The Seekers (35 page)

After a caustic glance at Jared, she paced around the table, searching for a place to put the gleaming brass pot.

“Really, Gilbert, you’re occupying this room much too long,” she said. “The girls need to begin preparing the table.”

Gilbert sighed, removed his spectacles. “I’ll take my manuscript to the library.” He started to consolidate the two piles of paper.

“Why a respectable house must provide a place for men to spit their filthy tobacco is beyond me,” Harriet complained, finally putting the spittoon beside the wall near the head of the table.

“There are spittoons all over Washington, my dear,” Gilbert said. “The fad is spreading to some of the best homes in Boston.”

“Not to ours, I trust! I never fancied I’d be forced to entertain one of those barbarous Kentuckians—”

Jared’s hand went rigid, the fork halfway to his mouth. Hurriedly, he swallowed the bite, pretending not to see Gilbert frown slightly, and purse his lips. His glance at his wife, mild enough, still carried unmistakable warning.

Annoyed by the silent reproof, Harriet flounced out.

Jared’s mind was afire with curiosity. A
Kentuckian
coming to dinner? Who could it possibly be? He determined to find out.

All at once his eye darted to a corner of the dining room. There right in front of him was the way to learn the identity of his uncle’s guests—

“Finish quickly, Jared,” Gilbert said as he left. “The day is going to be difficult enough, so try not to supply extra inducements for your aunt to fly into a temper.”

He didn’t act angry, merely resigned. Jared listened to the slow shuffle of his uncle’s slippers as he proceeded to the library.

Gilbert did, however, shut the doors with a bang.

Gilbert Kent had always been a devoted student of the thinking and the habits of the former president, Mr. Jefferson. At considerable cost, he had copied one of the mechanical innovations the Virginian had installed at Monticello: a dumbwaiter.

Via a platform controlled by pulleys, the dumbwaiter lifted food from one floor to another. Carpenters had ripped out part of a dining room wall to install the shaft, which connected the downstairs with Gilbert’s bedroom directly above. Jared had realized that, by means of the shaft, he might be able to hear the dinner conversation. He was so excited at the prospect, he quite forgot to be nervous about the coming discussion of his future.

Around three o’clock, he found an opportunity to slip into the dining room unobserved. In the kitchen, Aunt Harriet was yelling at the servants again. The roasting capons hadn’t been properly stored in the ice delivered by Mr. Dawlish. One bird had spoiled—and she was going to take the cost out of the guilty party’s wages!

Jared barely heard, busy unfastening the brass latch on the door of the dumbwaiter. He only opened the door a couple of inches. To open it more would invite discovery. He prayed no one would shut the door accidentally.

One of the servants in the kitchen commented that a Kentuckian would probably think a gamy capon very flavorful. Other servants laughed—which only made Harriet Kent launch into another tirade.

With a smile on his face, Jared stole out of the room.

“Jared, what are you—?”

Angrily, he jerked his head around and put a finger to his lips.

Robed for bed, Amanda stood in the doorway. She blinked in dismay when Jared scowled. He sat on a chair pulled up to the opening of the dumbwaiter in Gilbert’s bedroom. The room was plain, its furnishings wholly masculine. For as long as Jared could remember, Gilbert and his wife had occupied separate quarters.

“You scared me half to death,” Jared whispered. “Why did you open that door?”

“Because it was closed.”

“Don’t you suppose doors are shut for a reason?”

“But Papa’s downstairs, Jared. He never closes this door unless he’s in here by himself, read—”

“Keep your voice down! Leave or come in, as you please. But whichever it is, do it quietly! They’ve served the fruit and wine. Aunt Harriet will be leaving in a minute, so the gentlemen can talk.”

The little girl darted a glance into the gloomy second floor hall. Then, curiosity mastering apprehension, she shut the door.

She padded across the carpet, her shadow long and distorted. Jared had turned down the single lamp always lit in the room after nightfall. Gilbert usually retired early, to work on copy for the newspaper or read one of the countless manuscripts submitted to the book department. With the bellpull at the side of his narrow bed, he summoned tea and cakes during the evening. The dumbwaiter brought them up—the same shaft that now carried hollow-sounding male voices to Jared’s ears.

“Sit down. Here.” He pointed to the floor near his knee. Amanda still looked a bit fearful. But she folded her legs beneath her, leaning her head against Jared’s leg, her dark eyes large. She smelled pleasantly of soap.

