A SEPARATE DREAM

Book One – A Fresh Beginning

by

Sharon Kay Bottoms

CHAPTER ONE

Starting Out

 

 

            With each turn of the yellow wheels, the people clustered in front of the stage office to see Adam Cartwright off on his great adventure shrank in size, but the young man continued to hang out the window, waving, until Carson City itself was only a cluster of tiny houses in the distance.  Then he drew back into the egg-shaped body of the coach and settled into the rear-facing seat with a sheepish grin at his fellow passengers.  The coach supposedly had room for nine inside, but since only four others rode with Adam today, no one had to use the jump seat in the middle.  Adam hoped it would stay that way, since, as the youngest, he’d probably be expected to take that uncomfortable place with nothing but a broad leather belt to brace his back and a strap dangling from the ceiling to hold onto for balance.  Logic said they’d probably pick up passengers along the way, at least in Salt Lake City, but maybe they’d drop some here and there, too, and keep the number to six or less.

“Going far, young man?” asked the plump woman in deep purple seated across from him.

            “Yes, ma’am.”  The dark-haired youth flashed a smile bright with the prospects before him.  “All the way to the east coast.”

            “Oh, my,” she said, short fingers flapping under her chin in a vain attempt to fan up a breeze, “and I thought I had a long trip ahead!”  She ran an appraising eye over his lean frame, well-muscled, but still obviously that of a boy, not a fully developed man.  “Kind of young to travel so far alone, aren’t you?” she inquired with a matronly air.  “Going to visit family back East?”

            The eighteen-year-old took a bit of umbrage at the reference to his youth, but since he had been taught to respect his elders, he merely ignored the first question and answered the second.  “No, ma’am; I’m hoping to attend college—at Yale.”  The woman looked impressed, but still concerned, so he added, “I am meeting family friends in St. Joseph and hope to continue my journey with one of them.”  He didn’t bother mentioning that the friend he’d be traveling with was a scant four months older than he.

            She smiled then, seeming pleased to learn that the young man would only be roving halfway across the continent alone.  “I’m bound for Denver with my nephew here,” she offered, aiming her double chin toward the man at her side, who appeared to be about thirty or so.  “He’s going to try his luck in the mines near there, and, of course, I couldn’t let him go alone.  Why, he’d likely starve to death without his Aunt Tildy’s cooking!”

            Trying to keep from laughing, Adam greeted the man politely.  Since he lived near the silver-mining community of Virginia City, he’d seen his fair share of miners, and this pencil-thin man with an equally thin mustache looked more like a traveling drummer to Adam.  The man wedged in between Adam and another, thankfully slim, fellow was a burly man who did look like a miner, one who hadn’t bothered to brush the dust from his last prospect hole off his britches.  Well, at least, sitting backward like this, the dust wasn’t likely to get much thicker, the way it might if he were sitting with Aunt Tildy and her would-be-miner nephew.  That pair had the most comfortable seats in the coach, but also the ones most exposed to wind and weather.

            After the brief exchange of personal information, the passengers all settled temporarily into their own thoughts.  For Adam, it was practically the first chance in days for quiet reflection.  Rush, rush, rush—that described his life ever since, in a fit of temper, he had blurted out his secret dream, a dream set aside with the death of his stepmother Marie.  Until that moment no one, least of all his grief-fogged father, had realized Adam’s ambition to attend Yale College this year.  Adam himself had tried not to think about it.  What was the point, when Marie’s death had stolen his right to that dream, saddling him with responsibilities that had to take precedence?  But the minute Pa heard, he’d insisted that Adam pick up that dream again, had even told him he was fired from all those responsibilities he’d thought were barriers.

            Adam smiled pensively at that memory, but if truth were told, he still felt uneasy, still felt the weight of responsibility.  No matter what Pa said, Adam knew that he was needed, maybe not as much as he’d prided himself, but needed nonetheless.  Pa did finally seem to be getting on with his life after the tragic loss of his third wife, but Adam, who had been through it all before, knew that dealing with grief took time.  And in the meantime there was the ranch to run and his two little brothers to care for.  Yes, despite what he’d said, Pa needed his help.  Pa had won the argument, though, so after a few frenzied days of arranging details, here Adam was, rolling east as fast as four wheels and six horses could carry him and trying to outrun the guilt of leaving.

            The guilt had surfaced afresh back in Carson City when he’d said his final farewells.  Adam had held himself together well until his baby brother, only four years old, had clung to him, sobbing as if his little heart were breaking.  Poor Little Joe.  Hoss would miss him, too, of course, as he would miss that chubby boy’s sunny smile.  And Pa—oh how he’d miss Pa!  But it was Little Joe’s open sorrow that tore at his heart.  Such a short time since the baby had lost his mother.  How could he bear to lose his brother, too?  No different for Hoss, Adam supposed, but at least he was old enough to understand . . . well, some, anyway.  How could a four-year-old, though, possibly feel anything but abandoned by the big brother who had tried to be everything—father, mother and brother—to him after that fatal accident?  His own heart torn by the baby’s tears, a poignant representation of the grief Adam himself felt that he could not afford to express, he had wanted to pull his bag right off the stage.  Again Pa had intervened, insisting that he get aboard.  “There’s a dream waiting out there,” Pa had said, “and high time you headed toward it.”  Maybe so.  Maybe it was time to look ahead, instead of behind, but it was hard, especially hard when he pictured that baby’s tears.

            One final farewell awaited Adam at Dayton, where the stagecoach stopped to pick up passengers, but it wasn’t destined to be a sad one.  As he was swallowing a dipperful of brackish water from the station’s well, Adam felt a tap on his shoulder and swung around to the sight of a grinning face beneath a dusty thatch of copper hair.

            “Fancy meeting you here,” chuckled the man dressed in the traditional red shirt and blue trousers of a Pony rider.

            Adam clapped his longtime friend on the shoulder.  “I was hoping I would, though I wasn’t sure where; I wanted a chance to say goodbye.”

            Billy Thomas threw a long arm around Adam.  “Pa sent word by one of the other Pony riders that you’d be comin’, so bein’s I had a couple days off, I figured to meet you and then head on home for some of Ma’s good cookin’.”  His characteristic grin faded.  “Sure was sorry to hear ‘bout you headin’ back East, Adam.  I thought once we got you back from that Sacramento academy, you’d stick in the territory, and I was sure hopin’ for some more good times together.”

            “Like that afternoon we trailed Sam Brown?” Adam tossed back with a wicked lift of one side of his mouth.  When Billy scowled at the reminder of that hare-brained escapade, Adam snaked his arm about his friend’s shoulders.  “I’ll miss you, too, buddy.  Look after the folks for me?”

            Billy laughed.  “Yours or mine?”

            “One and the same, ‘cousin,’” Adam snickered, using the family title in jest.  While he had called Billy’s parents aunt and uncle from his youth, Billy had always been simply his best friend and his oldest, except for Jamie Edwards.  He was going toward Jamie, though, and away from Billy, as well as from Ross Marquette, a newer friend, but one to whom he felt almost as close as the two he’d known for years.

            The boys had time for only a few more words.  All too soon the driver yelled for Adam to get aboard.  He did, promptly, for he could not afford to miss a single connection with the time constraints under which he was traveling.  As he leaned out the window for a final glimpse of his friend, however, he saw a pretty girl, barefoot and dressed in faded calico, come out of the station building to circle Billy’s waist.  Adam grinned at the typical image, a good one to keep in his head as he left his friend behind.  That Billy—if there was one pretty gal in a hundred miles, he could be trusted to find her!  Knowing the irrepressible redhead, he probably had one waiting in Carson City, too, like a sailor with a girl in every port.  That image made Adam think of his father, though Pa’s tales of life at sea had never included descriptions of any pretty girls he might have met while sailing around the world.

            Swallowing down the surge of homesickness, he gazed out the window until Reed’s Station came into view.  Everyone aboard felt frustrated when two soldiers from nearby Ft. Churchill met the stage and demanded that each person state his or her name and destination.  Most escaped the interview quickly and gratefully hurried inside the station for their meal, but the soldiers detained Adam for further questioning when he said that he was riding to the end of the line.

            “And from there?” one asked.

            Adam couldn’t for the life of him fathom the fellow’s interest, so he kept his answer as brief as possible.  After all, what business was it of the United States Army?  “Taking the ferry over to St. Joe,” he said.

            “St. Joseph, eh?” the soldier said, exchanging a significant look with his uniformed assistant.  “Got ties there?”

            “A friend,” Adam replied cautiously, adding with a shrug, “I used to live there.”

            The soldier’s gaze narrowed.  “Border state, Missouri.  A man might easily slip south from there.”

            Adam blinked.  “What?”  Then what the man was suggesting hit him.  “Oh, no.  Good gracious, no!  My final destination is New Haven, well north of the Mason-Dixon line.”

            “Got friends there, too?” sneered the second soldier in clear skepticism.

            “No,” Adam said tersely.  “I plan to enroll at Yale.”

            Looking Adam up and down, the man gave a snort of disbelief.  Whatever his idea of what a college-bound student looked like, Adam obviously didn’t fit the bill.  “Got any proof of that, sonny?”

            Adam’s mind raced.  Was there any way to prove his intent?  He’d told his fellow passengers, of course, but that wasn’t real proof.  He did have letters of recommendation in his luggage, though, and since one of them was from the well-known Bill Stewart, it might carry some weight.  No, maybe not.  Stewart had a southern wife and there was some talk in the territory that she might be unduly influencing him toward—

            “He’s all right, Cramer,” a voice called out.

            Adam looked up and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of a third man in blue uniform striding toward them.

            “You know this man?” Cramer asked.

            Mark Wentworth smiled.  “Yes, and you should, too.  He fought beside us at Pinnacle Mount, though I guess you couldn’t know every man who joined that expedition.  This is Adam Cartwright, and he’s as loyal as they come.”

            “Says he’s goin’ to college back East,” grunted the other soldier.

            “Then you can stake your life on it,” Mark said firmly.  “I knew about it; in fact, that’s why I’m here now, to bid farewell to a good friend.”

            “Well, if Private Wentworth vouches for you, that’s good enough for me,” Cramer said.  “Sorry to have kept you, son.”

            “Not a problem,” Adam assured him.  Nothing was a problem now that he’d been cleared to continue on to New Haven.  He felt Mark take his arm and let himself be led away from the others.  “What was that about?” he asked when they were out of earshot.  “I was afraid they weren’t going to let me go on if I couldn’t prove where I was bound.”

            “Orders,” Mark said crisply.  “We’re under orders to prevent anyone from heading south to join the Confederate Army.”

            Adam shook his head.  “Strange times.”

            “Dangerous times,” Mark agreed soberly.  “With the territory split nearly down the middle, a man’s loyalty is easily questioned.  Glad I was here to smooth your way.”

            “Me, too,” Adam said earnestly, “and I’m glad for the chance to see you one last time.  I wasn’t sure I’d have the pleasure.  In fact, I figured I wouldn’t, that you wouldn’t have any way of knowing about my sudden plans and that I wouldn’t have time to look you up.”

            Mark chuckled.  “Billy Thomas sent word by the soldier on duty when he came through.  I’m proud for you, Adam, and wish you the best success.  If anyone can do Nevada proud back East, it’s you.”

            Adam glowed under the heartfelt praise.  “Thank you, Mark.  A man can use all the encouragement he can get when he’s heading into a big challenge.”

            “Don’t I know it,” Mark murmured.  “May be heading into one of those myself soon.”  In response to the quizzical cock of Adam’s head, he explained, “We haven’t been called up yet, but word is we’ll be heading back East, too, once volunteers have been recruited to replace us here.”

            Adam gasped.  “Oh, Mark.  Get word to me when . . . if . . . it happens.  I’ll want to keep track of . . . of . . .”

            “The casualty lists?” Mark suggested with a grim smile.  “I don’t expect I’ll be fighting, Adam, since I’m working under the surgeon here, but battlefield surgery isn’t quite the type of medicine I’d hoped to practice.”

            “I guess it’s good experience,” Adam said weakly.

            Mark uttered a hoarse laugh.  “Yeah, I guess the average Nevada bullet wound won’t hold many terrors after a baptism of fire like that.”

            “Sorry.  I wasn’t makin’ light,” Adam said, “just tryin’ to—”

            “Be encouraging,” Mark supplied.  “I know, and I appreciate it.  Hey, looks like the stage is boarding again, so I’d better let you get back.”  He shook Adam’s hand.  “Again, best wishes.  I’d like to look forward to seeing you back East, but I’d rather you’d stayed away from battlefields.”

            “Don’t worry; I will!”  Adam ran back to the stage and clambered aboard as the driver gathered up the reins.  Within seconds the stagecoach was on its way again.  It couldn’t go fast enough for Adam.  He had a deadline to meet, with no time to spare.  He had to be in New Haven by September 10^th to sit for the entrance exam to Yale, and here it was already August 21^st in this year of 1861.  Less than three weeks to cross the entire continent!  Even with the speed of stagecoach travel, it was just barely possible.

            As the coach, now pulled by mules, rambled on, Adam took out the packages of sandwiches and cookies that had been piled on him back in Carson City and shared them around with his fellow passengers.  The taciturn miner grew almost sociable after that, but Adam didn’t really need company on this stretch of road, so packed with memories.  They crossed the Carson River, its sandy, cottonwood-lined banks glittering with black mica, and suddenly Adam could picture himself and Pa arriving here at Ragtown, now a swing station, where the stage line changed mules.  Here they had rested after a grisly night crossing of the desert, and here Pa seemed, finally, to rise from his deep grief over the death of his second wife and fix his sights once more on the dream ahead of them.

            Odd how history repeats itself, Adam thought.  Three wives . . . three sons . . . three deaths . . . and after each that terrible fog.  The first, the one after the death of Adam’s own mother, had probably lasted the longest, for he could remember times as a little boy when Pa’s mind just seemed to drift off to some sad place known only to him.  It had been the same after that Indian arrow took Inger’s life, Pa just stumbling along beside the wagon, putting one foot in front of the other because it was either that or die.  And most recently, with Marie’s fatal fall from her horse, the fog had once again descended, seeming deeper this time, maybe because there was nothing Pa absolutely had to do to keep himself and his sons alive.  It seemed to have lifted again, just as it had here on the banks of the Carson eleven years earlier, but Adam couldn’t help wondering how much was a mere show of strength, how much a sign of heart-deep healing.   Once again the questions surfaced.  Was Pa really through the darkest days?  What if the grief-fog descended again?  Would Hoss and Joe be all right?  Should he have stayed to make sure?

            Silencing the tormenting questions, he poked his head out the window and forced himself to look ahead.  He was heading the opposite direction from the one he and his father had aimed the first time they saw this river, heading toward a different dream, one that would separate him from the one he had shared with his father and from those dear little brothers for four years.  But he’d come back better for the separation, he promised himself, and he’d make life better for all of them with what he learned.  Anything less would make the leaving pointless.

            The river kept dwindling down until it spread into a shallow sheet of water, one hundred miles around.  The stage skirted the south side of Carson Sink and headed into desert country, the roadside littered with the bleached bones of oxen, mules and horses, cracked axles and splintered wagon wheels—the rotting wrecks of other people’s dreams.  Adam’s memories of this stretch of road didn’t invite contemplation, so he decided to make better use of the time by preparing for Yale’s entrance exam.  He found it hard to concentrate on the Latin text, though, when the stagecoach bounced him this way and then that, his right shoulder striking the side of the coach, his left almost as frequently bumping the miner beside him.

            “You’ll strain your eyes, young man,” the woman he knew only as Aunt Tildy warned.

            “Yes, ma’am,” Adam agreed politely, but he continued to read.  Latin was, without doubt, his weakest subject, and he was particularly nervous about that part of the exam.  Well, if truth be told, the only part he wasn’t nervous about was the mathematics section.  His teachers at the academy had told him that he had an aptitude for mathematics, and he’d easily understood its principles.  Latin and Greek had always required more effort, but being a diligent student, he’d received high marks, even in those.  Sometimes he wondered, though, how the standards of a frontier academy compared with the preparatory schools most boys back East attended before seeking admission to college.  Was it even possible for a fellow from a place as backward and isolated as Nevada Territory to qualify for a prestigious institution of learning like Yale?  Was his dream, too, destined to become a rotting hulk by the roadside?  No!  Pa had pressed on, past wrecks like these, to make his dream a reality, and his son would do no less.

            Though reading in a moving coach was hard, at least it staved off the boredom of just jostling back and forth with a load full of people who really had little to say to each other.  A broad-shouldered and full-bearded man got on at Mountain Well, and Adam’s self-designated mother-in-transit snared his elbow just before reboarding the stage.  “You move over with Mortimer and me, boy.  Let those miners sit together.”

            Adam doubted that the new passenger was a miner, and he certainly didn’t figure the other passenger for one, judging by his dapper, though now dusty, apparel; however, he was only too happy to comply with the lady’s request.  The fact that she was a lady was reason enough.  A lady had a right to choose which man shared a seat with her, and considering this particular lady’s size, only Adam or the stick-thin dapper dresser would have been an appropriate choice.  Certainly not the new passenger, who took up more space than the two men sharing his seat, put together.

            “Now, put that away,” the lady scolded when Adam again opened his Latin text.  “The light’s fading, and you really will strain your eyes if you insist on reading in the dark!”

            Adam smiled weakly.  “I suppose you’re right,” he conceded, adding in a rare moment of self-revelation, “I’m just concerned about the entrance exam.  Don’t want to go all this way, only to turn around and come straight back.”  Later, Adam wondered why he had unburdened himself to a virtual stranger, but decided her being a stranger was probably the reason.  A stranger wasn’t likely to send tales home.

            Aunt Tildy patted his knee.  “There now, my boy; I’m sure you’ll do fine, but no more reading tonight.  Tell me what you’re planning to study.”

            Mindful of the bored stares from across the coach, Adam didn’t expand on that topic as he might otherwise have, but while dusk began to deepen, he described, to the best of his understanding, the course of study he would follow at Yale.

Night cloaked the moving stagecoach, and one by one the passengers shut their eyes and sought the solitude of their dreams.  Tired as he was, though, Adam found it hard to drift off.  Despite having the better choice of seatmates, they were packed pretty tight, and each time the coach lurched his direction, Adam was crushed up against the side wall.  Still, he figured he was better off here than beside that new passenger.  Even from across the carriage the smell of that man’s greasy buckskin was pungent with the odor of past campfires.  Adam had no desire to get closer.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam had never felt happier to light down from a stagecoach than he did when it arrived at Cold Springs, also known as East Gate, the next morning.  The last few miles had been even rougher than crossing the alkali plain that preceded it and had jostled him awake from the poorest night’s sleep he could ever remember.  He was glad of the chance to work out a few of the kinks in his back and glad that he’d have a bit longer stop here than usual, this being a home station.  Eating took longer than just changing mules, but even so, Adam knew he’d have to climb right back into that jouncing egg crate far sooner than he liked.  And all he had to look forward to for the next couple of weeks was more of the same.

            While he was stretching, he took a look at the station.  About all that could be said for it was that it was an improvement over the smoky hovel of their last stop at Middlegate.  It was a large building, at least, and those three-foot thick walls of native stone and adobe should be both cool in summer and warm in winter.  Right now, however, he was more concerned about getting a meal.  He didn’t have much hope that it would be a good one, and thanks to his generosity the day before, his food from home had dwindled down to a few cookies.

