Harvard rowing team working out'in swift-moving sculls. He'd become a strong partisan of the college football team, especially in its intense rivalry with Yale. The first game between the schools had been played in '75, Harvard emerging the winner. Since then, Yale had won every game. But hope still drew Gideon to Holmes Field on Saturday afternoons in the autumn. Though he seldom brought up the subject with Julia, he enjoyed less respectable forms of athletics as well. Like most Bostonians, he'd become a bare-knuckle prize fight addict in the past year or so; the country's reigning champion, twenty-three-year-old John Lawrence Sullivan, had been born in nearby Roxbury, and had knocked out his first opponent on the stage of a Boston variety theater when he was nineteen. The preceding February, Gideon had ridden a succession of trains to reach Mississippi City, Mississippi, to see Sullivan take the crown from Paddy Ryan in nine rounds. Gideon didn't think much of Sullivan's often-stated contempt for foreign fighters. But there was no doubt that the handsome, hazel-eyed Irishman could indeed punch hard enough to fell a horse-even when he was half drunk or hung over, which was often. The Boston Strong Boy had a notorious passion for spiritous liquors and barroom brawling. At the intersection, Gideon crossed brick-paved Washington Street and walked north. At State he turned east again. He could smell the waterfront now, the salt of the sea penetrating the fog. How he'd miss Boston if he were ever forced to leave! He could hardly count all the things he'd long for. The great metal tea kettle, big enough to hold over two hundred gallons of water, that hung in front of the Oriental Tea Company on Court Street. The convivial meetings of his two literary clubs, the Saturday Club and St. Botolph's. The animated conversation of the members of the Ladies' Visiting Committee who frequently met at the Kent house; Julia was on the charitable society's board of managers. He'd miss the equestrian statue of Washington at the entrance to the Public Garden. The tower clock, and the noise of trains shuttling in and out of Providence Station. The sight of the glowing beacon atop the Custom House; the smells of the flower and vegetable shows at Horticul- tural Hall; the taste of the hot rolls at the Parker House hotel- Of course he'd have to give it all up one of these days. The months kept racing by. Much faster than they had when he was young, it seemed. There would come a moment comperh sooner than expected-when he would have no more time. And who would lead the family? Gideon Kent loved his daughter, his son, and his stepson. That didn't prevent him from recognizing the problems each one faced. Problems which might well prevent them from carrying on the family's tradition. Eleanor, for example, was preoccupied by the demands of her profession. She was an actress-which automatically barred her from full respectability for the rest of her life. greater-than -She was currently being courted by a member of her troupe, a young Jewish actor whom she'd known for some years. If she wanted to fall in love with a Jew, that was her business. But Gideon understood the temperament of a good number of Americans. Should Eleanor's liaison become a permanent one, it could lead to difficulties. Perhaps heartbreaking ones. There was something else about Eleanor that disturbed Gideon. A secret hurt he believed she'd suffered on the night in 1877 when his New York mansion had been invaded by a mob of roughnecks. His first wife, Margaret, had died that night. And something had happened to his daughter. Something about which she never spoke. But it kad scarred her, of that he was positive. Then there was his younger child, W. A vigorous boy, Will would be fourteen this year. He had an innate decency and a trusting
nature, but he thought poorly of himself. Gideon saw evidence of that almost every day. Will's lack of confidence left Gideon feeling inadequate as a father. Inadequate and guilty. The guilt was heightened every time he tried to bolster his son's faith in himself. He never succeeded. Gideon feared that, left uncorrected, Will's feeling of inferiority could blight his life. Will's relationship with Julia's son, Carter, bothered Gideon, too. Carter had been a companion for Will at a time when Will most needed one. But now the younger boy had become dependent on the older. And Carter wasn't exactly an ideal model for anyone's character. Oh, he had good qualities. He was intelligent, and certainly not without courage. But he tended to glibness, he was headstrong, and he had a calculating streak. His father, Louis Kent, had been a Civil War profiteer, an unashamed opportunist all his life. Gideon detected signs of a similar disposition in Louis's son. Furthermore, Carter's tendency to resist authority made his school career a disaster. Only repeated intervention on Gideon's part had prevented his dismissal from preparatory school, the exclusive Adams Academy out in Quincy. Now Carter was barely hanging on at Harvard. He hadn't survived the social winnowing which traditionally took place during the sophomore year; he hadn't been chosen for the first of the clubs by means of which a student made his way up the school's invisible social ladder. Of course the fault was in part Gideon's; all the prominent families that sent sons to Harvard knew of what Gideon mentally referred to as the McAllister Incident Academically, things were even worse for Carter. He was having particular trouble with a professor of German, a bad-tempered fellow whose dictatorial manner clashed with Carter's dislike of any and all rules. The professor was determined to see him dismissed from the college-or so Carter claimed. In his own way, Gideon loved Eleanor, and Will, and Carter. But that love hadn't prevented him from losing faith in the ability of the three young people to hold the family together in the years ahead. None of the three showed the slightest interest in the ideals by