“It’s terrible to spy on grown-ups—” she began.

“You spy with your eyes, you ninny.”

“Then what’s the word for doing it with your ears?”

“Eavesdrop. Do be silent!”

“But who is down there? I saw Mr. Rothman’s carriage drive up—”

“Yes, he came in the front way. The other two guests arrived in a coach that pulled into the alley. They used the rear entrance. At last I understand why,” he added, with the smugness of one privy to a secret. “If your papa’s guests showed their faces in Boston, they’d be mobbed—or worse.”

“You still haven’t said who—”

“Politicians! All the way from Washington. Very important men—hush! I hear Aunt Harriet leaving.”

From below, a muddle of voices, one female, indicated the formal part of dinner was finished. Jared bent his head near the open door of the shaft, heard another door close distantly.

Glassware clinked—more wine being poured. Someone offered a compliment about the excellent capon. A loud spitting sound was followed by a
pling
as the jet hit the spittoon. Gradually, Jared began to sort out the voices.

He recognized Royal Rothman’s easily. The middle-aged Jewish banker was a frequent guest at the Kent table, because he was involved with Jared’s uncle in business ventures. His bank provided money whenever Kent’s needed to float a loan.

The voice of the spitter was rich and deep. His accent was definitely not that of the northeast.

The third guest spoke English with a foreign accent.

“—indeed generous of you to arrange this meeting, Mr. Kent,” boomed the Kentucky tobacco chewer. “The secretary and I felt the long journey and the inconvenience of traveling incognito were justified if we could sample the sentiment of New England firsthand.”

“I’m flattered you chose to do it at my table, Mr. Speaker,” Gilbert said.

“Mister who?” Amanda breathed.

“That’s not his name, it’s his title. Mr. Clay of Kentucky is a new member of the Congress. One of the Republicans called war hawks. He was just elected Speaker of the House. I don’t know anyone in Boston who doesn’t hate him.”

A moment later, the cousins heard the voice of Royal Rothman. Despite surface politeness, his hostility was evident.

“Shall we address the issue, gentlemen? Mr. Kent and I wish to know whether there will be a war—which I would personally consider a national disaster. Mr. Kent must speak for himself—”

“In due course,” Gilbert murmured.

Rothman went on, “You gentlemen in turn want to know New England’s position. I trust I made that clear during dinner. And I believe I express the attitude of the entire business community.”

“I’d be careful there,” Gilbert said.

“Sometimes, Gilbert, I have the impression you actually favor a war. God pity you if you’re that misguided! Your pardon, gentlemen. But I believe in being frank.”

The heavily accented voice drifted up the shaft. “Your candor is appreciated, Mr. Rothman. However, the Speaker and I are seeking somewhat more specific information.”

Jared bent, lips to Amanda’s ear. “That man’s name is Gallatin. He’s in charge of the government treasury. Money. He’s foreign-born, French, Swiss, something like that—”

“If we are forced into a second war for independence—” Henry Clay began.

“May we dispense with slogans, Mr. Clay?” Rothman asked curtly. “The issue is neither independence nor the one expressed in that other overworked phrase, free trade and sailors’ rights. We know perfectly well what the main issue is. You and your associates—Mr. Calhoun and Mr. Cheves and Mr. Grundy and all the rest—you want Upper Canada, don’t you?”

“That is the desire in the west, yes, sir,” Clay returned, a chill in his voice. “It’s a matter of—”

“Avarice,” Rothman cut in. “Your constituents are greedy for the land. For the furs—”

“We are not acting out of greed, sir! We are acting on one of mankind’s oldest principles—self-preservation! The lives of thousands of citizens of this country are being threatened. The British are inflaming the tribes of the entire Ohio valley!”

“The British foreign minister has repeatedly denied that charge.”

“And I say Castlereagh’s a damned liar, sir,” Clay shot back, punctuating the retort with another loud spit.

The man did have a marvelous, resonant voice, Jared thought. He was a trial lawyer and, according to popular gossip, he’d trained himself as an orator by reading heavily, then going alone to a cornfield in his native Kentucky and speaking aloud for hours, discoursing on what he’d read. Most Bostonians wished he had never left that cornfield.