As suspected, breakfast wasn’t anything to brag about, and Adam wondered wryly if he wouldn’t miss Hop Sing most of all his family.  He had to eat standing up, as there weren’t enough chairs for everyone, but that was no inconvenience to a young man.  He’d been sitting enough to last him a month and figured his feet were about the best-rested part of his entire aching body.  The steak was not as good as Ponderosa beef, but tolerable, especially when hunger added spice to the meal.

            Adam finished quickly and took advantage of the extra time to trot over to the cold stream from which the station took its name and dash the dust from his face.  He spent the remaining few minutes stretching his legs, dreading the moment he’d have to mount that step into the coach again.  He shook his head in dismay.  If he was this stiff after one day’s travel, one night’s poor sleep, how would he feel by the time he reached St. Joseph?  Like an old man, most likely, much too old to enroll with a bunch of college-bound whippersnappers.

The picture of himself tottering to class with a cane made Adam grin, though somewhat ruefully.  He had trusted in his invulnerable youth, but now he was starting to question his sanity.  He’d already been worried about passing that entrance exam, and now he realized he’d be taking it completely exhausted.  What chance did he have?  None at all if he didn’t get there, so he had no choice but to travel night and day and then pray he could still keep his eyes open when the testing time came.  No, he could do more than pray; he could study.  No matter what Aunt Tildy or anyone else said, Adam was determined to focus on his Latin text.  If he pounded in facts thickly enough, surely they would come seeping out on their own, even if he were too tired to direct them clearly.

            When he saw the driver exit the station, Adam hustled toward the coach and quickly climbed aboard, settling in next to Aunt Tildy again.  He defiantly pulled out his textbook, determined to concentrate no matter how much the print bounced before his eyes.  It was rough, though, as the stage ascended one rugged canyon, topped the summit and began winding down another.

At least, study should come easier after he reached St. Joseph and switched to a smoother conveyance.  Jamie had written with excitement about the completion of the Hannibal and St. Joseph Railroad, which would take them across the state in twelve hours.  Better than two hundred miles in half a day!  That was a thrill to anticipate, since Adam’s train travel to this point in his life had been restricted to the twenty-two-mile jaunt from Folsom to Sacramento a couple of times a year.  And the train wouldn’t jar him like this increasingly unattractive stagecoach.  He could read; he would be ready.  Maybe he and Jamie could even quiz each other as added preparation.

            By determined effort Adam focused on his Latin lessons throughout the morning, stopping only to get down and stretch his legs every time the mules were changed at a swing station.  “You’re being very foolish, boy,” Aunt Tildy insisted each time he again opened the book.  Adam agreed graciously and kept on reading.

            Noon brought them to Smith’s Creek, a pleasing change from the grubby way stations preceding it.  Nestled in a deep valley, the house was not only clean, but offered a decent meal, both to the hungry travelers and to a couple of lean-ribbed Paiutes who wandered by to trade pine nuts for white man’s grub.  Adam could have cheerfully lingered over this well-set table, but as before, no one sat down before the driver and when he rose to leave, so did they, whether they’d had enough to eat or not.  Fearing he wouldn’t find such fluffy ones again, Adam snared an extra biscuit to nibble on the road.

            His fears were unjustified this time, for both excellent light bread and cornbread shortened with butter were on the table at Simpson’s Park, along with the ever-present salt sowbelly and eggs.  Coyotes howled nearby, but that didn’t deter most of the passengers from laying over for the night.  Adam lost the companionship of everyone except, unfortunately, the man in greasy and odoriferous buckskin.  Since there were only two of them now, each took a bench to himself, and Adam followed the other man’s example by stretching out full length.  He’d put in enough study time that day to merit the rest, he assured himself, and the light was growing dim.  Darkness fell as they forded the river, and again it was time to sleep—or try to.

 

* * * * *

 

            Friday morning Adam awoke to a bleak landscape, where even the sagebrush seemed stunted for lack of water.  As the stage pulled into the home station at Robert’s Creek for breakfast, he noticed a few Indians hanging about the door and assumed they were there for a handout.  The bronze men wore cast-off white man’s clothing, covered with a blanket of rabbit fur, and that might have led him to believe they were Paiute, but for their frontal pigtail of black hair and faces streaked with red paint.

            As Adam edged warily past them into the station, the stationmaster met him with a hearty laugh.  “They ain’t warlike, boy,” he offered in assurance, as he no doubt had frequent occasion to do with other travelers.  “They’s White Knife Shoshone, and they ain’t never stained them knives with the blood of white men.”

            Adam grinned his relief and, as soon as the driver sat down, took his seat in hopes of a filling meal.  His traveling companion in buckskin spat on the dirt floor.  “Oughtn’t to let trash like that hang about the place.”

            The stationmaster set platters of biscuits and bacon on the table with a clunk.  “They ain’t hangin’ about,” he grunted.  “They drift by now and again, hopin’ to trade a mite of chorin’ for a bite of food.  I don’t cotton to beggars, but them what’s willin’ to work for a meal can find one here, be they white, black, red or polka-dotted.”

            Adam liked the man’s attitude, but if pressed, he would have been forced to confess that the food wasn’t worth working for, and it sure wasn’t worth the four bits he’d laid out for the meal.  The White Knife tribe must be mighty hungry, in Adam’s opinion, to drift by here in hopes of filling their bellies.

            Shortly after leaving, Adam noticed the last telegraph pole.  This was as far as the telegraph had come, then—going east, that is.  The line was being built from the opposite direction, too, and when it met, his friend Billy Thomas would be out of a job.  Billy and the Pony Express had been an ideal match, and Adam wasn’t sure what else would suit his footloose friend as well.  Knowing Billy, though, he’d land on his feet.  He was that kind of man.

            Adam studied throughout the morning and into the afternoon, for the scenery was too monotonous to provide much distraction.  He found it easier on his eyes to read a short passage, then close his eyes and think about the material, and in spite of the dry and dreary landscape, it also helped to take a peek out the window every now and then.  The scenery perked up as the coach rolled across a long ridge dappled with the contrasting colors of light mountain mahogany and black cedar.

            A lake with water fowl fluttering above it came into view, and Adam’s stomach rumbled in welcome.  Dinner was late in coming today, but home stations occurred at the convenience of the stage line, not the need of its passengers.  The previous station at Diamond Springs had been only a swing stop for change of mules, and seeing his young passenger’s disappointment, the driver had told him not to look so down in the mouth.  “You’ll be glad we waited,” he promised.  “Keep your eyes out for a little lake, boy, and then it’s only two miles to a better meal than you’d’ve had here, I can tell you for sure.  Best you’ve had yet, in fact.”  Adam hoped that promise would prove true, for a lot of hours had passed since he’d choked down what he could of that sorry breakfast.

            Adam jumped down from the stage as soon as it came to a halt at Ruby Valley and stepped briskly toward the stone hut.  A man with a genial smile met him and the other passenger at the door.  After greeting the driver by name, the stationmaster urged, “Come on in, gents.  Dinner’s on the table, and I’m guessin’ you’re ready for it.”

            “More than ready,” the other passenger growled.

            Adam could feel saliva saturating his mouth as he gazed at the table spread with more food than he’d seen at any station so far.  The roast duck obviously came from the lake nearby, and it was complemented by the produce the man, who introduced himself as Uncle Billy Rogers, grew.  Adam loaded his plate with boiled potatoes, well-seasoned green beans and pickled beets, and he hoped the driver would take his time at this stop, so he had a chance to delve into the dried apple pie, too.

            “Uncle Billy, huh?”  The buckskin-clad passenger ran his tongue over his front teeth to dislodge a chunk of potato.  “You the one the injuns call Big-hearted Father?”

            Rogers smiled and nodded.  “Some do.  Do my best by them.”  He turned toward Adam.  “I’m assistant Indian agent and run a model farm for the government, tryin’ to teach our red brothers how to make a better livin’ for themselves.  Those vegetables you’re eatin’ show how they’re doin’.”

            The other man aimed tobacco spittle at an unoccupied corner.  “Be better if you’d make good injuns out of ‘em.”

            Adam hadn’t much liked this passenger when he first got on the stage, and this reference to the adage that “the only good Indian is a dead Indian” only heightened his distaste for the man’s company.

            Uncle Billy let the remark slide by without comment and, most likely to change the subject, asked, “How far you bound, gents?”

            Buckskin forked up a pickled beet.  “Salt Lake, another nest of injun lovers,” he muttered just before poking the beet into his mouth.

            Rogers refused to be baited.  “Only about three hundred miles to go, then, this bein’ the halfway house ‘tween there and Carson Valley.  And you, son?”

            Adam swallowed and replied, “All the way to St. Joe, sir, and then on to Connecticut.”

            Uncle Billy whistled.  “You don’t say!  A youngun like you, travelin’ that far alone.  Got kin there, boy?”

            Adam shook his head at what seemed to be a common misconception and again explained his educational ambitions and even amplified enough to admit that he had to travel straight through in order to reach New Haven in time for the entrance exam.  The stationmaster seemed impressed, but Buckskin clearly didn’t share the opinion.  “Keeps his nose buried in a book, ‘cept when he’s moonin’ out the winder.  Ain’t a lick sociable,” he grumbled, giving Adam a hard look.

            Though he felt like asking who would want to be sociable with such a man, Adam kept his mouth shut.  Pa would expect him to be respectful of his elders, no matter how little they seemed to merit his respect.  As he served himself a slice of pie, he caught Uncle Billy winking at him and grinned back.  Not a bit hard to be sociable with someone who invites sociability, he thought.

            The driver took his time, evidently wanting to savor the meal as much as his passengers did, so Adam even had time for a second piece of apple pie.  Just as he was boarding the stage again, however, Uncle Billy came hustling out with a wooly bundle in his arms.  “Here, take this, boy,” he urged.  “If you’re travelin’ by night, like you said, you can use this buffalo robe.  Nights get cold in the mountains.”

            Adam accepted the offer gladly.  “I can see why they call you Big-hearted Father,” he said.  “Thanks!”

            “Pshaw, ain’t nothin’,” Rogers insisted.  “Just leave it with the stage when you’re done with it; it’ll make its way back to me.  And if it don’t, that don’t matter, neither.”

            “I will,” Adam promised, “but I still owe you my thanks, Uncle Billy.  I’ll sleep warm tonight!”

            “Good luck on them tests,” the stationmaster called as the stage pulled out.

            Frankly, Adam was tired of studying and but for the remarks of the buckskin boor, he would probably have left his Latin book unopened that afternoon.  Still disgruntled by being called unsociable, he did just as he’d been accused, buried his nose in the book until late that afternoon, when Buckskin finally deigned to favor him with a word.  “Better put it away, boy.  Home station comin’ up,” he said curtly, “or maybe you’d rather read than eat.”

            “No, supper sounds good,” Adam replied, closing the book.  He looked out the window and saw nothing but a steep, rocky canyon, not a likely place for a station.  Feeling tricked, he cast a hard glance at his companion.

            “Nipcut Canyon,” Buckskin said.  “You won’t see the station ‘til you’re right up on it, boy.  Just beyond that knoll up ahead.”

            Adam looked out again, scanning the area around the hundred-foot-high knoll, but still saw nothing until the stage turned right, just past that landmark, and there it was, two hundred yards to the south.  The station was nestled in a pretty little valley about a half-mile across.  The supper table wasn’t nearly as pretty a sight as the valley, but Adam didn’t mind much, since he still felt full from the good dinner at Uncle Billy’s place.

            Buckskin decided to lay over for the night, and though he still considered Adam an unsociable sort, he offered a word of advice as the young man again mounted the stage.  “Keep your gun close to hand through this next section, boy.  Partial as you seem to be toward injuns, I reckon you’re a mite more partial to your hair.”

            “Don’t go scarin’ the boy,” the driver warned, climbing up to his high seat.

            “There’s need,” Buckskin insisted.  “Them Goshutes has been stirred up lately, I heard.”

            “You heard right,” the stationmaster agreed.  “Keep a sharp eye out, boys, and your guns handy.”

            “Always do,” the driver snorted and took off at a run.

            Adam pulled his gun from his holster and checked his ammunition, just in case, but he saw no Indians before twilight faded to deeper dusk.  He managed to stay awake until the stage reached the swing station at Mountain Springs.  The clear water there was refreshing, but the wind off the mountains cold enough to make Adam grateful for the loan of the buffalo robe.  He huddled up inside it as soon as he reentered the coach.

A few miles to the east he spotted the City of Rocks, dim in the moonlight, and smiled as he recalled how Pa had taken him and Billy, with a few others in tow, over to frolic among the rocks.  His smile widened at the memory of Billy shutting him up in the “jail” for the crime of reading too much.  Good thing Buckskin isn’t still around or he’d likely be tempted to do the same, Adam thought with a chuckle.

            Back-trailing along with the stagecoach, he’d reached the part of his original journey west where the memories were all good ones.  They’d all still been together here at City of Rocks, with no thought except being together always, and as a gray eagle swooped over the “city,” Adam felt warm with the memory of those happy-hearted days.  With the warmth of memory, though, came a dreaminess that lulled the exhausted boy to sleep, oblivious to the cries of coyotes in the distance or the possible threat of Indian attack.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam was awakened by the sudden stop of the stagecoach.  Rubbing his eyes, he stepped down to see the surrounding hills barely splashed with the first light of dawn.  “Where we at?” he asked the driver.

            “Eight-Mile Creek, last stop in Nevada,” the driver replied, adding with a grin, “and just that far to breakfast, son.”

            Adam yawned as he stretched his arms wide.  “Any chance it’ll be a good one?”

            The driver chuckled.  “Fair to middlin’.  Mormon folks that run Deep Creek grow some decent potatoes.”

            “Sounds good,” Adam said.  How good, he observed inwardly, depended on the skill of the cook.  He was reminded of the time his new stepmother Marie had tried to fry potatoes.  She hadn’t been used to cooking over an open fire and had made one sorry mess of her first meal.  The memory brought a pang of regret, for Adam had been less, far less, than generous that night toward the woman he later came to consider a friend and, belatedly, as much his mother as Inger and the woman who had given him birth.

            The change of mules was swiftly made at the swing station and the coach soon crossed a valley and entered a rugged ravine of serrated rocks.  Despite rumors of Indian unrest, Adam felt no concern here, for the canyon was only five hundred yards long, scarcely large enough to hide many hostiles.  On this morning there were none as the stage burst through a portal of tall rock into the dry valley beyond.

            Two miles past that portal the home station came into view, and at first glance Adam was impressed.  Surrounded by fenced fields stood a large building of adobe, with more adobe stacked nearby to suggest that expansion was being planned.  One step inside destroyed that favorable impression, however.  Hungry as he was, Adam could barely force himself to sit at station keeper Harrison Sevier’s table, for though the fried potatoes, bacon and biscuits were tolerable, the meal could scarcely be appetizing when thousands of flies covered the walls like a living, crawling blanket.  He ate as quickly as he could and hurried from the filthy hovel to a more pleasing prospect.  The deep creek for which the station was named sank here to form a marsh, as so many waterways in the Great Basin did.  After the succession of barren mountains and alkali flats, this was an oasis of pastureland.

            So he was outside Nevada now, Adam mused as he stretched his legs, and it had taken almost no time at all to get here, at least by comparison with how long it had taken to cross the same ground in a covered wagon.  They were coming into populated parts again, although only a handful of homes were visible in the distance.  Seeing the driver exit the log cabin, Adam hustled to get back to the stage, thankful that he’d had even this much time to refresh himself.  He didn’t remember being this sore, ever, when he’d traveled west over this same dry ground.  He’d been a kid then, of course, but since he was still only eighteen, he could scarcely chalk the aches up to old age, and the fading of memory over time probably wasn’t at fault, either.  No, the difference was the pace, no two ways about it.  Walking was easier on the bones than jostling around inside a stagecoach, but the length of the journey was immeasurably longer, and he had no time now for a leisurely walk.  Speed and leisure each had its place, Adam supposed, but now was definitely the time for speed.

            For about seven miles the stage rolled through the valley bisected by Deep Creek.  Cultivated fields extended a mile on either side, with grassy plains beyond.  Then they entered a dangerous, nine-mile stretch through a gorge nature-built for ambush, but again no Indians were sighted.  Between the ridges lay long miles of alkali desert, seemingly drier and more desolate as the afternoon wore on.  Adam’s nose began to bleed from the endless assault of the irritating dust stirred up by the wheels of the coach.  The desert was hard on the wheels, too, and the pace slowed, almost down to the two miles per hour that the oxen pulling the Cartwrights’ wagon had achieved back in 1850.

            Adam thought the day would never end; nor did dinner show any signs of appearing.  Not until four that afternoon did the stage reach the next home station, set in another oasis of hay fields, green from abundant water.  The air above them was thick with water fowl, crows and black swamp birds with yellow throats.  The driver called the place Willow Springs, but as soon as Adam jumped down from the stage the local station keeper called brightly, “Welcome to Callao!”  When asked, he explained that Willow Springs was the old name.  “Nowadays, ‘most ever’body, ‘cept stubborn cusses like Wilt there”—he threw his chin toward the driver—“calls it Callao.  Old Spanish prospector named it after a mining camp in Peru.”

            “Still say Willow Springs suits it better,” Wilt said with a grin as he stabbed another piece of salt beef.  “This ain’t Peru, Hank.”

            Adam did his best to choke down the salt beef and biscuits, all which graced the table in another fly-ridden hovel.  A meager meal to serve as both dinner and supper, but there’d been no place fit to stop for food before—if this could be called a place fit to stop.  The six passengers who boarded the stage here seemed glad to leave, and Adam couldn’t fault them.  He wasn’t particularly happy to have that much traveling company, though.  He was tired of studying and welcomed a little conversation, but with seven in the coach now, he inherited that jump seat he’d avoided so long.  Night was coming on, too, and Adam didn’t look forward to sleeping in the cramped stagecoach.

            When the stage rattled into the next swing station, he concluded there just might have been worse places to take a meal than Willow Springs, where at least the water had been good.  Boyd’s Station, judging by external appearance, would have offered less, for it was no more than a partial dugout with bunks carved into the walls and no furniture at all, except boxes and benches.

            After passing Boyd’s, the coach circled the north end of the Fish Springs range and came upon a succession of light green pools.   Adam heard the call of marsh birds, and peering into the fading twilight, he saw hawks and raptors circling above.  Night came on, and all the passengers settled in to get what sleep they could.  Not thinking the middle seat conducive to secure rest, Adam just wrapped up in his borrowed buffalo robe and sprawled out on the floor of the coach amid the shuffling feet of his drowsing companions.

            Drowsing was about as much as any of them did that night, each kept awake by the near-constant sting of mosquitoes.  Lowering the leather curtains might have helped, but would also have sealed the odor of seven sweat-stinking bodies inside the coach.  Every one of them opted for mosquitoes and fresh air, and Adam drifted off to the rhythm of hands slapping against flesh, waking frequently to join the percussion chorus.

 

* * * * *

 

            By the time the stagecoach made its last long hard climb up a sandy grade before reaching the next home station, Adam was starving.  Mid-morning before the stage line saw fit to stop for breakfast!  His first glimpse of the station explained the delay, for with its station house and outbuildings of solid stone, Simpson’s Springs provided the most substantial-looking stopover he’d seen thus far.  It was one of the most dependable watering spots in the desert, the new driver said, and Adam eagerly took advantage of the opportunity to wash the alkali dust from his face, though he didn’t really have time to do an adequate job, not unless he wanted to starve until reaching the next home station.