which several generations of Kents had tried to live. Eleanor was too busy. Carter was too reckless and irresponsible. And Will-the one among them who might offer the best hope of leadership-Will's character was being warped by his low self-esteem, and his worship of his stepbrother. How shameful of me to think so poorly of them. Yet Gideon was powerless to do anything else. And he couldn't explain away his loss of faith by reminding himself that as people grew older, they always developed a skepticism of the young, thus acting out one of the eternally recurring patterns of human life. With a start, he realized he'd reached the waterfront Down a dark lane, a concertina squeaked faintly. To his right, he heard petticoats rustling but couldn't see the whore because of the fog. Ahead, men bellowed a chantey behind sulphurous-looking windows of bottle glass. The singing came from a notorious dive called the Red Cod. Ever backslash week or so. someone got knifed or beaten there. He walked slowly out along a pier. There were at least two hundred such piers in Boston now. But many of the oldest ones were gone, including Griffin's Wharf where Phillip Kent had gathered the tea which was kept in the small green bottle that stood on a mantel at home. Griffin's had been buried by the landfill that had expanded the cit greater-than along the waterfront and the Back Bay. A steam tug chugged out on the water, its engines at dead slow and its bell ringing a constant warning. Its running lights were barelv visible in the heavy fog. Amid the reek of fish and cordage, Gideon stood shivering in the dank air. Europe, the family's homeland, lay out there somewhere But it was hidden. Just like the tug- Just like the future. his Fear surged through him. Fear that the family traditions would wither, the familv's dedication to principle evaporate in the climate of materialism settling over America- He shivered again. Despite the mildness of the evening, his hands and legs had grown cold and stiff. He rubbed his upper arms and stamped his feet. The pilings of the pier creaked. Could he somehow change things? He wasn't sure. He feared there were already forces at work too powerful for him to overcome. But he had to overcome them; struggle against them until he set each of the younger Kents on the right road- Tonight, it was hard for him to feel any confidence in his ability to do that. In this cold, forlorn place, his spirits had sunk to their lowest point in a long time. Suddenly a dart of pain pierced the center of his chest. Pierced and spread outward, toward the edges of his breastbone. The pain quickly became a tight constriction; a heavy weight pushing against him. He had trouble getting his breath. For the ten or fifteen seconds in which the pain persisted, he was terrified. When it passed, his cheeks were bathed with sweat. What was the cause of the pain? Was he going to be struck Sown by the same kind of heart seizure that had killed his father, Jephtha Kent, at a relatively young age? He couldn't permit that to happen. Not with the family in its present state of disarray. Upset and anxious, he gazed to the east. What would Philip have done? Old Philip, that self-assured, faintly truculent man who stared out from the ornate picture frame in Gideon's study. From the dark and the fog hiding the Atlantic, no answer came. God forgive him for having lost faith in the younger Kents and their ability to take command of the future, instead of letting it take command of them. The hopelessness was growing in him like a disease. He knew the real reason for it. The children weren't to blame; he was. He had lost faith in himself. He had lost faith in his own ability to stop or redirect forces already in motion- Sudden footsteps. He turned and saw an old seaman outlined against the light of a tavern door; the Red Cod again. The door had been opened so that two men could throw a third out into the fog. His chin struck the cobbles and Gideon heard the snap of a bone breaking. The men inside shut the door with a muffled bang. The darkness hid the man lying motionless, and the old seaman too. But Gideon heard the latter's drink-slurred voice address him: "Ye don't look like ye belong in this part of town, mate. Are ye lost?" Gideon chuckled; a hard, humorless sound. "Completely." "Can I help ye out?" "By God I wish you could. Thank you anyway." Gideon walked by the old man and headed back in the direction of the city. His words, spoken quietly but with the fervor of desperation, made the old seaman scratch his head and stare after him long after Gideon's form was lost in the fog. Book One The Chains Of The Past At the Red Cod OF ALL THE WATERFRONT dives in Boston, none looked meaner or dingier inside than the Red Cod-and none was more dangerous. The place catered to the rough men who worked the fishing boats, and to others who cleaned, cut up, and packed ice around the fish the boats brought back. There was also a smaller group of patrons even more reckless and amoral than the first two. These were the men and women who lived off the fishermen and the packing house workers. It was a female in this smaller group whom Carter Kent had decided to visit tonight. The visit was possible only because Carter had hoarded his allowance for several weeks. Like many parents of young men at Harvard, Gideon was generous with his stepson; perhaps overly generous. Carter often thought with great amusement that if his stepfather knew how the so-called pocket money was being spent, there would be no more of it. Unlike Gideon, Carter did not go to the docks for peace and contemplation, but for excitement and physical gratification. He liked the Red Cod because it was so distinctly different from his college surroundings. There was an air of casual disregard of the law, a refreshing contrast to the discipline under which he suffered as a student. He found the atmosphere of barely suppressed violence exciting, though he was well aware that it was risky for Harvard men to set foot