Secretary of the Treasury Gallatin spoke more moderately. “We also have evidence that the Hudson’s Bay Company is pledged to a plan to monopolize the fur trade—and is arming the savages with fusees to that end. You know how the British have coddled and encouraged that devil Tecumseh and his fanatical brother—”

“All of which,” Gilbert said, “Castlereagh has denied.”

Furious, Clay burst out, “If you gentlemen refuse to be reasonable about a clear threat to—”

“We will be reasonable if you will be truthful,” Rothman said.

“Sir, are you calling me a liar?”

“I am saying every argument you put forward is spurious. Taken together, they resemble a rotten mackerel in the moonlight. It shines beautifully from afar. Up close, it stinks.”

Clay snapped, “ ‘So brilliant, yet so corrupt—’ Those were Congressman Randolph’s exact words, I believe.”

“I didn’t claim the simile was original,” Rothman said.

“But your choice of a source is regrettable. You’re quoting an effeminate fool!”

“John Randolph of Roanoke is—”

“Half a man! Can you take seriously
anything
said by a scarecrow whose proudest claim is his descent from Pocahontas? Who struts into Congress wearing silver spurs, armed with a riding whip, and trailed by a damned slavering hound? Why, Randolph can’t give a speech without stopping every ten minutes while the doorkeeper brings him a tumbler of malt liquor! Even that doesn’t make his voice manly. He squeaks and squeals like a goddamned eunuch!”

Gilbert said, “Nevertheless, Mr. Speaker, John Randolph of Roanoke argues his positions in a compelling way.”

“Not to Kentuckians he doesn’t!”

“Ah, but you must grant he has a wit,” Gallatin chuckled. “Adore him or despise him, you must admit that. I relish the time he was accused of lacking virility, and told his opponent, ‘Sir—you pride yourself upon an animal faculty, in respect to which the Negro is your equal and the jackass infinitely your superior.’ ”

No one but Gallatin laughed. “I doubt if any black man would find that witty,” Gilbert said. Gallatin harrumphed.

Rothman said, “We’ve strayed from the point. It’s public knowledge that your faction wants Upper Canada, Mr. Clay, so we’ll save time and eliminate distasteful acrimony—”

“It’s you. who were acrimonious, sir, not I! You brought up the mackerel by moonlight—
and
as much as called me a liar.”

“Will you accept my apology so we can proceed?”

Clay grumbled something inaudible.

“Proceed from the assumption that war is inevitable,” Gallatin suggested.

“Let’s hope to heaven it’s not!” Rothman cried.

“American liberty is again threatened on the land and on the sea,” Clay declared. “There’s just one way to teach Johnny Bull a lesson. At the point of a gun! From the mouth of a cannon!”

Once again Gilbert spoke, quietly but with authority. “Since you raise the subject of guns, Mr. Speaker, perhaps some simple mathematics are in order. My newspaper keeps track of the state of the army. We have, I believe, not quite twelve thousand men in uniform—most of those green recruits. Moreover, the forces are widely scattered. A few at Michilimackinac, a few at Fort Dearborn out on the Illinois prairie—”

“The navy is in somewhat better shape,” Gallatin said.

“You’re joking,” Rothman said. “Six frigates and scores of those worthless Jeffersonian gunboats—the whirligigs of the sage of Monticello? That’s nothing compared to six hundred British men-of-war, more than one hundred of which are ships of the line.”

Clay objected. “But Britain still has her hands full on the continent.”

“And that is where
our
attention should be focused. On the true enemy. Bonaparte!”

“I must raise another hard question,” Gilbert said. “I don’t mean to be rude. But have you gentlemen in Washington ever considered the danger to this country if Britain suddenly finds herself in a position to free large masses of men and great numbers of ships now committed to the struggle with Napoleon? We stand every chance of being crushed.”

Clay quickly overcame the argument. “War will be declared before that ever happens, Mr. Kent. We’ll overwhelm the British, not vice versa.”

“So you intend to have your way regardless of
any
consequences?” Rothman demanded.

There was a strained pause. Jared leaned his head against the wall, his blue eyes large, his expression awed at the thought of men discussing the fate of millions of human beings over wine and the
pling
of tobacco hitting a spittoon.

“Answer me, please, Mr. Clay.”

“We will press ahead,” Clay said.

“To disaster!” Rothman predicted.