            At least, he wasn’t immediately bombarded with another attack of the abrading dust that had even gotten under his eyelids, for the stage next moved into the mountains, climbing to almost a mile high.  At that elevation, only stunted junipers, no more than ten feet high, provided sparse covering for the stony slopes, but even this was a refreshing contrast to the sagebrush flatlands between each range of mountains.  The valleys were scored with waterways, but in August they were all dry.

            The road crossed Skull Valley and after another steep climb the stage rolled into the next swing station about one o’clock that afternoon.  Stepping down from the coach, Adam noticed a wooden marker, which stated that Carson City was 533 miles behind them.  Grow up, Adam admonished himself sternly as another wave of homesickness washed over him.  “Nice view of the desert,” he commented to the driver as the team was being changed.  “Easy to see why they call this Point Lookout.”

            The driver cackled.  “What I hear the Pony riders say is that it stands for ‘Look out for injuns!’”  He laughed at the grimace on the station keeper’s face.  “Jackson here don’t like to be reminded that he lives right on the edge of Paiute Hell.”

            “Better on the edge than in the middle of it,” Adam suggested and was rewarded with a grin from the station keeper.  “Do they really call it that?”

            “They do, boy,” Jackson said, “with good reason, but it gets better from here east.”

            Adam sincerely hoped that would prove true and not only because of the ever-present threat of Indian attack.  Behind him lay the harshest desert in North America, a country of bare, rocky mountains and endless miles of burning sand.  As the stage descended into Rush Valley that didn’t change much.  The terrain became pancake-flat, but was still dry and barren, without a tree in sight.

            Dinner at Rush Valley Station didn’t do much to take the edge off Adam’s appetite, either, for the meal was not nearly as solid as the two-story stone structure that housed the next station.  When told that the proprietors were German, Adam had anticipated the type of hearty fare he’d eaten many times at Mama Zuebner’s Café in Placerville, but the meal was meager by that standard.

            The station keeper, Henry J. Faust, however, was an interesting character.  He had come to the United States about twenty years ago and had attended medical school.  Though he had dropped out to join the California gold rush, he was still the closest thing to a medical man in the area and was affectionately known as Doc.  He had a fine corral of horses, for he raised them for the Pony Express and the Army, but Adam didn’t have time to give them more than a fleeting glance before the driver signaled that it was time to leave.

            The stage crossed the dusty, windswept flat of Rush Valley, stopping only long enough to change mules at another swing station.  Adam never missed a chance to get out and stretch his legs, since it was the only rest he was destined to get on this frantic Sabbath.  All too soon he was back aboard the stage, charging up another western slope of yet another range of mountains, studded here and there with stubby cedar, to Five-Mile Pass.  The sameness was becoming as wearisome as the jolting of the stage itself.  Over and over again a sagebrush valley, five to fifteen miles wide, sloped almost unnoticeably toward the center, where some watercourse, most often dry, ran through it.  Then the trail would lead inexorably over the creek or river bed and up a rocky trail on the other side to another range of mountains, thinly scattered with timber, just like the last.

            Adam’s stomach began to rumble long before the stage reached the final home station of the day about seven that night.  Here at the former Camp Floyd, however, supper took a backseat to all there was to see.  Four hundred abandoned buildings had once housed as many as 3,500 troops, sent here to quell the so-called Mormon rebellion.  Adam could remember those times, when Carson Valley had lost most of its population to Brigham Young’s call for reinforcements.  He—and Pa, too, he was sure—thought then that the loss could never be made up, but they hadn’t counted on the discovery of silver at Sun Mountain.  That had changed everything, and the new Territory of Nevada showed promise of real growth now.

            The troops once stationed here had been sent back East, to fight in the conflict between North and South.  Adam had promised his father that he would stay out of that strife, a promise easily made, for the young man wanted to focus on his studies.  He was certain the promise would be easily kept, as well, for the battle at Pinnacle Mount against the Paiutes had squelched whatever boyish notions of the glory of warfare he had once entertained.

            The stage station was located near the fort in a two-story adobe hotel.  Stagecoach Inn looked inviting to all the passengers, and all but one elected to stay the night.  The thought of a soft, unmoving bed pulled at Adam, too, exhausted as he was from traveling more than five hundred miles in the last five days.  For him there was no choice, however, so after a satisfying supper he climbed dutifully aboard the stagecoach, grateful, at least, to have it to himself.  Since it was already dark, Adam just stretched out on the back bench and covered himself with the warm buffalo robe loaned to him by Uncle Billy Rogers.

            The stage jolted to an abrupt halt, and Adam was awakened when he tumbled to the floor.  Yawning, he clambered up and got out.  The sky was still pitch black outside, though in the dim light of a moon slightly more than half-phase, he could make out a station near a small spring.  “Where we at?” he asked the driver groggily.

            “Porter Rockwell’s place,” the driver supplied.  “Runs his own brewery, so you might want to snare yourself a bottle to knock off the chill.  I aim to.”

            Adam nodded and followed the man inside.  At one dollar a bottle, the price was steep, especially for Valley Tan, which had no reputation as good liquor.  Since the night wind was downright icy, Adam decided to splurge for a bottle, anyway.  He took it on the stage with him, and after a few draws of the burning liquor, he grew drowsy and drifted off to sleep again, more soundly than before.  He didn’t even wake when the coach stopped to change mules at the next swing station.

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

Although Bonanza only refers to Adam’s college as being “back East,” most writers have elected to send him to Harvard and have written admirable stories in that setting.  I originally chose Yale for purely pragmatic reasons: I had better sources for that college in the 19^th century than for the other (chiefly Four Years at Yale by Lyman Hotchkiss Bagg) and felt that I could, therefore, write a more detailed story.  I later learned some facts that perhaps made Yale a likely choice for a boy like Adam.  While Harvard drew most of its students from western Massachusetts, Yale’s students came from everywhere, even as far away as Hawaii, according to catalogs of the years of Adam’s tenure.  Yale also was more active in founding new colleges, being, for instance, one of the earliest to offer courses in engineering and the first to award anyone a Ph.D, in 1861.  That might appeal to a young man with an enterprising mind.  Also, while William Stewart, featured in two episodes of Bonanza, did not graduate, he was an alumnus of Yale and might have influenced a young man from Nevada Territory to make a similar choice.

 

As indicated here, after the Civil War began all travelers headed east were questioned at Fort Churchill to see whether they were going south to join the Confederacy.

 

To the best of my research abilities, all stage stations at which Adam stops were existent at the time of his journey, and descriptions of them are drawn from historic records.  When specific station keepers are mentioned, they are the actual people who manned those stations, although it is not always possible to determine the precise dates of their residence.

 

Camp Floyd had once been the largest military post in the United States.  With the outbreak of the Civil War, the garrison was ordered east, and by September, 1861, shortly after Adam’s trip through there, a mere eighteen families remained in the area.

CHAPTER TWO

Race Across the Continent

 

 

            A rough hand jostled Adam’s shoulder.  “Wake up, boy,” the driver urged.  “Breakfast stop—and a good one.”

            Adam threw back the buffalo robe.  Yawning, he stepped down from the coach and blinked at the number of buildings visible, even in the pale light of early dawn.  “Salt Lake City?” he queried, for he could imagine no other town of this size between him and the Mississippi River.

            “Yup,” offered the driver.  “If you’ve a mind to sample Mormon cooking, come along with me.”

            With a grin, for he’d been sampling Mormon cooking—some good, some bad—here and there all along the route, Adam followed the driver onto a verandah between two painted pillars.  By the look of the two-story Salt Lake House, as a sign swinging on a tall flagstaff outside declared its name, this was going to be one of the good ones.  Looks could be deceiving, as Adam had learned at Deep Creek Station, but he had a feeling that this time what he saw was what he’d get.  Besides, he had the driver’s word that the food was good here, and so far none of the men holding the reins had steered him wrong.

            Looks were deceiving, but only in the sense that the meal was even better than the external neatness of the Salt Lake House had led him to hope.  Adam feasted on a hearty breakfast of bacon, sausage, eggs, fried potatoes and flapjacks, topped with a compote of peaches and strawberries, both grown locally.

When the driver, a speedy eater, polished off his plate and stood to leave, Adam automatically, though reluctantly, did, as well.  “No, no, boy,” the man laughed.  “Stage don’t leave for an hour, so take your time.  I’m off for home.  Now, don’t fret yourself none; I’ll tell the next driver not to leave without you.  Heard you say how important it was for you to ride straight through.”

            “Thanks,” Adam said and sat down again.  He didn’t dally over the meal, though, choosing, instead, to spend the extra time stretching his legs and getting a look at the city.  He and Pa hadn’t come this way on their journey west, and while he’d heard a lot about the Mormon headquarters, he’d never seen it.

            He didn’t see much of it this morning, either, as he feared getting too far from the depot.  Still, what he did see of the quiet, early morning streets left a favorable impression.  Most of the houses were small, though some stretched two or even three stories into the sky, and most were constructed of white, sun-dried bricks, red sandstone or granite.  The doorposts and sills were either of red sandstone or wood, painted a vivid green, and green creepers cascaded over the walls.  The streets were uniform and laid out at right angles, with an irrigation stream running down each side.  Every sidewalk was shaded with willow, cottonwood and locust, and here and there Adam saw the peach trees that had most likely provided part of his breakfast.

            Early as it was, one of the businesses across from the Salt Lake House was open.  Probably just for travelers like me, Adam decided.  He entered in hopes of picking up something to nibble on the road, in the likely event that the next home station was one of the poorer quality.  Inside, he found crackers and cheese and, to his delight, fresh peaches. He gulped at the high price, twenty-five cents a dozen, but gave in to his body’s craving for something fresh.  Then, well stocked against any eventuality, he hustled back across the street and still had a couple of minutes to spare before the new driver appeared.

            “Wanna ride up top a spell, son?” the driver suggested, giving Adam’s back a kindly slap as he passed the boy while heading for the front of the stage.  “Give you a good view of Salt Lake.”

            “Sure,” Adam agreed readily, knowing that the offer was an honor, given at the driver’s discretion to whomever he chose.  Riding up top would provide a welcome break from the increasingly dreary routine, as well as affording a better view of the lake and the other majestic scenery of this part of the country.  He hadn’t counted on getting a view of Brigham Young’s home, too, but the driver pointed it out as they rumbled past.  A good thing he was sitting high, Adam concluded as he peered over the eight-foot stone wall at the complex of buildings that covered an entire square.  He wouldn’t have seen any of it from street level.  Of course, at the rate the stage whizzed past, he didn’t see much anyway, he admitted with a grin.

            Leaving town, the road ran parallel to the Jordan River, although some distance from it.  “That line of trees must mark the river,” Adam commented to the driver.  “Too far away to see what kind, though.”

            “Mostly cottonwood, acacia and poplar,” the driver reported, “with some fruit trees the Mormons have planted.”

            “I bought some of their peaches at the store back there,” Adam said.  “Welcome to share them if you like.”

            The driver laughed.  “Did a mite of my own stockin’ up back there at Salt Lake City, son.  Always do before I head out.  They make mighty good eating.”

            “Sure do,” Adam agreed.  He pointed past the line of trees to a dark silhouette, still kissed by the fading lavender and magenta of the rising sun.  “Something moving on that island over there.  Cattle?”

            “Yeah.  Mormons use those islands for pasture.”  After guiding the horses around a curve, the driver continued, “River’s only three, maybe four, feet deep between there and the main shore—shallow enough to let ‘em herd the cattle back and forth, deep enough to discourage the cattle from roamin’ off on their own.”

            “Sounds like a plan,” Adam laughed.  “Wish we had a setup like that back on our ranch near Virginia City; then I wouldn’t have to spend so much time rounding up strays.”

            “Not a job I’d favor,” the driver chuckled back.  “Any strays I get in this business, I leave to round themselves up.”

            “Or just leave ‘em behind, huh?” Adam teased.

            “Man ain’t a dumb beast,” the driver argued.  “Ought to have sense enough to get hisself where he needs to be, when he needs to be.”

            “True enough,” Adam agreed.  He settled back, propping his elbows on the body of the carriage behind him, and enjoyed the magnificent panorama from his high perch.  The stage ran through the deep, narrow and rugged valley and up into the Wasatch spur of the Rocky Mountains.  Reaching the summit of Big Mountain Pass, he turned back for one last look at the shimmering turquoise of Great Salt Lake.

Throughout the morning he calculated that they crossed some creek—the driver called it Bauchmann’s—at least a dozen times as they zigzagged down from the summit.  They finally burst through the mouth of the awe-inspiring Echo Canyon and came to the next home station, almost in the shadow of its red bluffs.  Nearby, Adam saw fields planted with wheat, barley and corn, although the latter looked scraggly, barely able to hold itself upright.  Lack of water, probably, he concluded and determined, as well, that fresh roasting ears weren’t likely to appear on the dinner table.  The food was good at Weber, though, even if it did feature the same bacon and fried eggs served at most home stations.  Fried potatoes and onions, a product of careful cultivation in a harsh land, supplemented the meal.  There was no denying that the settlers of this territory had made the desert blossom like the rose, as the Bible put it.

            At the driver’s invitation Adam again mounted the seat beside him and watched the road gradually narrow until it snaked through a mere gorge with high bluffs rising on either side.  Dwarf oak and wild roses covered the lower slopes, but the vegetation grew thinner toward the heights.  Beside a recently felled tree he spotted a beaver, and a whole flock of black-and-white magpies flew overhead.

            Approaching the next station, the cliffs became almost vertical, and high on top was a set of stone embattlements.  “Indian trouble?” Adam queried, pointing them out.

            The driver chuckled.  “Nope.  Mormon trouble—or trouble for the Mormons, depending on how you see it.  Maybe you recollect Johnson’s War against the Mormon folk?”

            Adam’s mouth skewed to one side.  “Wasn’t much of a war.”

            The driver laughed aloud this time.  “Sure wasn’t, son, but the Mormons thought it might be, and can’t say as I blame ‘em, with word of the United States Army comin’ agin ‘em.  Built them fortresses to defend the canyon, but never had much need to use ‘em.”

            “I remember,” Adam said.  “We lost a lot of folks from our valley about that time.”

            As they left Hanging Rock Station, the scenery improved steadily.  Willows and other trees lined the banks of the Weber River, winding through the canyon, and springs abounded all along the road, as well as bushes of gooseberries and currants that made Adam want to hop off and gather fresh fruit.  The sight made him so hungry, in fact, that he dug a peach out of his bag and bit into it, using the back of his hand to wipe away the juice that dribbled down his chin.  Prairie chickens and sage hens, scurrying through the brush, lifted his hopes for a succulent supper at the next home station, and his mouth began to water with the mere memory of Aunt Nelly’s roast chicken and dressing.

            The swing station at Echo Canyon was no more than a rough structure of slabs, sturdy enough to keep the wolves out, but not much more.  From there the trail ran northwest up a grassy draw.  The driver pointed out a hollow in the gray sandstone rock to one side.  “Cache Cave.  Quite a history behind it.”

            Adam knew an offer when he heard one.  “Like to hear it.”

            The driver grinned.  “Figured as much, you bein’ interested in learning, like ole Sam told me back in Salt Lake.  Well, to start with, it’s got other names.  Rock Cave ain’t much of one, to my mind, but Swallow Cave suits it, ‘cause lots of swallows nest inside.  Seen martins around plenty of times, too.  The cave’s been used by injuns, mountain men, fur traders and explorers—whole bunch of ‘em.  I hear there’s upwards of a hundred and fifty names carved in there, some goin’ back far as 1820.”

            “Like the names on Independence Rock,” Adam commented.  “Mine’s there, along with my pa’s and my uncle’s.”

            “Do say!”  The driver seemed impressed.  “I come around the Horn myself.  Not much way to carve your name on a wave.”  He slapped his knee and laughed hard.

            Adam laughed, too.  “My pa was a sailor in his younger days,” he offered.

            “Bet he’s got some tales to tell then.  Anyway, that cave was another headquarters for the Mormon military during that sort-of war.”  He frowned slightly.  “I always keep a good lookout, goin’ through here, ‘cause I’ve heard rumors that some genuine bad men hole up in it from time to time.  Reckon you know about bad men, though, from what I’ve heard of Virginia City.”

            “She’s got her share,” Adam agreed.  “Sam Brown was about as bad as they come.  I was there when he was gunned down.”  It wasn’t a memory he cherished, but he felt that he owed the driver some return for the information being shared with him.

            The driver also recognized an offer when he heard it, and with a wide grin he answered just as Adam had earlier.  “Like to hear about it.”

            As Adam shared the story, to the loud guffaws of the driver, the stage left the grassy draw and crossed another sagebrush flat.  He broke off when he sighted a pair of massive, sharp-tipped rocks thrusting toward the clear blue sky.

            “Needle Rocks,” the driver said.  “Station up ahead takes its name from them.  You climb back up here, soon as we make the change of mules, boy; that Sam Brown story’s gettin’ right exciting, and I want to hear how it ends.”

            “Sure,” Adam agreed readily.  He hopped down as soon as the horses stopped and hustled to the front door of the swing station.  Sitting beside it on a rough plank bench was a bucket of water.  Adam quickly consumed a ladleful, although it was too lukewarm to be very refreshing.  A couple of minutes to stretch his legs, and he was again perched beside the driver, telling of Sam Brown’s final moments of life while the stagecoach swerved from side to side of a canyon, ascending and then descending the steep banks covered with yellow berry, chokecherry, service berry and a variety of other shrubs.

They left the spectacular scenery of Echo Canyon behind and crossed the border of the Territory of Utah into Wyoming, rolling through a grassy valley partially enclosed by perpendicular stone buttes.  A brook teeming with trout ran through its midst, and Adam felt a yearning to sit beneath the shade of the willows at the base of those buttes and dangle a pole, while the scent of wild geraniums perfumed the quiet afternoon.  No quiet afternoons for him, though, not in the foreseeable future.  Nothing but the rattle of wheels over rocky roads and the bite of the wind in his face.

            The stage plunged through the swift waters of rocky-bottomed Bear River and charged into the next home station, where the bounty Adam had seen along the road graced the table.  The pretty wife of station keeper Myers served a heaping platter of fried trout with pan-fried potatoes and an overflowing bowl of stewed greens.  While her only comment throughout the meal was the announcement of berry pie for dessert, her accent revealed that she, like her more loquacious husband, was a native of England.  Learning that Adam was college-bound, Myers produced a copy of Volney’s Ruins of Rome and declared his interest in politics, both ancient and current.  Adam would have enjoyed continuing the conversation, but the stage left within half an hour of its arrival.

            Adding miles to a journey already overlong to Adam’s aching bones, the road northeast of Bear Creek Station zigzagged this way and then that, due to the irregular lay of the land.  It was, at least, scenic country, especially compared to the deserts of Nevada and Utah.  At the foot of a mountain, the stage forded a muddy stream and continued along a road whose sides teemed with vegetation: stunted oak, blackjack, and box elder, along with bushes of wild cherry and maroon service berry.  The long climb of Quaking Asp Hill, to a height of almost eight thousand feet, followed, and here the surrounding land was a mix: some parts lush with life, others totally bare.  The ridge bore a thick growth of fir and pine, contrasting with the lighter trunks of the quaking aspen in the ravines below.  Even the bare places held a unique attraction, for eerily shaped hills and bluffs of red earth were topped with white clay that made them appear frosted with a fresh fall of snow.  Much as he was enjoying the scenery, however, Adam was tired, so at the next swing station he climbed inside the coach, rolled up in his buffalo robe and slept the night through.