in the tavern. Few did. Even his friend Willie Hearst, who also had a liking for excitement, didn't come down to this part of the city. Tonight-Washington's birthday, 1883-the Red Cod seemed unusually crowded. The stench of sweat, beer, gin, and fish hit Carter like a bludgeon as he stepped inside, feeling, as always, the quickening of his pulse that accompanied a visit here. The tavern was noisy and the constant calls for service almost uniformly profane. The landlord, a graying runt named Phipps, looked annoyed by the commotion. When he recognized Carter, his gaze grew even more sullen. Carter slid past a table of rowdies to an old deacon's bench that had just been vacated near the smoky fireplace. At a table behind the bench and close to a little-used side door sat Tillman, an obese fisherman who worked for Carter's sometime drinking companion, Captain Eben Royce. Tillman waved his battered pewter mug. Carter grinned and returned the greeting. Phipps, meantime, came out from behind his serving counter with three tankards in each hand. "One side, one side, you damned lazy louts." Carter spied the serving girl he hoped to engage for a few minutes later on to relieve the tension that had built up recently. Josie was illiterate, and rather stout, but still in her twenties, and good-natured. She had breasts of positively amazing dimensions. She was displaying them by leaning over while she served a table in back. Carter saw the redness of a nipple showing above the line of her none too clean blouse. She in turn saw Carter watching, and smiled. Phipps gave his girls time to make a quick dollar or two, and in return for his generosity he collected a portion of their earnings. A number of patrons gave Carter surly, even hostile looks. At twenty-one, he was a broad-shouldered, handsome young man with jet black hair and eyes. His skin had a swarthy cast-a heritage from his paternal grandfather, an officer in the Mexican army. His coloring might have induced some to take him for one of the Portugese fishermen who frequented the tavern, except that he didn't move or speak like a sailor; his upbringing in a wealthy household gave him a certain polish and grace he couldn't entirely disguise. And although he always wore old clothes to the Red Cod, they were cleaner and neater than those of the other patrons. He reached the high-backed bench and dragged it across t he dirty floor to a place immediately next to the fire. He was chilled. It had been a long walk down from Beacon Street, through streets wet with the melting of last night's heavy snow. Phipps, on his way back to the serving area, passed close to Carter.just as he moved the bench. The landlord reacted with a loud exclamation: "Leave the damn furniture where I put it, boy." Carter's face darkened. He knew Phipps wouldn't have picked on him if he were one of the regulars. Phipps despised Harvard students. Last fall, several of them had come in, ostensibly for ale, and had uncorked bottles of bugs especially collected for the occasion. Even the patrons of the Cod, who were familiar with vermin of all sorts, still talked of the prank. The bugs had numbered in the hundreds-the count depended on the source-and Phipps had been violently antagonistic toward the college crowd ever since. Still, Carter automatically resented the order. Then he remembered what sort of place he was in, and smiled the bright, charming smile that was one of his few assets: "Mr. Phipps, I'm damn near numb from the trip down here. Can't hurt to let me sit by your fire a min-was "Leave it where 1 put it!" Phipps shoved him aside and then pushed the bench back to its original position. Chairs scraped, heads turned, and men snickered at Carter's expense. Anger consumed him then. But instead of giving into it, as he wanted to do, he had the good sense to call on his only real talent, one he'd discovered years before. He had a certain quickness of mind and facility with words which made it easy for him to speak persuasively. And he had that charming smile, which somehow gave credibility to even his most outrageous statements. "What a thing to do to a frozen patron-especially in this city and on this day!" he said with a grin, quite aware of the splintered bung starter Phipps kept in his belt. The landlord was resting his hand on it, as if hoping to find an excuse to use it on his young customer. But Carter's remark confused him. "This day?" Phipps repeated, blinking. "The first president's birthday! Old George fought for freedom, and on his birthday, in the town that was the very cradle of liberty, I should think a man would be free to move a bench a few inches when he's frozen his ass to come here and give you his money. Seems to me you're not a very proper, liberty-loving American, Mr. Phipps." The glibness of the words caught the fancy of some of the previously hostile patrons, who laughed and applauded: "He's got you there, Phippsy!" "Let Harvard put his bench where he wants it." Phipps eyed the crowd, and Carter, with disgust. "Ah, do it, then." He pivoted away. Carter kept that glowing smile in place and executed a mock bow to the man: "President Washington thanks you, and so do I-was He was bent over at the bottom of the bow, and thus his face was hidden from the landlord as he added in a whisper, "You ignorant jackass" Suddenly he bunked. That was it. The solution he'd been seeking for weeks-ever since it had become clear that his nemesis, Eisler, would give him failing marks this year, too. In this distinctly unlikely setting, old Phipps had inadvertently triggered the answer to Carter's problem. Royce's fat cohort, Tillman, congratulated him on winning the battle of the bench. Carter grinned again, thanked him and sat down, barely able to contain a new kind of excitement. The scheme for revenge had jumped full-blown into his mind. His friend Willie, one year his junior but already a connoisseur of pranks, would love it. The only question was-did Carter have the money and the nerve to ,carry it off?