            He woke before dawn to even better scenery, the bare spots fewer and further apart the closer the stage drew to Fort Bridger.  Adam was eager to see it, for it was a place the wagon train had missed on its way west.  Being pressed for time if they were to cross the Sierra Nevada Mountains before snow fell, the Larrimore train had elected to take the Sublette Cutoff, instead.  The stage wouldn’t be stopping long, though, just long enough to pick up the mail.  Time, Adam reflected, always seems to be in short supply.  Then it was a matter of life or death, while now—he grinned—still a matter of life or death—academically, that is!

            Fort Bridger was a pleasant place, almost as lovely as the Ponderosa.  If that’s possible.  Adam fought down another treacherous wave of homesickness.  No, no place could rival that pristine beauty, but these green meadows nestled in forest-crested mountains were stiff competition.  The waters of Black’s Fork of the Green River flowed past the fort, dividing into a dozen or more branches, each bridged, and all of them recombining after passing through the settlement.  A lot of the houses were empty, abandoned like Camp Floyd and for the same reason, the war back East.

            “Breakfast soon?” Adam queried as he climbed up beside the driver after the brief stop.

            “Next station—Millersville,” the driver reported, adding with a grin, “and I’m as ready for it as you, boy.”

            Daylight was full and Adam starving when they reached the home station.  He smiled at the corral formed from broken yoke-bows, no doubt the remnant of numerous emigrant or freight wagons abandoned over the years.  In fact, a long line of them stood nearby, hulking skeletons stripped of usable wood.  Inside, the chair backs were constructed from the same material.  The station keeper, a Mr. Holmes, barely spoke—taciturn by nature, Adam supposed.  His wife, another pretty young Englishwoman, made certain everyone’s mouth was too full for conversation anyway.  Adam feasted on another breakfast of fried fish, trout and suckerfish this time.  The ubiquitous fried potatoes appeared again, too, but these were accompanied by fresh strawberries and cream.

            A number of passengers got on at Millersville, including one lady, who automatically inherited the seat beside the driver that Adam had enjoyed so long.  It came as no surprise that the driver preferred the company of a lady to that of a lanky schoolboy—or any other man.  In this case, Adam couldn’t blame the driver at all.  The lady was definitely easy on the eyes.

            The road led through Black’s Fork, so clear its rocky bottom could be seen as the stage forded it three times.  At one of the swing stations, Adam walked along the water course, idly picking up a few smooth pebbles from those scattered along the shore.  Soon he had a collection of granite, obsidian and flint, as well as quartz stones of white, yellow and smoky gray.  Walking back to the stage, he rolled them around in his hand, enjoying the cool smoothness.  He had intended to toss them aside when he boarded, but with a nostalgic smile he slipped them into his pocket, instead.  Hoss and Little Joe would enjoy a memento like this of his journey.  At the next stop he made a beeline for the water’s edge, determined to find one of each kind for each brother.  He was still looking when the driver hollered, and he ran to catch the stage.

            The next home station afforded the best chance to complete the collection, for it was located at the junction of Ham’s Fork and Black’s Fork, both streams large enough to power a mill.  When the stage arrived, however, Adam was more interested in a meal than a search for pebbles.  His hopes for a good one plummeted at first sight of the hovel of dry stone, fitted together without benefit of mortar.  The stones were piled against a low cliff, which served as the hut’s back wall, and the floor was dirt.  That, in itself, didn’t make Adam think less of the place.  After all, most of the stations were floored with dirt, and he could remember living under similar circumstances himself that first year in Carson Valley.  Nelly Thomas had always kept the cabin clean, though; even the dirt floor had been neatly swept, but this station was filthy.

            The station keeper, Scottish Mormon David Lewis, seemed intelligent and courteous, but not ambitious enough, in Adam’s view, to provide a fit home for his family, which included two Irish wives and a handful of rowdy kids.  They were all dressed in tatters—filthy tatters, at that—and looked as if they had never dipped in the nearby streams.  With their pug noses splashed with freckles, the women could have passed for sisters—and might well have been, since Mormon men sometimes married siblings.  Beneath the frayed hems of their faded calico frocks peeked matching sets of bare and decidedly dirty feet.

            The sight of the table, again swarming with flies, effectively tempered Adam’s appetite, but couldn’t kill it completely.  He was too hungry for that, and there was no guarantee that the next station wouldn’t offer a table equally repugnant.  He swept the flies aside, choked down what he could and hurried outside to check the streambed for more smooth pebbles his little brothers might like.  Finally, he spotted a bright yellow glint, and shivering as the icy water rippled over his hands, he washed away the soft silt to reveal the final piece of quartz he needed to give each brother a set identical except for size.  He’d try to balance them out, even in that, but he could probably count on sharp-eyed Little Joe to notice if any of his stones were smaller than any of Hoss’s.  Better warn Pa that he may need to act as peacemaker, Adam chuckled to himself as he pocketed the yellow quartz and ambled back toward the stagecoach.

            A good thing I completed that collection when I did, he decided as the river was left behind.  The chances of finding quartz on the dry divide the road next crossed shrank to nothing.  The stop at Michael Martin’s swing station was brief, of course, so all Adam had time to do was take a brief look around the owner’s general store and grocery.  He was amazed to see how well stocked it was in a part of the country he still considered the middle of nowhere.  Champagne and other liquors lined the shelves, a little surprising since Mormons didn’t drink much.  Fancy dry goods like linen drapery and ribbons, as well as brandied fruits, jams and jellies were on offer, too, along with the more expected buckskin and moccasins and potted provisions.  Since he still had fresh fruit from Salt Lake City, Adam purchased nothing and hurried back to catch the stage.

            The road rose up a mile-wide river valley, and although this wasn’t exactly the trail the Cartwrights had followed west, the scenery recalled what Adam had seen in 1850.  The dainty leaves of the pale-barked quaking asp danced in the slight breeze, alongside willows and wild cherry trees with their large, purple-red fruit.  Scattered among the trees were buffalo berry bushes.  Adam could remember rubbing their tongue-shaped, silvery green leaves between his fingers and taking delight in the feel of their fuzzy undersides.  Inger had made jelly from the red berries, now ripe enough to stir his memory of the sweet fruit.  Wonder if Michael Martin had some of that in stock, he pondered.  Would’ve liked to taste it again—and wild cherry jam.  Inger made that, too.  He didn’t admit, even to himself, that it was memories of his mother he yearned to rekindle.  Before this trip it had been a long time since he’d thought about her, but the sights along the trail reawakened the sound of her gentle laughter.  It had been different from Marie’s tinkling, bell-like laugh—deeper, warmer—but for a moment he could hear them both, laughing together, and somehow it comforted him to think that they were together now, sharing memories of him and Pa and his little brothers.

            Dinner came late, as the stagecoach had to make it all the way to Green River, a headquarters station for the Overland Stage and quite a little settlement, with a grocery and several other stores clustered close by.  The meal served by the English wife of the man Adam learned would be his new driver more than made up for the delay, however.  Salmon trout was fried crispy and flaked at the touch of his fork.  He slathered the fluffy biscuits with buffalo berry jelly, pleased that his wish of that afternoon had been so quickly gratified.  It wasn’t as good as he remembered Inger’s being, but nothing had ever quite lived up to the memory of her cooking, not even Hop Sing’s.  Adam washed down the meal with a tall glass of fresh buttermilk, a welcome alternative to all the bad coffee he’d drunk between here and Carson City.  When he finished, he excused himself to catch a breath of fresh air.

            He strolled around the yard, noting the well-kept corrals, which held mules for the stage line and horses for the Pony Express, and the pasture beyond, where a few cattle and sheep grazed.  A solid station, and the new eastbound driver, a Scot named McCarthy, seemed like a solid man, too.  Seeing the man exchange a kiss with his wife at the door, Adam scurried back to the stage.  “I would nae leave without ye, lad,” McCarthy said, flashing a grin.

            “Thank you for that,” Adam replied.

            “Care to ride up top or be ye of a mood to sleep, like the lassies?”

            Adam was tired and had intended to go straight to sleep, but he didn’t wish to turn down a gracious offer.  “I’ll ride with you to the next station,” he said.  “Then I’d best get some sleep.”

            “Up with ye, then,” McCarthy urged, looking pleased to have company.  “We’ve road to cover.”  As soon as Adam was aboard, he snapped the lines, and the mules took off toward Green River.

            “We ferried across this when my family and I emigrated west,” Adam commented as the coach rolled down the bank to the river.

            “Still do, some times of the year,” McCarthy told him.  “Not in August, though.  Shallow enough to ford now.”

            Adam nodded.  Fording was always preferable to ferrying, in terms of both time and expense, he recalled.  Not that we could ever convince Mrs. Larrimore of that.  How that woman hated rivers!  Though he enjoyed the Scottish driver’s company, the country on the other side of the river wasn’t much to see.  The rolling terrain barely sustained any grass, though sagebrush abounded—sagebrush and alkali dust that cracked his lips and prickled his nose.  By the time they reached the next swing station, Adam decided he’d had enough, and expressing a need for sleep, he climbed back inside the coach.  Once there, however, he found that his weariness wasn’t feigned, for he soon drifted off.

 

* * * * *

 

            Fording Big Sandy Creek early the next morning was a more daunting challenge, for the banks were high and stiff and the water in the clear stream swift.  McCarthy’s skill brought them safely through—with apparent ease, even.  He’d be parting company with the passengers here, turning them over to a new driver, while he himself headed back the way they’d come.  “Dry drive ahead,” he said as he helped the two female passengers down from the coach.  “Best fill your canteens before leaving Big Sandy, folks, or ye’ll be sorry ye dinnae take me advice.”

            Adam took the counsel to heart.  The very words “dry drive” sent shivers down his spine, as they brought memories of Sublette’s Cutoff and the Forty-Mile Desert surging to his brain.  After breakfast he squatted on a bank dotted with blue lupine, golden sunflowers, bell-shaped blossoms of white mountain heather and some pink flower he couldn’t identify while he filled his canteen with cold water from the rushing stream.  A green-headed horsefly landed on his neck.  Adam swatted it and sent it to an early grave, but the damage was done.  The sting, painful as that of any wasp, raised a welt that itched maddeningly throughout the day.

            Eight miles further the stage forded another stream, but as the Little Sandy was completely dry at this season, it presented no problem whatsoever—except to the mind, perhaps.  The sight of that dry creek bed made Adam so thirsty that he opened his canteen to take a drink.  Before capping it again he dabbed a little cold water on his burning neck.  It helped for a while, but as the sun rose higher and he began to sweat, the burning and itching intensified.

            After several more easy fords the stage began to climb up toward the Continental Divide.  Two miles short of that landmark, the driver reined in the mules at Pacific Springs.  The station itself was some distance away from where he stopped, however, and Adam soon saw why.  The land around the log hut was an absolute bog; in fact, the only way to the building was a narrow board laid across the soggy turf.  Not a challenge for Adam, with his fine sense of balance, but when he tried to help a full-skirted female passenger, her wobbly footsteps almost toppled both of them into the muck.

            Thankfully, he was able to catch the lady around the waist and rock back on his heels without plopping down into the quagmire.  “Oh, dear,” the lady tittered once she stood safely on semi-solid ground, “I do hope the meal merits the effort we’ve made to get here!”

            “I hope so, too, ma’am,” Adam returned with a grin.  The porcelain doorknob gave promise of refinement inside, but refinement was only door-deep, he soon concluded.  The furnishings were far from ostentatious, for the only chairs were narrow planks, about as comfortable as perching on a corral rail back home.  The food was a perfect match for the chairs in quality, consisting of potato cubes floating in beef broth.  If there had ever been any actual beef in this stew, it never made it into Adam’s bowl.  The meal was hot and somewhat filling; nevertheless, as he left, Adam saw a chicken hawk circling overhead and silently willed it on to better pickings.  Slapping away the cloud of mosquitoes that descended upon him, he made his way to the plank over the marsh and hurried to the stage after watching, with amusement, as another passenger helped the lady across this time.

            In no time at all the stage topped the hill to the east and rolled across the divide.  Though Adam knew he still had a long journey ahead, he felt that he was really on his way now, as he, like the waters on this side of the pass, raced toward the Mississippi River.  South Pass was another old friend from the trail, awakening more memories of his trip west with Pa and Inger and his baby brother.  Hard to think of Hoss as a baby, but he had been then.  Now he was a fine, strapping boy and another little fellow carried the title of baby brother, Adam mused wistfully.  Then he set his mouth in a hard line.  Will you stop it? he scolded himself.  You’ll be blubbering like a baby yourself if you keep this up!

            Winding roads charged up and plunged down, and the stage forded another succession of creeks—some dry, some not.  Even those that weren’t had, on average, only two feet of water, so they caused no delay and no concern for the skilled driver.  Strawberry Creek was particularly attractive with its stream banks lined with red and white willows and poplars and bright red strawberries, peeking temptingly from beneath jagged-edged leaves.  The stage continued on without stopping, except for periodic changes of team, until it finally rolled into Rock Creek for supper.  Though Adam wouldn’t have believed it possible, the food in this filthy place was worse than that at Pacific Springs.  He choked down what he could and hoped for better things on the morrow.

 

* * * * *

 

            Yawning widely, Adam stretched his arms back in a miserably futile attempt to work out the kinks from another night aboard the stagecoach.  “Breakfast here?” he inquired, covering another yawn.

            “Next station,” the driver replied.  “Got a lady in the house there, and she’s a right fine cook.”

            Adam’s eyes finally opened wide enough to look around the swing station, and he grinned as he recognized the location.  Ice Spring Slough, too, carried some fond memories.  He could almost see Hoss, squalling up a storm after he’d given the baby a piece of ice, dug from below ground, to suck on.  Inger had scolded him soundly for that, and he’d felt terrible when he heard that he might have caused his baby brother to choke.  The ice had just tasted so good after all the hot days of trudging beside the wagon that he’d been sure Hoss would enjoy it, too.  No time to dig ice this morning, but it wasn’t as tempting, anyway, in the chilly morning air.  He was more hungry than thirsty now and was glad to climb aboard as soon as the team was changed.  Drivers generally didn’t lead him astray when it came to meals, so he was looking forward to this one.  Even if it turned out to be greasy gravy and rock-hard biscuits, though, his gnawing belly was insisting that he stuff his face full.

            The stage descended into the valley of the Sweetwater River.  On both sides walls of white granite, flecked with black mica, rose three to four hundred feet.  The path of the river was so serpentine that the stage was forced to ford it twice before rolling in to the home station located at the first of three more fording places clustered close together.  Three Crossings.  Poor Mrs. Larrimore had practically been in hysterics at the thought of fording a river three times in succession.  Adam had never understood how his mother could put up with the irritating woman, but that was just Inger.  She’d been patient with everyone, whether it was a foolishly fearful woman or a little boy who had harvested a crop of sharp burrs when he strayed too far from the wagon.

            There had been nothing here then, but Adam was glad to see the log station.  He hustled beneath the skull of a full-grown bighorn sheep, which hung over the doorway.   Inside, he noted with approval that the floor was swept clean and the walls even papered.  The table was spread with a clean cloth, and the food looked great.  No greasy gravy here!  Instead of the usual bacon, the meat was antelope steak, and Adam’s mouth watered at the sight, for this was a dish he had not eaten in years, not since the early days in Carson Valley.  Antelope still roamed the valleys near the Ponderosa, but Pa, refusing to take the Indians’ meat supply, wouldn’t let them shoot one anymore.  Adam agreed with that policy, but tasting antelope again would be a treat—especially when it came accompanied with fluffy biscuits like these.  The coffee and cream were both of excellent quality, too, as was the cheese.  After finishing off a slice of gooseberry pie, Adam bought a little extra cheese to take on the stage.  Didn’t hurt to be prepared, especially since the next stop was unlikely to provide as satisfying a meal as this had been.

            The road through the next section offered a visual feast to match the one his stomach had just enjoyed.  The Sweetwater Valley was draped in a verdant fabric of grass, embroidered with flowers and bordered with willow thickets from which fat grouse skittered in and out.  Fringing the fabric were two parallel ranges of mountains, running east and west.   The bare, sandy sides of the Sweetwater Range, to the south, contrasted with the exuberant life of the northern Rattlesnake Range. There, trees of all varieties abounded.  Long rows of aspen, beech and cottonwood lined the river, while pine, cedar, cypress and other evergreens climbed the slopes, and bushes of ripe red strawberries, currants and gooseberries peeked out beneath the green canopy.  Though Adam caught little sign of them from the stagecoach, he knew the Rattlesnake Range harbored large and sometimes dangerous animals, as well: bighorn sheep, cougars, grizzly bears and wolves.

            Despite having such resources close to hand, Monsieur Planté and his family of French-Canadians, managers of the next home station, set one of the poorest tables Adam had seen anywhere.  The milk had obviously been watered down to make it stretch, so much, in fact, that there looked to be more water than milk in the pitcher he saw on the table as he entered.  He could tell at a glance that the sliced bread was only half-baked, and the butter smelled rancid at a distance.  For this questionable fare, the standard seventy-five cents was charged without the slightest qualm.  Adam turned and walked out.  No sense wasting Pa’s money on grub like that!  He’d make out on the cheese he’d bought at Three Crossings.

            Coming in to Devil’s Gate, the next swing station, the stage again forded the Sweetwater, but the water came only to the axle.  Even Mrs. Larrimore wouldn’t have blinked an eye at this, Adam mused with a grin.  The stage splashed through easily and rattled down the road, another mile bringing them to that grand register of the plains, Independence Rock.  Adam remembered reading about it in Pa’s guide book of the trail and stretching his eyes to see the giant granite boulder and other landmarks for days before they came into sight.  Now, the speedy stage rushed past them in mere hours.

            Saleratus Lake, where he and Billy Thomas had filled pails with the prairie’s natural leavening agent, flashed past, and then about every three miles the stage rumbled through some creek whose name Adam was sure he once knew, but could no longer recall.  Finally, they stopped at Willow Springs for another poor supper.  The water from the springs was pure and ice-cold, sheltered from the sun as it was by eight-foot banks, covered with willows.  At least, that’s the way Adam remembered it.  Now, after the passage of a decade’s worth of emigrants west, the willows were nothing but stumps.  The water was still as icy as he remembered, though, so Adam filled his canteen, hoping the mountain air would help the water retain its coolness for when he’d actually need it the next day.

            Far in the distance he caught sight of a lone buffalo and recalled the excitement of that first one his father had killed and brought back to share with the rest of the wagon train.  Descending darkness shut out the nostalgic scene, and if there were any others, they were passed unnoticed in the night.  Adam’s dreams that night, though, were sweet with remembrances of his gentle Swedish mother as they walked together beside their ox-drawn wagon.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam smiled at the bevy of bronze-skinned children playing about the door of Deer Creek Station.  A number of other buildings surrounded the station, including a post office, but Adam didn’t have time to post a letter.  What news did he have to relate, anyway?  Dear Pa, I’m exhausted, battered and bruised from riding in this stagecoach night and day?  Or, Dear Hoss, don’t travel this way; the food’s terrible?  No, his family could do without news like that, at least until he had some good news to put with it, like his acceptance into Yale College.  At breakfast he met Major Twiss, the Indian agent who lived here, and Monsieur Bissonette, whose accent strongly reminded him of Marie.  The latter invited all the stage passengers to follow him to his combination store and saloon.   Adam tagged along and bought a bit of pemmican and some crackers against culinary emergencies.

            Though he still felt a need to study for his entrance exam, the scenery was so magnificent throughout the day that Adam found it hard to keep his eyes on his book.  The Black Hills were dark with deep green pines, and the land rich in water and wildlife, but the stations put that wealth to the sorriest use conceivable.  Of course, he realized that station keepers had little time to hunt, with stages and Pony riders coming through so regularly, but the meager meals gave him a renewed appreciation for Inger’s talents over a cook fire and Pa’s taking time to bring in fresh meat along the trail.  They’d paid for their slow pace by getting to the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada Mountains so late in the season that Pa had decided not to risk the crossing, but that had turned out for the best.  Though their original destination had been California, now Adam couldn’t think of any place but Nevada as home.

            If majestic scenery and nostalgic memories hadn’t served to distract him from his studies, the conversation of his fellow passengers that Friday morning surely did.  Not long after leaving Deer Creek, a man seated across from Adam casually remarked, “Next home station is Horseshoe Creek.  Anybody not know what that means?”

            The man next to Adam grinned broadly beneath his black handlebar mustache.  “That the biscuits is tougher than horseshoes?” he suggested.

            The first man guffawed, slapping his knee.  “That’s a good one!”  He sobered quickly.  “Ain’t a laughing matter, though.  If any of these folks have never ridden this way before, they might need a word of warning.”

            “I haven’t,” Adam admitted freely.  “Not by stage, that is.  I passed through in ’50 with my folks, but there wasn’t anything here then.  Well, except . . .”

            “Indians?” a lady sharing Adam’s seat asked in a shaky voice.  “Is it trouble with them you’re warning us of, Mr. . .?”

            “Renfro,” the man supplied with a tip of his flat-crowned, brown felt hat.  “No, ma’am.  They can be a mite pesky hereabouts, but redskins ain’t nothing to compare with”—he dropped his voice and whispered ominously—“Jack Slade.”

            The man beside Adam shook his head, a strand of his shoulder-length black hair hitting Adam in the mouth.  “Jack Slade,” he chuckled.  “I know him well.  Division head for this section of the Overland Stage, and a more gracious gentleman you couldn’t hope to meet.”

            “Unless,” Renfro said with a cock of his head.

            “Well, yes . . . unless,” the other man admitted.

            “Unless . . . what?” the lady asked, fingers fidgeting with the cameo at her neck.  She leaned forward, face intent, as did the passengers sharing Renfro’s seat.

            “Unless he’s been drinking, ma’am.”  Renfro smiled at her.  “You got nothing to worry about, of course.  Slade’s always genteel with the ladies, but the rest of us best watch our step . . . and even if the biscuits are hard as horseshoes, don’t dare to complain, not if you value your life.  Slade don’t take kindly to anyone insulting his sweet Molly.”

            Convinced the man was making sport of them, Adam smiled wryly.  “Has he ever actually killed anyone?”

            “You bet he has, son!” Renfro sputtered, clearly put off by a mere boy daring to question his word.  “Killed his first man when he was just thirteen, and then there’s what he did to Jules Reni some time back.”

            “Had cause for that,” the man who claimed to know Slade alleged.  “Reni near killed him when the Overland sent him to clean up Reni’s gang of thugs at Julesburg.”

            Renfro shrugged.  “True enough.  Can’t fault him for going after a man that emptied a pistol in him and then fired two barrels of buckshot at him, for good measure.”

            “He lived through that?”  Adam’s mouth gaped open.

            “He did, son.  Reni thought he’d left Slade for dead, but Slade promised to live long enough to wear Reni’s ears on his watch chain, and he made good on that promise.”

            Adam glanced to his seat mate for confirmation, and the mustached man nodded.  “That’s what I heard.  Tied Reni to a corral and used him for target practice ‘til Reni begged him to get it over with.  Slade did, and then he cut off Reni’s ears, just like he’d said he would.”

            The lady shivered.  “That’s a dreadful story, and I don’t think I believe a word of it.”

            Adam wasn’t sure he did, either.  It was the kind of story men might tell to scare a youngster, as they surely considered him to be, but it was hard to believe they’d want to frighten the lady.  Most men had better manners.  He’d seen some men in Virginia City tough enough to do just what Slade was accused of, too.

            “Didn’t mean to worry you none, ma’am,” the man with the mustache said.  “As I said, Slade’s been a perfect gentleman every time I’ve come this way.  Don’t fret yourself a minute.”

            The lady smiled stiffly, but the wrinkles in her forehead indicated that she was still worried about meeting the notorious Slade.  As the stage pulled into Horseshoe Station and Adam helped her down from the coach, she pulled him aside and whispered in his ear, “Watch yourself in there, boy.  You seem a mannerly sort, but it doesn’t pay to be careless with a man like that.”

            “Yes, ma’am, I’ll mind my manners,” Adam promised, though not from fear of Jack Slade.  He still only half believed the wild tale.  When he walked into the dog trot cabin and saw Slade for himself, Adam was certain the other gents had been pulling his leg.   Not only did Slade seem mild-mannered and completely cordial, he was a skinny little fellow, not even as tall and heavy as his wife.  In fact, Slade wasn’t much taller than Hoss, Adam noted with a smile, and not nearly as stocky as his eleven-year-old brother.

            Virginia Slade, better known as Molly, set a decent table, at least by home station standards.  Nothing to brag about, but not much to raise complaint over, either.  Just a meal.  Adam had kept his tongue under far worse provocation, so he found it easy to politely thank Miss Molly for the meal when the driver rose from his seat to signal that it was time to reboard the stage.

            As the passengers all stood, Renfro asked the station keeper if he had the time.  Obligingly, Slade pulled out his pocket watch, and Adam could almost feel his eyes widening at the sight of the watch fob that ornamented the chain.  Dried flesh, without a doubt, and unless his imagination was working overtime, exactly the shape of a withered ear.  Adam gulped and blessed Pa for teaching him good manners.

Renfro chuckled as everyone settled into their seats on the stage once more.  “Well, boy, still think I was gilding the lily?”

            “Guess not,” Adam conceded.

            “Don’t bother thanking me,” Renfro cackled.  “For the warning, I mean.”

            Adam took him at his word and didn’t.

            The road ran along the course of the North Platte, but since it was closer to the hills than the water, the path was rocky and uneven.  Adam eagerly took advantage of the swing stations at Cottonwood Springs and Star Ranch to light down and rest, if only for the time it took to change teams.  Ft. Laramie, coming up, was a place he would gladly have stayed longer, for he had enjoyed his first visit to the fort.  Then it had been a leisurely stop for the wagon train, a time to make repairs and replenish supplies.  Now there wasn’t even enough time to run over to the post bakery for a loaf of good bread.  Renfro did manage to pick up a copy of the New York Times at the sutler’s store and sociably read the latest news to his fellow passengers.

            The newspaper was a week old, but even so, it contained fresher news than Adam was used to getting in his part of the country.  Everyone was most interested in the progress of the war, of course, and the front page was full of reports and rumors: General Banks had withdrawn from Sandy Hook; the rebels had reoccupied Harper’s Ferry; a Confederate steamboat had been captured on the Mississippi.  Adam was most concerned, however, about the report of a recent battle in Missouri, where 1,235 were said to be dead, wounded or missing at Wilson’s Creek. That was more than two hundred miles south of St. Joseph, where his friends, the Edwards, were living, but still too close for comfort.  Adam listened with rapt attention, barely aware of the next bumpy stretch of nine miles.

            When the stage stopped at Bordeaux’s Ranch, which one of the other passengers called Laramie City, Renfro automatically stopped reading—in mid-sentence, no less.  “Time for dinner,” he announced cheerily as he folded his paper and sprang up to open the door.

            “Guess he’s hungry,” chuckled the man with the mustache.

            “Aren’t we all?” Adam responded with a cheeky grin.

            “Manners, boy, manners,” the other man laughed back.  “Not that Bordeaux is anything like Slade.”

            To Adam, there wasn’t much difference between Jack Slade and the French-Canadian James Bordeaux, the station keeper here, except for reputation.  Both treated him well enough and served up a meal that was about equal in quality.  Bordeaux ran a small store here, too, though, and while most of the goods were designed to catch the Indian eye, Adam saw one item he just had to have.  The pipe was simple in construction, but its sandstone bowl was polished until it shone like marble.  Perfect for Pa, a memento of the trip for him, just as the river pebbles would be for Hoss and Little Joe.  Adam bargained a little, to get the price down, and carried it back onto the stagecoach.

            “I do hope a boy of your age hasn’t taken up the vice of smoking,” the lady who had been so solicitous of his manners back at Slade’s place chided.

            “No, ma’am.  It’s not for me; it’s a gift for my father.”  Adam was more than a little tired of having every female who boarded the stage telling him how he ought to behave, but he kept his reply polite.  ‘Cause I do know how to behave, he told her silently.

            Renfro remained behind at Bordeaux’s.  No loss, except he kept the newspaper with him.  Oh, well, Adam thought.  Maybe I’m just as well off not hearing more war news.  As long as Jamie and his father are safe, it doesn’t concern me, anyway.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam took another swig of water from his canteen, but no matter how much he drank, he couldn’t seem to wash the grease from his mouth.  Breakfast at Spring Ranch that morning had been plentiful, but the bacon, antelope, biscuits and doughnuts had all been fried in the same pan.  The flavors had mixed together, with grease saturating everything.  Probably nothing short of washing his mouth out with lye soap would get the taste of that grease out.  Between that and the swarms of mosquitoes that were still attacking after feasting on him and his fellow passengers all night, this had been one miserable morning.

            The stage ascended a long slope, the earth fissured randomly by wide cracks and canyons, and after a twelve-mile incline, headed down again.  Recognizing the name of the next station, Adam all but hung out the window to catch a first glimpse of an old trail friend.  Finally, a blue mound appeared on the horizon, growing in size and lightening in shade until the eight-hundred-foot mass of Scott’s Bluff loomed before him, giving promise of more familiar landmarks soon to appear.

            The noon meal at the home station here offered the usual bacon and biscuits, but Adam couldn’t tolerate the thought of more grease.  Since there was also cheese available, he filled several biscuits with that and took them outside to eat.  He looked ahead, craning his eyes for the next major landmark, much as he had when a small boy, traveling the opposite direction.  How he’d pestered Pa about seeing Chimney Rock!  Looked forward to it for days—maybe even weeks—then feared he’d never see it when cholera struck their wagon train and took so many lives.  Billy Thomas’s baby brother Bobby, big Frederick Zuebner and Adam’s gentle young friend, Johnny Payne, as well as others he’d come to care about over the weeks they’d traveled together, had been left behind along this stretch of road.  Wish there was time to stop and visit their graves.  Doubt if I could even find them, though.

Adam knew his wish would go ungranted.  No time for searching, anywhere along the route.  Even the home stations were but brief stopovers, while at the swing stations, like Fickin’s Springs and Chimney Rock just ahead, they’d stay long enough to change teams and not a minute longer.  Not even time to walk over and touch that special place again, as he had when Pa’s strong arms carried him to the pinnacle back then, after the sickness finally released its iron grip.  Just being able to touch it, after fearing it was the clouds of heaven he’d touch next, had breathed hope into Adam’s young heart, and he’d known in that very moment that they’d make it all the way to California, all the way to Pa’s dream.  If I touched it now, would I feel that same faith, that same assurance that I’ll make it all the way to Yale, all the way to my dream?  A childish notion, he supposed, but somehow he wished he could reach out to the magic of Chimney Rock once more.

            He did have time to fill his canteen at the nearby spring and to gaze up at the clay spire, rising five hundred feet into the air.  He had expected it to seem smaller to his more adult eyes, the way other things had, but he still felt the same awe he had as a child.  He suddenly wished Hoss could be here to view it with him, for his younger brother had been born in the shadow of Chimney Rock.  That birth, after so much death, had brought renewed life to everyone on the Larrimore train and given them the courage to forge ahead—through mountains and deserts; through rain, wind and snow; through everything a hard land could throw at them.  They’d persevered and they’d conquered.  No, Adam decided, it wasn’t magic he needed, just a fresh reminder that courage could conquer whatever challenges lay ahead.

            The next swing station was Courthouse Rock, another old friend, and then the road passed over a couple of small streams.  When one of the other passengers called one of them the Little Punkin, Adam had to laugh.  He’d miss that “little punkin” back home and the older boy who had given the infant Joseph that nickname.  His heart welled up with homesickness once more, but this time he didn’t treat it as an enemy to his manhood; rather, he embraced the memories and drew strength from them.

            The sky had been overcast and gray all day, but now the clouds turned dark and foreboding, with pouches hanging down heavy with water.  If those let loose, Adam thought, Mud Springs will really live up to its name.

            The man sitting next to him peered around him.  “Looks like we’re in for a blow.  Better roll down those curtains, boy.”

            Adam obliged the man by releasing the leather curtains, and all around the coach other passengers did the same.  One remarked, “Don’t much like the look of those clouds.”

            “Yeah, we’re like to get wet, hoofin’ it to the home station,” the man by Adam replied.

            “Hope that’s all,” the first man returned in ominous tones.  “Don’t like the look of those clouds,” he said again

            Curiosity piqued, Adam peered out the edge of the curtain.  The clouds did seem darker, almost black now, low-hanging and shaggy, but still just rain clouds, to his eye.  He was about to ask the other man what was concerning him when he heard a yell from outside and his head thumped back against the seat.  “Moving faster,” he observed.

            “Tryin’ to outrun the storm, I reckon,” his seatmate theorized.

            Once more Adam lifted the edge of the curtain and watched, fascinated, as a brilliant dagger of light struck the earth, followed by a loud crack of thunder.  Again he heard the driver yell, and again the stagecoach lurched forward as the mules were whipped to a faster pace.  For a mile they ran as though hounds were nipping their heels and then the stage pulled to an abrupt stop.  Almost immediately the driver jerked opened the door.  “Twister!” he hollered above the roaring wind.  “Everybody inside—fast!”  He ran back to the front of the coach to unhitch the mules.

            No one needed a second warning.  Hearts leaping into their throats, the men jumped down without using the step.  The one who had been sitting beside Adam shoved him on, while remaining behind long enough to help the only female passenger down.  Along with the other men, Adam dashed toward the scant shelter of the sod station.  When everyone was inside, they all huddled at the doorway, watching in horror as a funnel-shaped tail dipped down from the wall of glowering clouds and headed straight for them.  The spinning tail whipped this way and that, flinging dust into the air.  As the cyclone spun closer, Adam could feel the wind blast his face.

            The woman screamed and fell to her knees behind him.  “Oh, dear God, save us!” she cried.

            “Get back from that door!” yelled the station keeper.

            Adam hauled the woman to her feet and pulled her over to the solid earthen wall at the side.  “Safest place,” he explained hurriedly.  “Just like being inside a cave.”  The woman seemed reassured, and Adam could only hope he was right in his analogy.  He’d never seen a tornado before, but in the back of his mind he seemed to remember hearing that folks generally went underground, if they could, when one threatened.  A sod house was close to being underground, wasn’t it?

            With the door shut, the place was plunged into darkness, except for the flickering light from the fireplace.  Outside the roar grew louder and a single shingle of the roof blew off.  Then, just as suddenly as it had risen, the wind dwindled.  “It’s moving away from us,” someone whispered, as if fearful a loud voice would call it back.

            “Thank God,” the woman sighed.

            “Just hope the coach is all right,” the driver muttered, “or we’ll be stayin’ with you a spell, Jim.”

            “You better hope,” the station keeper grunted, “‘cause I ain’t got no extra beds.”

            Outside, the wind died down still more, and they could hear the soft patter of rain on the cedar roof.  “I gotta check,” the driver said, heading toward the door.

            Adam was right behind him.  If anything had happened to that coach, if anything delayed them, even one day, he’d miss the entrance exam.  He had to know.  Holding his breath, he burst through the door and exhaled in mighty relief.  The stagecoach was still there, still standing.  He cut a quick glance at the corral.  The mules were there, looking skittish, but unharmed.  The only damage he saw, in fact, was to the open shed just beyond the pole corral.  Whatever roof it had one time had was gone.

            “Get back inside and get yourself some grub, boy,” the driver scolded.  “We got time to make up, and I won’t wait for no dilly-daddlin’ youngster who just has to stand around and gawk.

            “Need help with the team?” Adam offered.

            “Send McArdle out for that; it’s his job.  Now, git!”

            Adam trotted back inside, delivered the message to the station keeper and sat down at the table.

            “Is the stage all right?” the woman asked anxiously.

            “Just fine, ma’am,” Adam said.

            She sighed with relief.  “Oh, good.  I didn’t want to miss my connection to Denver.”

            Half a dozen brown-speckled blackbirds skittered in through the open door, and the passengers laughed out their relief as they fed biscuit crumbs to the birds hopping around their feet.  No one had the heart to shoo the little creatures out into the rain.  There were no complaints about the food here, either; though it was no better than that served at other home stations, everyone was just glad to be alive and in one piece and able to get on the road again.

            East of Mud Springs the road evened out.  Instead of steep ascents and descents every few miles, the ups and downs were more moderate now, and the thoroughbrace turned the stagecoach into a giant swinging cradle. Soon the smooth rocking lulled Adam and his fellow passengers to sleep.

 

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

 

Mark Twain describes station keeper Jack Slade in Roughing It.

 

The news Renfro read to his fellow passengers is taken from the New York Times of August 23, 1861.

CHAPTER THREE

Rush to the Missouri

 

 

            There was supposed to be an hour’s layover at Julesburg.  The stage was so late coming in that morning after the twister, however, that the division headquarters would be treated like any other home station.  Grab a bite of breakfast and make it quick, since the new driver was already fretting over being behind schedule.  Adam considered himself lucky to get breakfast at all, though.  The connecting stage to Denver had awaited their arrival, but its driver wanted to leave immediately.  No breakfast at all for those heading there.

            Adam wished that he might be among them.  To be so close to his Uncle John and Cousin Will without seeing them was frustrating.  A side trip to Denver, however, would require an extra day, just in travel time, even if they didn’t visit at all, and Adam didn’t have a day to spare.  It was already the first of September, and he had only nine days to reach New Haven.  He could scarcely remember Will, anyway, but his memories of Will’s pa were fresher, since Uncle John had visited them in St. Joseph and twice on the Ponderosa.

            Wanting to catch more than a glimpse of Julesburg, Adam ate hurriedly and left the long, single-story station of rough-hewn cedar logs.  On lighting down from the stage, he’d been surprised by the size of the town, a dozen buildings or more.  In addition to the station and a stable of similar construction, Julesburg boasted a telegraph office, blacksmith shop, store, warehouse and billiard saloon.  Curiosity drew him toward the latter, where he treated himself to a drink to ward off the morning chill and watched a game with fascination, trying to predict where the balls would land from the angle of their bounce off the padded sides.  He kept close to the door, looking out every minute or so, to make sure the stage wouldn’t leave him.  When he saw the driver exit the station, he pushed through the batwing doors of the saloon and made a dash for the stage.

            The road passed through heavy sand for the next several miles; in fact, for a brief stretch, the passengers had to get out and walk to spare the mules the extra weight.  Then the path ran along the Platte River, its banks glistening white with alkali salt.  Dinner was taken at Diamond Springs, but Adam was convinced the mosquitoes were eating better than any of the passengers.  The sultry heat kept everyone from wanting to lower the curtains, even though there wasn’t much to see.  Adam took advantage of the afternoon to give more diligent attention to his textbook again.  He’d been neglecting that the last few days, for it had been harder to concentrate with the steep ups and downs of the mountainous country.  The road was more level now and reading easier on his eyes.

            At the relay station near O’Fallon’s Bluffs, the passengers took a brief look around a store stocking everything from needles to champagne.  Since Adam needed neither nor much in between, he was more interested in the signboard giving distances to points ahead.  A hundred and twenty miles to Ft. Kearney, but more importantly, still four hundred before he reached St. Joseph.  Would he make it on time or would Indians, weather or just plain bad luck delay him?  This remote station, he was told, was the best place between the Missouri River and the Rocky Mountains for an Indian attack, but the area seemed peaceful today.  The closer they got to “civilization,” the less likely that threat would be, but weather and bad luck could strike anywhere.  Though he couldn’t entirely escape the niggling concern, Adam shrugged it off.  So far, his luck had been good, and if it changed, he’d deal with it as best he could.  But, please, don’t let it change, his heart pleaded, for Pa’s sake, if not for mine.  Don’t let all he’s sacrificed be a waste.

            As the stage left behind the alkali flats, the roadside started to green up and look more like the prairie Adam remembered when first starting west.  The grass was ornamented by pink and blue lupine, milkweed with its small white blossoms and the pretty blue flowers of wild flax.  He spotted useful greens, too, although from the stage he couldn’t discern the distinctive shape of their leaves well enough to identify them.  He remembered, though, especially the lamb’s quarter and chamomile that had given such refreshment to their bleak diet of salt pork and cornbread.  Dwarf cedars edged the banks of the Platte and long River Island in the distance.

            Riding in to the home station at Fremont Springs, Adam noticed a deer drinking from the spring at the end of slough, but it fled from the commotion of an incoming stage.  He stepped down from the coach and smiled at a few chickens skittering around the yard.  Could it be possible that there would be fried chicken on the supper table?  Not surprisingly, there wasn’t.  Should have known better, Adam chided himself.  Didn’t see enough to make a flock.  Probably not enough to share with travelers, but looks like the lady of the house is working toward that, at least.  Maybe by the time I come home again.  Unless, of course, I fail that exam and end up back here within a month.  He gave himself an outright scolding, albeit a silent one, for that negative thought.  Failure wasn’t an option; therefore, he wouldn’t fail.

            The man running the station must have trapped some pigeons, for that was what graced the supper table.  Floured and fried in a pan with onions, they were quite tasty and a welcome change from bacon and biscuits.  Lamb’s quarter provided the greens he’d been yearning for since seeing them crop up alongside the trail, and freshly baked wheat bread, crusty outside but light and fluffy within, rounded out the meal.  Adam could have dallied in delight over such a meal.  The driver was ready to leave before he was, though, and the driver’s word was law.  Adam dutifully climbed aboard and settled himself in for the night.

 

* * * * *

 

            When Adam woke and looked out the window to his right the next morning, he saw a line of cone-shaped buttes of red, sandy clay.  Partially detached from the rock wall behind them, their smooth faces sloped toward the Platte River opposite at a forty-five-degree angle.  Soon he came to a decrepit excuse for a station, with worse to offer by way of breakfast.  Squeezing into the single-room log hut, he managed to choke down a plate full of near-rancid bacon and greasy pancakes that tasted as if the flour had been mixed with dirt.  The taste was improved slightly by the thick molasses in which he drowned his stack of three. 

            The one thing Cottonwood Springs did have going for it was the water.  Being advised that it was the only good source along the route ahead, he hurried over to the clear stream flowing through a grove of tall cottonwood trees and filled his canteen with cool, clean water.

            The countryside past the home station continued to be carpeted with a rainbow of flowers, purple aster mixing with flowers of red, blue, white and yellow.  Some of the land was too swampy for flowers to grow and, unfortunately, the roadside was also strewn with the sun-bleached skulls and bones of wantonly killed buffalo.  Sometime that morning he spotted a few of the great, shaggy beasts in the distance and smiled at the memories they evoked.

            Against all hope, buffalo appeared on the table at the noon stop at Plum Creek.  The driver groused that this was the worst time of year for buffalo.  “Tough enough to break a tooth and stringy enough to stick between what’s left.”

            Grateful as he was for the diversity, Adam had to admit that this steak didn’t taste the way he remembered.  Whether this was really inferior or whether memory had simply made the original impossible to live up to, he couldn’t have said.  As the passengers again boarded the stage, the driver leaned in to whisper, “Better food at the next stop, folks.”  Everyone looked grateful for that, although Adam thought that even tough, stringy buffalo was an improvement over breakfast.

            They passed through Ft. Kearney, but since it was only a swing stop, Adam saw little of it.  Another hour and a half brought them to the home station run by a man named Hooks, which a couple of the passengers called Dogtown and another Valley City.  Adam thought the latter the most appropriate, for it was as pleasing to the ear as the setting was to the eye.  Situated on the river, its banks partially fringed with willows and young cottonwoods and in sight of the river islands, where elk and deer roamed, Valley City was a lovely spot.  And the food was good, too, the main course being blue catfish from the river.  Full to satisfaction, Adam found it easy to fall asleep as the stagecoach traveled between a narrow line of cottonwood, red willow and cedar on the north and rolling hills of red clay and sand to the south.

 

* * * * *

 

            The driver opened the stage door and assisted the female passengers from the coach.  “Count your blessings, ladies, that Thirty-Two-Mile Creek is a breakfast stop for us.  If we got here any later, we might have to fight off them pesky blue coats from Ft. Kearney.”

            Adam shook his head at what he figured to be a bad joke.  No one would ride all the way from Ft. Kearney for a meal, especially not to a one-story log cabin with nothing to set it apart from all the others along the route.  As soon as he tasted the breakfast, however, he was ready to take the driver’s tale in complete faith.  A thick slice of ham adorned each plate of fried eggs, as did a mound of potatoes fried with onion.  Biscuits were served with bottom gravy, rich and brown from the drippings of the pan in which the ham had cooked.  Pie baked from preserved peaches, juicy and sliced thick, provided a worthy finale to the fine meal.

            “Raise some good cooks in Vermont, don’t they, son?” the driver commented when Adam paid his compliments to the lady serving the meal.  “And she sets an even better table at dinner.  That’s why them soldiers from Kearney flock around when they get a day off.”

            “So, will we have another fine cook from Vermont at the next home station?” Adam asked with a smile at his hostess.

            The driver laughed.  “Not quite as good, son, ‘cause it don’t get better than this, but it ain’t bad.  You won’t starve in Little Blue country.”

            When they left, the road began a gradual slope downward over the broken tableland between the Platte River and the Little Blue.  The land here was barren, except for grass sprouting up after the recent rain, but the same moist ground that gave new life to the grass also attracted a host of mosquitoes to make the journey miserable.  Finally, a beautiful little stream, fifty yards wide, came into sight.  Oak, cottonwood and willows, their leaves already beginning to change from green to orange and yellow, lined the banks of the Little Blue, while plovers, jays, bluebirds and red-winged blackbirds flitted and twittered along the shore.

            The home station, Liberty Farm, sat on the north bank of the river, and dinner consisted of a feast of products from the Little Blue.  The meal began with a soup of soft-shelled turtle, followed by a platter of crispy, fried catfish, along with fried potatoes and green beans, preserved from the summer harvest, but still tasting garden-fresh.  The driver obviously hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said the eating was good in Little Blue country.

            Following the Little Blue, the road ran southeast from Liberty Farm.  The valley was hemmed in on both sides by low, rolling bluffs, which broke off near the river.  This late in the year the landscape was barren, except near the river, where wild sunflowers, some as high as six feet, dipped their thirsty heads.  On the slight breeze a strong odor of wild onions wafted toward the coach, pungent, but not unpleasant.

            Supper at Big Sandy didn’t compare with the previous two meals of the day, in either quantity or quality.  Mutton, sliced off a carcass hanging from the ceiling and fried in bacon fat, and lamb’s quarter, wilted in the same grease, was served with bread and coffee to make a moderately filling meal.  As he climbed back aboard the stage, Adam had to laugh at his sudden realization that food had become as great a concern for him as it normally was for his younger brother Hoss.  Well, he excused, there’s not much else to think about between one station and the next, and a fellow can’t conjugate Latin verbs all day long!  Meals marked the passage of time; they were something to look forward to, whether they were good or bad, and each one brought him closer to his journey’s end.

 

* * * * *

 

            Hollenberg’s, where the stage stopped for breakfast Wednesday morning, had the look of a place that might provide another good meal.  The home station was housed in a substantial two-story building, and nearby, stalks in a fenced cornfield were still bearing ears.  Adam entered in expectation and took a seat at the table next to the off-going driver.  The new man was just coming down from upstairs, where stage employees slept during layovers.  The former driver introduced all the passengers to the new man, but then conversation ceased as everyone dug into their ham and eggs.

A platter of hot roasting ears was brought out, and Adam quickly snared one.  “How much further to St. Joseph?” he inquired as he slathered it with creamy butter.

“One hundred twenty-three miles, we have been told,” Gerat Hollenberg replied in a thick German accent that reminded Adam of Frederick Zuebner.  “That where you are headed or beyond?”

            “Beyond,” Adam said.  “All the way to Connecticut—the East Coast,” he amended quickly, concerned that the immigrant might not know the names of all the states.  Connecticut, after all, was one of the smaller ones.

            “Train connection in St. Joseph,” the station keeper advised.

            “Yes, I know,” Adam assured him.  “Nice place you have here, Mr. Hollenberg.”

            Hollenberg smiled broadly, with evident pride.  “We build to stay, not like stations you saw west of here, eh?  Six solid rooms downstairs—post office, tavern, home for my family.  Only one room upstairs, but big to hold many men.”

            Adam chuckled.  “You don’t get more than one driver at a time, do you?”

            With a roaring laugh Hollenberg slapped his leg.  “No, sonny, but takes more than driver to run a stage.  That room is only full when Pony riders stay here, too, though.”

            “Can’t wait for that telegraph to join up and put them out of business,” the new stage driver quipped.  “Sleep better without the smell of horse sweat in the next bed, and considerin’ what we get elsewhere along the line, we ain’t about to complain about spacious accommodations.”  He scrubbed at his chin.  “Fact is, I’m so reluctant to leave ‘em that I might be persuaded to stay on and let Pete here take my run.”  He grinned at the driver going off duty.

            “Now, why might that be?” Pete jibed back.  “Could it be ‘cause you’re just plain lazy or is Miss Sophie promisin’ apple strudel for dinner?”

            Sophie Hollenberg, as plump and rosy-cheeked as the Cartwright’s old friend Ludmilla Zuebner, blushed.  “I promise it,” she admitted.

            “Then there ain’t no temptin’ me to leave,” Pete cackled.  “You’ll just have to do your own drivin’, Sam.”

            “Well, you’re certainly tempting me to stay over,” voiced a male passenger rubbing his aching neck.  “Gettin’ all-fired tired of that stage, anyway.”  He elbowed Adam.  “How about you, son?  You been ridin’ it longer than me.  Not sure what strudel is, but if these drivers are fightin’ over it, must be worth a taste.”

            “I know what it is.  In fact, it’s a favorite of mine, so I am tempted,” Adam admitted.  “Miss Sophie, if your strudel is as fine as what a German lady I know back home makes, it would be well worth a day’s layover, but I can’t spare the time this trip.”

            “You come back soon, then,” Miss Sophie urged with a matronly smile.  “Stay with us and I make for you.  Is promise.”

            Adam smiled and nodded.  Of course, he hoped it would be four years before he passed this way again.  No telling if the Hollenbergs would still be running the station then, and Miss Sophie would be unlikely to remember a promise to a stranger that long.  If he ended up back here sooner, though, at least he’d have something sweet to ease his disappointment.  As he boarded the stage again, Adam scoffed at the notion.  No piece of pastry would comfort him if he failed.  He couldn’t fail!

            The stage passed through Marysville, a town that hadn’t even existed when he, Pa and Inger had started west.  Odd that I never thought how different it would be back here, Adam thought.  Virginia City had changed every time I came back from Sacramento and I took that in stride.  Seemed right for a new town to grow, I guess.  These places, especially the prairie, have been locked in my memory, forever changeless, but they’re growing, too.  Wonder if I’ll even recognize St. Joe!

            A rope ferry was in place at Marysville, but since the Big Blue River was only about two feet deep this late in the year, the stage forded it, instead.  The soil, though sandy, gave a solid track for the wheels, but the banks were steep.  The two female passengers looked nervous, and Adam was sure his own face showed concern, too.  He was getting close to his goal now and didn’t want one of those luckless accidents that often happened at fording places to keep him from getting to St. Joe tomorrow on schedule.  Holding his breath, Adam leaned out the window and watched the wheels roll down the precipitous bank, splash through the water and come out safely on the other side of the river.  He exhaled in relief and pulled his head back in.

            Diligent perusal of his Latin text consumed the morning until Adam closed it with a look of satisfaction.  He’d been over the contents from cover to cover during the long, monotonous days aboard the stage.  He’d just rest his eyes tomorrow and start fresh with his Greek text when he took the train out of St. Joe.  He gazed out the window, so no one aboard would see his sheepish smile as he admitted that he was more likely to spend that trip across the state chattering away with Jamie.  To think that by tomorrow he’d at long last be able to talk face-to-face with his old friend, instead of just by letter.

            About half an hour later the stage stopped at a cluster of frame houses on the near side of the well-wooded Vermillion River.  The stationmaster here was a young Alsatian, George Guittard, who lived with his mother, sister and son in a large and clean two-story house surrounded by neat fences.  Though the lady said she didn’t often spare a chicken for travelers, a fine roasted one graced the table this noon.  It came with savory stuffing and all the fixings, superb hot rolls and fresh, hot coffee to drink with the best apple pie Adam had tasted since the last one Hop Sing had baked.  The only deterrent to this meal was having only thirty minutes to enjoy it.

            After the meal the stage forded the Vermillion, choosing a path between granite boulders.  Adam really held his breath at this one, for the Vermillion was where he’d first learned that rivers could be dangerous.  One of the wagons in the Larrimore train had overturned in mid-stream and cost them most of a day’s progress, but the stage had no problem crossing over the red sandstone bottom.

Adam settled back and closed his eyes.  He napped most of the afternoon, only waking when the stagecoach stopped at Ash Point for a change of team.  Even the relay stations were looking more prosperous as he headed east.  This one boasted several homes, a general store, a post office and a small hotel nearby, more than most home stations offered further west.  He fell asleep again as soon as the coach started rocking on its thoroughbraces and didn’t rouse until it arrived at Seneca, another small, but burgeoning town.  Only a few buildings with false fronts, but a lawyer’s shingle hung outside one of them.  It took a town of some size, in Adam’s experience, to require the services of a lawyer, but he had a feeling this one would go hungry if he depended on that practice to earn his living.

The Smith Hotel, a white, two-story frame structure, looked prosperous, however, and served as home station for the stage line.  The passengers piled inside, some to stay the night and others, like Adam, simply to share a meal in a kitchen so clean they could have eaten off the floor.  Just the way Hop Sing and Marie kept our kitchen at home, Adam recalled.  Inger, too.  Mrs. Smith, the wife of the New Hampshire stationmaster, was a good cook, as well.  She couldn’t rival Hop Sing or Marie, of course, for when those two had joined forces, simple meals became gourmet feasts.  Mrs. Smith cooked more as Inger had: bountiful helpings of basic foods, well prepared and served hot.

            Only two passengers went on that night, so Adam had a bench to himself and took advantage of it.  He had a hard time falling asleep, though, partly because he’d slept so much that afternoon and partly from sheer excitement.  Tomorrow would bring him to St. Joseph, Missouri, and the beginning of another phase of his journey.  Halfway there, with the hardest part over.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam woke with a feeling of exhilaration.  Today.  Today he would reach St. Joseph.  Today he would be with his first teacher once again—and Jamie.  And tomorrow they would both start for New Haven.  Today was a momentous day, and Adam was more than ready to meet it.

He sat up and looked out the window, surprised to see how frequently a house came into view, where only empty prairie reigned less than a dozen years before.  Now, a farmhouse appeared practically every mile along the well traveled road.

            About an hour after he awoke, the stage pulled up before the Kennekuk Hotel in the Kansas town of the same name.  Only a dozen houses here, including a store and blacksmith shop and, in a particularly prominent building, the Kickapoo Indian Agency.  “Kickapoos got a reservation near here; we passed it comin’ in,” the driver said when he saw Adam looking at the building, “but that’s where the agent—Major Royal Baldwin hisself—lives.”  He grinned, showing a wide gap between his two front teeth.  “Reckon he wants to stay close to the best coffee this side of the Missouri.”

            “That good, huh?” Adam chuckled as he fell into step beside the driver.

            “See for yourself,” the man advised.

            More than willing, Adam followed him into the hotel.  Last home station.  Last time he’d be at the mercy of the stage line for eateries.  He hoped the meal would be a good one, but it didn’t really matter.  It was the last.

            The coffee smelled good, and his first sip from the steaming cup, creamy with fresh milk, verified that it was.  Breakfast was just bacon, eggs and biscuits again, but they were well prepared and served hot.  “Where you gents bound?” asked the station keeper as he ladled gravy over the two split biscuits in his plate.  “Not far, I hope.”

            “I’m stopping at Elwood,” Adam’s companion of the previous night announced.

            “That’s good,” the station keeper said.  “Best to stay this side of the river, the way the Rebs are runnin’ riot over to St. Joe.”

            A shiver ran up Adam’s spine.  “I’m going on to St. Joe,” he said.

            “Oh, you mustn’t,” said Mrs. Perry, the station keeper’s wife.  “Too big a risk.”

            The other passenger eyed Adam suspiciously.  “Unless you’re secesh.  They’re runnin’ the place now, I hear.”

            “No,” Adam said quickly.  “I’m just—well—keeping out of it.”

            His companion snorted.  “Easier said than done, boy.”

            “Hush now,” Mrs. Perry chided, pouring a second cup of coffee for the man.  “He is a boy, and he should stay out of it, for just that reason.”

            “If he can,” Mr. Perry put in solemnly.  “Son, I’d advise you to hold off that trip to St. Joe ‘til things settle down a mite.  Union forces pulled out week or so ago, thinking they’d be more needed elsewhere, and with them gone the Rebs walked right in and took over.  St. Joe’s a hot spot now, and that’s a pure fact.  Stay over here with us if you got no kin or friend in Elwood.”

            “I can’t,” Adam explained.  “I’m just passing through, anyway, on the way to New Haven, Connecticut.”

            “Connecticut!” Mrs. Perry cried, hand reaching up to cover her gaping mouth.  She looked at her husband.  “Oh, Tom, you’d best tell him.”

            “Go find that copy of the Elwood Free Press,” Tom Perry ordered.  “Boy needs to see for himself what he’s up against.”  As his wife bustled out of the room, he turned to Adam.  “Son, I’m sorry, but if you’re aimin’ to take the train out of St. Joe, you’re in trouble.”

            Coffee sloshed from Adam’s cup onto the tablecloth as he set it on the saucer, but he didn’t even notice.  “I have to take the train,” he said urgently.  “I’ve got a deadline to meet, and that’s the only way—”

            “Then you ain’t gonna make it,” Perry said bluntly.  “The rail line’s out of service.  Bushwhackers burned a bridge east of St. Joseph two days ago.  More than a dozen people died when the train went into the river.”  His wife hurried in and handed him the newspaper.  Perry passed it across to Adam.  “See for yourself, son.”

            Adam grabbed the paper, his eyes flying down the columns reporting the disaster.  The words described a scene of horror.  At 11:15 on the moonless night of September 3^rd, the westbound train from Hannibal, Missouri, had approached the bridge over the Little Platte River.  Everything had looked normal in the light from the locomotive’s white calcium headlamp, but looks had been deceiving.  Unaware that the timbers supporting the bridge had been partially burned through to set a deadly trap, the conductor ran his train onto the bridge; halfway across the timbers crumpled beneath its weight.   The locomotive flipped upside down, plunging into the river thirty feet below, and the freight cars fell onto its upturned wheels; the baggage car followed, then the mail car and two passenger cars carrying a hundred men, women and children.  Seats ripped out of the floor and hurtled to the front, along with the people who had moments before been sleeping in them; sparks ignited the wooden cars.  Some were able to climb out and worked feverishly to put out the fire; others, trapped beneath a pile of debris, screamed inside a personal hell.  Most, though injured, were rescued, but the article estimated that seventeen to twenty people had perished that night.  Many who survived would be maimed for life.

            Aghast, Adam set the paper down.  He was appalled at the loss of life, of course, but though he rebuked himself for the selfishness of the thought, only one question rose to his mind.  “The line’s out of service, you said?  Not running at all?”

            Tom Perry scratched his head.  “Well, might be, t’other side of the bridge.  Yeah, might be . . . if you could get there.  Might be hard.”

            Hard, I can handle, Adam assured himself.  Just so it’s not impossible.  “How far from St. Joe is that bridge?”

            Perry shrugged.  “Not sure.  East of there, that’s all I know.  They took the injured to hotels in St. Joe, so maybe not too far, but I don’t know Missouri geography well enough to be of more help.  Sorry, son.”

            Mrs. Perry placed a matronly hand on Adam’s arm.  “Please stay over with us.  We’ll give you a good rate.  To go on without knowing you can get where you’re headed is foolhardy, my boy.”

            Adam smiled, weakly, at her.  “You’re very kind, ma’am, and I appreciate your concern, but even if I can’t get through, I’d have to go.  My best friend in all the world lives in St. Joseph.  If things there are as difficult for Union sympathizers as you all say, I must see for myself that he’s all right.”  He picked up his fork again, but suddenly the food on his plate looked as nauseating as cold mush.  He stood abruptly.  “Excuse me; I think I need some air.”

            Mr. and Mrs. Perry exchanged a glance.  Shaking his head, Perry returned to his own breakfast.

            “Kids,” the other passenger grunted.  “Never seen one yet what would listen to good sense.”

            Adam lurched outside, frantically grabbing a porch post for support.  This couldn’t be happening, not after everything he’d endured to get here.  It just couldn’t be happening!  There had to be a way across that river; there just had to be!  He’d walk every step, ford it on foot if he had to.  Anything to get there.  He leaned his head against the post in defeated realization.  Yes, he could walk; he could walk every step to New Haven if he had to, but he’d never make it in time for the entrance exam.   That train had to be running, and he had to catch it.  Let either of those fail and he was doomed.  Where was that blasted Little Platte River, anyway?  We must have crossed it when we first came to St. Joe.  Why can’t I remember?  Adam laughed harshly.  Because you were six, you idiot.  How could you hope to store in your head every river you crossed by the time you were six?

His stomach started to cramp, as if attacked by dysentery.  He stumbled away from the station, another worry hounding his steps.  Was Jamie trapped in St. Joe now, too, trapped there because he’d waited for his friend?  Bad enough to miss his own chance, but if he’d ruined Jamie’s, too, Adam didn’t think he would ever forgive himself.

            The driver and other passenger finally emerged from the hotel.  Heart racing, Adam ran for the stage and jumped aboard.  Go fast, he implored.  Burn the road like a Pony Express rider.  Get me to Elwood and over the river.  Get me to the Edwards.  Then I’ll know.

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

The Platte River Bridge was burned by Confederates on September 3, 1861.  Details were obtained from the New York Times of September 7, 1861 and from The Half Not Told: The Civil War in a Frontier Town by Preston Filbert, which describes the effect of the Civil War on St. Joseph, Missouri.

CHAPTER FOUR

St. Joe

 

 

            Heart pounding harder than his feet, Adam ran down the wooden planking of the dock.   With a strangled cry he watched the ferry pull away.  “How long ‘til the next boat?” he frantically asked a man stacking recently off-loaded crates.

            The man scratched his grizzled chin whiskers and spat tobacco juice contemptuously into the murky water of the Missouri River.  “Runs ever’ fifteen minutes . . . if it keeps runnin’.”

            “What do you mean ‘if’?” Adam demanded.  “It has to run!  I have to get across!”

            Another man snarled between his copper mustache and chest-length beard.  “Why, boy?  You aimin’ to join up with them bloody bushwhackers?”

            Adam planted his palms on his hips and glared at the man.  “Do I sound like I’m from the South?”

            The first man again spit another dark stream toward the water.  The spittle missed, staining the edge of the dock a hickory brown.  “Not ‘specially, but I can’t ‘xactly place your accent, young fellow.”

            “Nevada!” Adam snapped hotly, eyes darting from one face to the other.  “I’m from Nevada, way out west, all right?  I have friends in St. Joe—and, yes, they’re of the Union persuasion, if you must know.  You have a quarrel with that?”  It was not the safe, nonpartisan answer his father probably would have preferred, but anxiety rode roughshod over caution in Adam’s young heart.  As it turned out, his answer was the safest he could have given, at least on this side of the river.  Kansas was firmly in the Union camp and determined to stay that way.

            The red-headed man laughed.  “If your friends be Union, sonny, you’d best look for ‘em here in Elwood.  Cowardly poltroons in St. Joe all took tail and run for cover.”

            “Can’t blame ‘em for that,” snorted the other man.  “Ain’t nothin’ cowardly ‘bout jumpin’ out of a nest of rattlers.”

Adam frowned in thought.  Was that possible?  Josiah Edwards was no coward, but might he and Jamie have come across the river, for safety’s sake?  Adam shook his head.  No, if anything, they would have headed east, to get Jamie to New Haven.  It was what his own father would have done, and he remembered Mr. Edwards being cut from the same cloth.  “No, sir,” he said.  “They aren’t the kind to turn tail; I’d best cross and look over there.”

            “Confounded ferry needs to be shut down,” a third man hollered in a loud voice.  “Rebs havin’ their way in St. Joe, and we can’t risk leavin’ ‘em a way to get here.”

            “He’s right, boy,” the redhead said with a kindly clap on Adam’s shoulder.  “No Federal protection there now, and if the ferry does shut down, like it ought, you’ll have no way back.”

            Since Adam had no intention of coming back, that argument held no weight.  He paced the dock frantically, trying to shut out the talk humming around him of forcing the ferry to tie up permanently on the west side of the river.  “Just once more,” he pleaded of Heaven.  “Let it run once more; that’s all I ask.”

            Those fifteen minutes seemed to Adam the longest of his life, but at last his searching eyes were rewarded with the sight of the incoming boat.  He helped a lady to debark and then leaped aboard.  “Heading straight back?” he asked the ferryman.

            “Long as there’s payin’ customers,” the boatman said with a grin.

            Adam dug into his pocket and handed over the fee with alacrity.  Within a few minutes, over the loud protests of many on the dock, the ferry pulled away from shore, carrying him and a couple of others east.  As he clung to the rail with white knuckles, Adam sent unuttered questions flying across the water.  Would he find the Edwards at home or had they fled?  If they had, it would be a difficulty, a disappointment, but nothing to compare with the direr possibility that his friends had gotten caught up in the struggle between North and South and come to harm.  Oh, God, let them be safe, whether I find them or not.  Just let them be safe.

 

* * * * *

 

            St. Joseph lay ravaged, in ruins.  From the riverfront, empty but for the steamboat Omaha tied up at the dock, Adam passed block after block of businesses with broken windows, boarded over.  Not that that stopped determined looters.  He saw three men pulling boards from a local mercantile, in hopes of finding something left by previous pilferers, something the original owner hadn’t had time to ferry over to Elwood.  It grated on Adam’s honest soul to walk past such displays of lawlessness, but as he’d been told on the west side of the Missouri, there was no law in St. Joseph.  He could scarcely supply it single-handed.  What was needed was the Federal Army, but it had deserted the place.

            The town had grown in the years he’d been away, at least judging by the number of buildings.  Jamie had written him last year that the population was 10,000, but Adam doubted that half that many were here now.  Even that was a generous estimate, for the streets were virtually empty.  Of course, with the sun nearly down, peace-loving citizens were probably huddled snug in their homes.  The streets of St. Joe were no place to be after dark, and the waning light made Adam eager to reach his destination.  Wisely, he kept to the side streets, to avoid trouble.

            Making his way east from the ferry, he finally reached Tenth Street and stopped, uncertain which way to turn.  Jamie had written that the house he and his father had moved to after the Cartwrights left was on Edmond, just past Tenth Street, but was Edmond to the right or the left?  Adam strained his brain to remember the layout of St. Joseph, but the effort was useless.  Too many years had passed, too many houses been built, and he hadn’t dared to ask directions of the type of people he’d seen on the streets earlier.  Had Edmond even existed in 1850?  It didn’t sound familiar, but street names had long since left his memory, except those he’d frequented daily.  With a shrug he turned to the right, hoping for the best, and grinned widely when after three blocks he struck Edmond and spotted the schoolhouse.  It was the first positive thing that had happened all day, for according to the directions he’d been given, the Edwards lived two houses past that.  Now, if only Jamie and his father were still there.

            Adam set his carpetbag on the wooden porch of the small frame house and knocked with some trepidation.  As far as he could tell, no lamps were lighted inside, but it would have been hard to tell with all the windows shuttered.  Time seemed to stand still, but eventually the door creaked open a crack and the barrel of a revolver slipped through.  Shocked to silence, Adam stepped back.  Slowly, the door opened wider, and then he smiled in relief as he recognized the auburn goatee of his old teacher.  “Mr. Edwards!” he cried.  “You are still here!”

            The door flew open then.  Josiah Edwards seized the dirty-faced stranger in an eager bear hug.  “Adam?  You’re Adam, aren’t you?”  His hearty clap on the back raised alkali dust from the young man’s blue shirt.  “I scarcely knew you, lad; you were only so high the last time I saw you.”  He held his hand at about the height of a seven-year-old boy and beamed proudly.  I should have recognized him straight off, the teacher chided himself.  He’s taller, but still has those same strong features.  And that look of determination in those dark eyes . . . who else but Adam?  “Come in, my boy, come in where it’s safe,” he urged.

            Grateful that he had, at least, found shelter for the night, Adam picked up his bag and followed Mr. Edwards inside.

            Mr. Edwards apologized for the gun as he laid it on a table beside the door.  “I was expecting you, of course, though your telegram didn’t specify when, and—well, these days one never knows what a knock on the door might mean.”

            Normally, Adam’s manners were impeccable, in tribute to his father’s teaching, but now, he felt, was no time for small talk.  There was an urgent question to be answered.  “Sir, forgive me, but I’ve heard reports . . . the bridge . . . is it really out?”

            Edwards’ expression grew grave.  “It is, son—a terrible tragedy . . . all those innocent lives lost.”  He shook his head sadly.

            Adam collapsed in the nearest chair.  “Then it’s over,” he groaned, burying his weary face in his hands.  “There’s no way I can make it to New Haven, and I’ve ruined Jamie’s chances, too.”

            “No, no, not at all,” Edwards assured him.  He gave the young man’s shoulder a consoling pat.  “Jamie is already gone; I sent him almost a week ago, before the bridge catastrophe, and we’re going to get you there, too, Adam.  Never fear.”

            Adam looked up, scarcely daring to hope.  “But how?”

            Edwards patted his shoulder again.  “Later, my boy, later.  It won’t be easy, but I have it all worked out.”  He smiled at the dusty face below him.  “But first a bath, I think, and then a bite of supper.  I’ll explain everything while we eat.”

            Adam stood, still feeling somewhat shaky, though some of that might be blamed on his state of near exhaustion.  “It’s really all right?”

            “Difficult, but doable,” his former teacher reiterated.  “Now, come along and I’ll draw you a nice hot bath.”

            Adam heaved a huge sigh of relief as he followed Mr. Edwards down the narrow hallway.  Just knowing he still had a chance to reach New Haven in time went a long way toward relaxing his taut muscles, but he couldn’t deny that the hot bath sounded like exactly what he needed.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam wrapped a towel around his lean and now thoroughly clean body and stepped into the hall.  “Mr. Edwards?” he called, not sure which way to turn.

            Josiah Edwards’ head popped out a doorway.  “Here, Adam.”

            Adam smiled and padded down the worn hall runner on bare feet.  He entered, taking note of a shelf of volumes he well recognized.  “This is Jamie’s room?” he inquired.

            “Yes.”  Mr. Edwards looked up and saw where Adam’s eyes were directed.  He smiled.  “He’s kept every journal you sent him, Adam; they’re his treasures.”

            “As are his to me,” Adam returned.  “Mr. Edwards . . .”

            “Josiah,” the older man said.  “You’re not one of my grammar-school pupils any longer, Adam.  We’re simply friends now, and I’d be pleased if you called me by my first name.”

            Adam frowned slightly.  “It doesn’t seem respectful, sir, you being so much my elder.”

            “It’s respectful if I offer,” Josiah insisted, adding with a chuckle, “though I don’t mind your throwing in an occasional ‘sir.’  Even Jamie does that, as the situation warrants.”

            Adam laughed, too, then.  “I’m truly glad he went on without me, but I do wish I could see him—now, this very minute.”

            “Perhaps I can oblige, after a fashion.”  Josiah left the room and returned shortly.  He held out a framed portrait to Adam.  “That’s your friend, as he looked at Christmas, when he had this made as a gift for me.”

            Adam eagerly reached for the frame and gazed at the daguerreotype of a slender young man with pale hair.  The features he remembered had changed somewhat with maturity, but it was still obviously Jamie, the boy with whom he’d first shared the adventure of learning.

            “Changed much?” Josiah asked softly.

            Adam nodded.  “Quite a bit, but I recognize the eyes . . . those gentle, kind eyes.”

            “Yes.”  Josiah’s voice dropped even lower.  “Gentle, kind . . . and still somewhat frail, I fear.”

            Adam looked up sharply.  “He hasn’t been ill again?”

            “No, he’s fine.  I’m just being a fretful father,” Josiah said, brightening again, “but he’s not as sturdy a boy as you, Adam.  That’s the chief reason I sent him on, though he argued vigorously that he should wait for you.  I didn’t feel he could handle the strenuous trip that’s been forced on you and still have sufficient energy to do well on his exams.”

            “You were very wise, sir,” Adam said firmly.  “I wouldn’t wish to jeopardize his chances for anything.”

            “I wish you could have a few days’ rest before your exams, too, but I think having Jamie go ahead will benefit you, as well.”  Josiah sat on the bed, and Adam followed his example.  “He’ll make arrangements for the two of you to lodge together, so you’ll have a place to go immediately on arrival, and you can get as much rest as possible before facing the big challenge.  And you see that you do, my boy.  No sitting up all night talking with your old chum or packing in one last bit of knowledge.”

            “No, sir, we’ll resist the temptation,” Adam said with a grin.  It faded perceptibly.  “I—I hope it’s not all for nothing.  I mean . . .”

            Josiah put an arm around the young man’s bare shoulder and drew him close.  “I know what you mean, and I’m sure you have nothing to fear.  You’re well prepared.  You wouldn’t be Adam if you weren’t.”

            Adam gave his head a slight, dubious shake.  “I don’t know.  My schooling’s been the best the West could offer—Pa saw to that—but it’s not like a preparatory school back East.”

            Josiah squeezed him firmly.  “Nor has Jamie been to one of those fancy eastern preparatory schools, but I have confidence in both my boys—I think of you almost as a second son, Adam—and I’m sure you’ll both succeed.”  He released Adam and stood up.  “Now, as your second father, I shall issue a firm order.”  He slapped Adam’s still-damp back.  “Get some clothes on, young man, and get yourself down the hall to supper.”  With his chin he indicated the clothes draped over a chair, which he’d taken from the washroom after Adam removed them.  “I brushed your traveling clothes while you were in the tub.  Sorry there isn’t time to clean them properly, but you can take care of that once you’re in New Haven.  Jamie can advise you where to take your laundry—another advantage to having him there early.  As for tonight, I’ve laid out one of my nightshirts, so you can keep yours fresh, and I’ve no objection to your wearing it to the supper table.  I’d best check on that soup now, before it boils over!”

            He disappeared so quickly that Adam had no time to either argue or say thanks.  He just grinned and did exactly as he was told.  The nightshirt was a little large—not long enough to trip over, but he did turn back the cuffs, so the long sleeves wouldn’t interfere with eating.

            “Have a seat, my boy,” Mr. Edwards urged.  “I’m just dishing up the soup now.  Sorry I haven’t more to offer.  I’d have done better had I known exactly when you’d arrive.  Actually, I was beginning to fear you’d run into trouble.”

“Is there enough . . . for both of us?” Adam asked.  “I don’t wish to put you out, Mr. . . . Josiah.”

“Of course there’s enough, son, more than enough.  Nothing but soup, but plenty of it.  I had hoped to take you to the Patee House for a better meal than I can cook, but it’s simply not safe to be out after dark.”

            “The soup is quite sufficient, sir.”  Adam chuckled.  “In fact, compared to most stage station fodder, it’s a feast.”

            Josiah’s blue eyes twinkled in appreciation of the humor.  “I’m sure it’s been quite an experience.”

            Adam shrugged as he ladled up another spoonful of soup.  “It got old fast, but today’s been the real experience.  Ever since I heard about the bridge disaster this morning . . .”

            Josiah looked sympathetic.  “You’ve been worrying all day.”

            Adam admitted it with a nod.  “I tried not to, but I’ve come so far and the thought of failing now . . .”

            “You won’t fail.  Let me tell you what I’ve worked out.”  Josiah pushed his own bowl aside, while motioning for Adam to continue eating.  “The train is running, but not over the entire line, obviously.”

            “How far away is the Little Platte?”  Adam asked.

            “About ten miles,” Josiah responded, “but we’ll have to go well beyond that to reach a functioning depot.”  Seeing Adam’s quizzical look, he explained, “Another bridge, about fifteen miles further east, was also burned the same night, after the train had passed.  We’ll have to get to Osborn before you can catch the train—about twenty-eight miles from here.”

            “Can we rent horses at the livery?”

            Josiah shook his head.  “Confederates confiscated every horse in town before they pulled out.”

            Adam’s face scrunched with dismay.  “If I’m walking twenty-eight miles, I’d better start right after supper.”

            “You’re only walking a couple of miles,” Josiah chuckled.  “I’ve made arrangements with a man to borrow two mounts.  He lives outside town and managed to hide them when the Rebel troops started confiscating everything in sight.  We will have to be careful we’re not seen.  With that and the distance we have to cover, we’ll be getting up before the sun—quite a bit before.”

            “That’s no problem.”

            “Not for a country boy like you, I’m sure!”

            Adam smiled slightly, but he still looked far from reassured.  “This man?  Can he be trusted?  I mean . . . over in Elwood, they were saying that the Union men had all left St. Joe.  Well, you’re still here, of course, but . . .”

            Josiah reached across the table to stroke Adam’s arm.  “Don’t worry, son.  It’s all taken care of.  This man is the father of a former student, and I know him well, which is why I dared approach him.  He was a little reluctant to trust his horses out of his sight, but after I explained the circumstances, he agreed to lend them.  He is a Southern sympathizer, but he’s totally opposed to what’s been going on around here lately, especially the ruthless destruction of private property.  He was appalled by the rail disaster, an attack upon helpless civilians, and he’s willing to help a young man stranded by the rebels’ actions, even though he hopes the South will eventually win.”  He noticed that Adam had finished his soup.  “Like some more?  There’s plenty . . . or I have some apples, if you prefer.”

            “An apple, please.”  Josiah brought a bowl of crisp red fruit from the sideboard and set it on the table.  Adam reached for an apple, rolled it from hand to hand and then set it down.  “Sir . . . Josiah . . . did you stay behind just to meet me?  St. Joseph doesn’t seem like a safe place for a Union man these days, and I’d hate to think you risked yourself for me.”

            “St. Joe hasn’t been a safe place for a Union man for years,” Josiah said soberly as he, too, took an apple and began to peel it.  “As for why I’m still here, it’s my home.  I’m not sure how much longer I’ll stay, though.  I don’t know if Jamie wrote you this, but the schools have been closed since the end of May, so for now I’m out of work.”

            “He didn’t tell me.”

            Josiah shrugged.  “No need, really.  The rent’s paid until the end of the month, so I’ll stay that long, hope things settle down and the school reopens.  If it doesn’t, I’ll seek a position elsewhere”—he smiled—“perhaps closer to my boys.”

            “That would be wonderful,” Adam said enthusiastically.  “I’d feel better, knowing you were safe, and I’m sure Jamie would.”

            “Yes, he would; he’s said so.”  Josiah cut off a thin slice of apple.  “I suppose it would be best, for the duration.  It’s just hard to leave a place when you’ve invested so much of your life into it.”  He slid the slice into his mouth.

            “Isn’t it Jamie you’ve invested your life in?” Adam suggested shyly, feeling somewhat uncomfortable with advising an elder.

            Josiah laughed.  “What a wise young man you are!  He is, indeed, my primary investment, although I like to think of students like you as an investment, too.”  His countenance changed abruptly.  “Many of them, I fear, will be lost in this conflict—one gone already.”  He looked across the table with piercing eyes.  “Do you have a gun?”

            “In my bag.”  Adam smiled wryly.  “I thought I might need it further west, in case of Indian trouble, but never spotted a single hostile.  Now I’m beginning to wonder if the East isn’t more dangerous territory.”

            “The border states, mostly.  You should be all right once you head north.”  Josiah leaned forward on his elbows.  “Keep it in your bag, but keep the bag close while you’re on the train.  Middle of last month a train was fired on near Palmyra, a few soldiers killed, and a week ago a fifteen-year-old passenger was killed by snipers near Caldwell Station.”

            “Maybe I should just wear it.”

            Josiah shook his head vigorously.  “No, you mustn’t, Adam.  John Frémont declared martial law throughout the state last weekend, and if you wear a pistol openly, you can be stopped, subjected to court martial and executed.”

            “Court martial!  I’m a civilian!”

            “I know, Adam, but so are many of the troublemakers hereabouts.”  Josiah stood and took their empty soup bowls to the sink.  “Frémont means well, I’m sure, but in my opinion he’s gone too far.  He’s even emancipated the slaves of those accused, and much as I support that cause, doing it so abruptly, without the support of the Federal government, can only heighten tensions.”

            Adam gathered the rest of the utensils from the table.  “I do wish you’d come east with me, sir.  After all you’ve told me, I’m genuinely concerned for your safety.”

            “Not necessarily safer where you’re headed, young man.”  Seeing Adam’s shocked look, he winced.  “I shouldn’t say that.  I’ve just been concerned about reports from Connecticut.”

            “I hadn’t heard of any fighting in Connecticut,” Adam said as he pumped water into the sink.  “Just in Virginia . . . and, well, around here, I guess.”

            Josiah lathered up suds from a bar of soft soap.  “The real fighting, yes, but not two weeks ago there was an incident north of Bridgeport, Connecticut—at a peace rally, no less!”  He turned toward Adam.  “Northerners opposed to the war have been holding rallies—quite a number of them in Connecticut, where you’re headed.  Naturally, those in favor of the war take issue, and at that one some fire was exchanged.  No harm done, as far as I know, but don’t let your guard down, just because you think you’re in safe territory, son.  In this war there really is no safe territory.”

            “Pa would say Nevada was safe territory, that this war isn’t our fight,” Adam chuckled as he took a tea towel and began to dry the dishes after Josiah washed them, “but I’ve seen scuffles even way out there, so I guess I agree with you.  I will watch myself, sir, and I’ll watch out for Jamie, as well.”

            Josiah smiled as he passed a cup over to Adam.  “I knew I could count on you, Adam.  Please do keep an eye on him for me.  I’m not worried about his involvement in the strife; if he can keep out of it here, he can manage that anywhere.  I do worry, though, about his overtaxing his strength through too much study, not enough care for his health.”

            “I’ll watch over that, too,” Adam promised.

 

* * * * *

 

            With the need to rise early on the morrow, Josiah and Adam both turned in shortly after supper.  Adam found it difficult to sleep, however.  Too many thoughts, too many questions swirled through his mind.  He took one of his old journals from the shelf and read for a while, trying to settle himself for sleep.  For a few minutes worries over the war, exams and his family back home faded while he relived the journey west, as he had recorded it for his friend back in 1850.  Finally, he gazed intently at Jamie’s portrait, which Josiah had left in the room.  Once he was sure he’d memorized the features well enough to recognize his friend at the train depot in New Haven, he set it on the table and turned down out the light.  “I’ll see you soon, chum,” he promised.

CHAPTER FIVE

Into the Land of the Red, White and Blue

 

 

The sky was still black when Josiah and Adam slipped from the Edwards home and made their way south through the silent streets of St. Joseph.  As they approached the outskirts of town, Josiah pointed toward a four-story brick structure a couple of blocks east of them.  “Patee House,” he whispered, “headquarters for the Pony Express.”  He gestured the opposite direction.  “That’s where you would have caught the train.  Well, you can’t see the depot from here, but it’s not far down that way.”

            “Can’t see much,” Adam whispered back with a trace of humor.

            Josiah chuckled softly.  “No, I guess not, but I know my way through St. Joe, son, even in the dark.  Just sorry the walk has to take so much longer than it would have if the train still connected here.”

            Houses became fewer and further apart, until finally they reached the open countryside, fragrant with the scent of dew-dappled meadows.  “How is your father getting along?” Josiah asked, speaking in a more normal volume now that they were out of town.  “Your letter to Jamie indicated that he was taking his wife’s death very hard.”

            “He was,” Adam admitted.  “I think he’s better now,” he added hesitantly.

            “But you’re not sure?”

            Adam frowned in thought.  “He’s better than he was, and he says he can handle things—the ranch, the boys.  I’m just not sure . . . maybe I shouldn’t be leaving . . . at least, not so soon.”

            “Adam, Adam,” Josiah chided.  “You’re too young to carry all this weight on your shoulders.”

            “There wasn’t anyone else,” Adam said gruffly.

            “No, I suppose not,” the older man admitted with a compassionate gaze, “but if your father says he’s all right, then he probably is.  And, frankly, having responsibilities is the best medicine for what ails him.  I found that to be true when I lost Jamie’s mother.”

            Adam stopped abruptly.  “You think I did him harm by carrying those responsibilities for him?”

            Josiah placed his hand against the young man’s back and gently pushed him forward.  “No,” he replied as they continued walking.  “He probably needed your help in that first rush of grief, but if you’d stayed, given up your dreams to continue carrying responsibilities rightfully his . . .”

            “I might have crippled him?”  At Josiah’s nod Adam pursed his lips in consideration.  If only it could be true that he wasn’t just being selfish in leaving home to pursue his dream, that he might actually be helping Pa by . . . well, by not helping him, by letting him stand alone.  It was a new idea and one that merited further thought.  Now, however, was neither the time for contemplation or further conversation, for a farmhouse appeared atop a low rise to their left.  Josiah turned up the path leading to it.

            Adam remained in the yard while Josiah mounted the steps to the two-story frame farmhouse and rapped on the door.  A portly man, hitching suspenders over his bare chest, answered the door.  “Figured it might be you, Edwards.  So, today’s the day, is it?”  The farmer stepped out onto the porch and stared down at Adam.  “That the college boy?”

            “That’s him,” Josiah said.  “Adam, may I present Ezra Whitcomb?  Ezra, Adam Cartwright.”

            Whitcomb came down the steps and took the young man’s hand.  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, young fellow, brief as it’s like to be.”

            Adam pumped the farmer’s hand.  “Yes, sir.  I can’t thank you enough for your help, sir.”

            Whitcomb shrugged off the thanks and moved toward the barn.  “You sure he’s a college boy?” he asked over his shoulder.  “Got the grip of a working man.”

            Josiah laughed.  “He knows the value of work—and books, as well.  That, my friend, makes for a well rounded man.”

            “Reckon.”  Whitcomb opened the barn door and pointed to a black gelding in the first stall.  “Think you can slap a saddle on that one, boy?”

            “Don’t blink,” Adam teased.

            Whitcomb cackled.  “I’ll saddle the teacher’s, then.”  He winked at Adam.  “Not that he can’t; he’s just none too quick about it.”

            “He’s quick at other things,” Adam returned, and Josiah smiled at his display of loyalty and smooth repartee.

            Soon both horses were saddled.  “Take good care of ‘em,” the farmer said, resting an affectionate hand on each muzzle.

            “You have my word,” Josiah promised.  Whitcomb also had his solemn promise to make good the loss if anything did happen to either horse, but he kept that to himself.  Adam was young, and he already had worries enough without applying his all-too-active conscience to that, as well.

            The two travelers mounted and with a farewell wave to Mr. Whitcomb headed east.  Wanting to avoid the main road, they cut across wooded country.  “Good thing it’s Friday,” Josiah observed.  “Tomorrow, even this early, we’d likely run into farmers on their way to market.  Probably wouldn’t have met anyone on the main road today, but it’s best to stick to the shelter of the trees.  Anyone we did meet would be likely to take undue interest in these horses.  Besides, we’re saving a mile this way.”

            “All to the good,” Adam agreed.

            Intent on their purpose, they spoke little after that, and fortune favored them with an uneventful ride to the Little Platte.  “We’re crossing north of where the bridge did,” Josiah explained.  “I think the banks aren’t as steep here.”

            “Should be easier fording, then,” Adam said.

            True to expectation, the river was easy to ford at the point Josiah had chosen, its banks sloping gently down to the water.  Adam was glad he hadn’t changed to better clothes for the train journey, for his pant legs were wet from the knee down by the time he reached the eastern side of the Little Platte.  The two companions continued due east until they were just north of Stewartsville and then dipped slightly southeast.  As they forded another stream, Josiah said, “Smith’s Branch, where the other bridge was burned.  Not far now, son.”

Glad of that news, Adam nodded.  Soon they rode into the small town of Osborn and stabled the horses in the first livery they came to.

            “Will they be safe here?” Adam whispered as he took his traveling bag from the saddle.

            “Safe as anywhere,” Josiah said.  He motioned for the boy to be silent and follow him outside; he paused only long enough to pay the stable keeper.  Once they were alone on the street, he added, “I haven’t heard of any raids on Osborn, and I’ll trust that our luck will hold out long enough to get you on that train.”

            “You don’t have to wait with me, sir,” Adam insisted.  “If it would be safer for you to return now . . .”

            “Probably safer to wait, son.  I may well wait for the cover of darkness.”

            Adam shook his head.  “I’m taking your whole day.”

            Josiah shrugged.  “I’m out of work, remember?  I can spare a day to see the sights of another town.”

            Adam grinned then, for there were obviously few sights to see in Osborn.  The only one he cared to see, however, was the train depot, and it soon came into view.  Agilely leaping onto the planked sidewalk outside the small red frame building, Adam at once headed inside.

Before he could approach the ticket window, however, Josiah snared his elbow and pulled him to a bench in the waiting area.  “Plenty of time,” the older man said.  “I want to go over the transfers with you.  There will be several, and you don’t want to miss a connection.”

            “No, I don’t,” Adam agreed earnestly.  Josiah drew a sheet of paper from his vest pocket, and leaning forward, Adam studied it and listened intently as his former teacher instructed him on which trains to take to reach his ultimate destination.

            “First, be sure you get off this train at Palmyra,” Josiah directed.  “It goes all the way to Hannibal, but you’ll miss your connection to Chicago if you ride to the end of the line.  You should have about an hour between trains there, so get yourself some supper and stretch your limbs.”  He patted Adam’s knee in sympathy for the stiffness it was set to endure.  “Just a short hop on the next line,” he continued.  “The Quincy and Palmyra will take you to the Mississippi River.  You’ll ferry over to Quincy, where you’ll catch the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad, and for the love of mercy and your hope of doing well on your exams, take a berth in the sleeping car for the night.  It’s worth every penny, and I’m sure your father would consider that money well spent.”

            Adam nodded.  “Yes, sir, he would, and I will definitely follow that advice.”

            “In Chicago you’ll transfer to the Pittsburgh, Ft. Wayne and Chicago line, which will connect with the Pennsylvania Railroad and take you into Philadelphia.”

            “Another overnight trip?” Adam queried.

            Josiah nodded.  “Get a berth,” he reiterated.

            Adam grinned.  “Oh, yeah.  I’m going to take advantage of every chance I get to sleep, believe me, sir.”

            Josiah rubbed the young man’s shoulders.  “You should, and don’t skimp on food, either.  It’s hard to grab a decent meal with trains taking only twenty minutes for meal stops, but snatch what you can.”  He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a half eagle.

            “Oh, no, sir,” Adam remonstrated, gesturing his rejection of the offer.  “I have enough.”

            Josiah smiled.  “Give this to Jamie, please, my boy.  Tell him I said to treat both of you to a good, nourishing supper the night before your exams, and he can keep what’s left over for sundry expenses.  I’m sure there’ll be plenty of those!”

            Adam accepted the five-dollar gold piece then.  “Thank you, sir; I’ll see he gets it.  I suppose there’s another change in Philadelphia?”

            “I’m afraid so,” Josiah chuckled.  “I know it’s a lot to remember, so I’ll leave you this list as a reminder.  You’ll be getting into Philadelphia quite late, and the train on the New Jersey Railroad doesn’t leave until the next morning, so take a hotel room for the night—you do have enough?”

            “Plenty,” Adam assured him.  “Pa was generous.”

            “Fine.  Then stay in West Philadelphia, if you can; that will put you close to the depot.  Then it’s about three and a half hours to Jersey City, where you can connect with the New York and New Haven Railroad.”

            Adam almost beamed.  “That’s the name I’ve been waiting to hear!”

            Josiah laughed outright.  “And you’ll be even more thrilled when the conductor announces its arrival in New Haven a few hours later.  You understand all the changes you need to make?”  At Adam’s nod he folded the paper, handed it to the young man and stood up.  “Let’s get your ticket then.”

            When that transaction was complete, a little time still remained until the hour of departure.  As they sat on the platform outside, Josiah shook his head with regret.  “I had hoped you could spend your vacations here with Jamie and me, since you won’t have time to return home.  Now, I don’t know if I can make that offer.  Not sure I want either of you coming back to this hotbed of contention, and with no means for my own support, I’d have little to share.”

            “Please don’t concern yourself, sir,” Adam said.  “Perhaps it will be you coming to us, instead.”

            “If I do relocate, of course, I might still have a home to offer you and Jamie between terms.”  He nodded pensively.  “It’s something to think about.”

            “Yes, sir, do think about it,” Adam urged.  “If I can’t go home to Nevada—and I can’t—I’d cherish spending time with you.”

            “Well, we’ll see,” Josiah replied ambivalently.  “Now, then, my boy, let’s discuss the matter of time difference in the various stops you’ll make.”  Teacher and student once more, two heads bent together for the transfer of vital information.

            About eight that morning a whistle sounded down the track, and soon the train pulled into the depot.  After a final hearty embrace Josiah handed Adam a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.  “Just some sandwiches to stave off starvation.”  He drew a shiny red orb from his pocket.  “And here’s an apple.  Sorry it isn’t more, but food’s been in somewhat short supply in St. Joe of late.”

            Adam pushed both offerings away.  “Then I shouldn’t take it, sir.”

            Josiah again pressed the food on him.  “Nonsense.  I know the appetite of a growing boy.  You need this more than I, and this situation is bound to ease up soon.  If it doesn’t, I’ll either cross over into Kansas or head east, toward you and Jamie.”

            “Make it east,” Adam pleaded as he accepted the lunch.  “They were talking of closing down the ferry when I crossed over, and if you go to Kansas we may not see you for the duration.”

            “East it is,” Josiah promised.  He looked down for a moment and then raised his head to gaze into Adam’s eyes.  “Look after my boy,” he requested again, as he had the previous night.  “Don’t let him overdo—and both of you stay out of political discussions, as much as you’re able.  Hopefully, the strife won’t reach the hallowed halls of Yale, but take care, nonetheless.”

            “I will—of myself and of Jamie,” Adam vowed.

            Josiah clapped him on the back.  “Better get aboard.  Don’t want them leaving without you!”

            One final clasp of hands and Adam ran for the passenger car.  He settled quickly into a window seat, though most of the few passengers boarding here avoided them.  Fear of stray bullets from bushwhackers, Adam supposed, but he preferred to keep a close lookout for danger.  A bullet didn’t have much further to travel to an aisle seat, anyway, and this way he’d have a better chance of seeing suspicious riders coming and time to get his own handgun out.

            He had intended to study on the train, and the monotony of the prairie terrain invited attention to his books, but he felt more secure watching out the window.  Although he’d traveled by train before, the jaunt from Folsom to Sacramento was too short to give a true feel for how the rails could eat up miles.  He’d had some of that sensation on the stagecoach, but it was intensified here, as town after town slipped past the window—Cameron with its two linking railroads south; Kidder; Hamilton, where a stage line connected; Breckenridge—all unknown to Adam when he lived in St. Joseph, all owing either their birth or their burgeoning population to the coming of the railroad.  Wonder if the railroad will ever reach Nevada, he mused as he recalled talk of linking the two coasts by rail.  Sure would make it easier to get home, if they hurry it along, but would home look like home with all those folks pouring in?  He smiled at his foolishness.  Even if the dream of a transcontinental railroad ever did come to pass, most folks except miners would probably bypass dry Nevada for the sunnier climes of California.  Still, it was home to him, and it pleased him to think of it as changeless.

            Passing through Greggs, the train pulled into Utica, a town Adam did have vague memories of.  Like most of the hamlets along the track, it wasn’t large, but just outside town was an encampment of Union soldiers, assigned to protect the rail line.  Their presence was comforting, as was the occasional glimpse of cavalry he spotted as the train rolled on.  About three miles beyond that station, the train crossed the Grand River, and the next town, Chillicothe, was a larger one.  Adam definitely remembered it.  He, Pa and Inger had stopped here to repair a cracked axle, and he’d had a grand time chasing the pigs and chickens that ran loose down the dirt streets until Pa made him stop.  He stood up to stretch his legs and stepped out onto the platform to take a gander.  More soldiers than pigs in the streets this time, though he did spot a few porkers and grinned in fond remembrance of his boyhood romp.  From the platform he could see a couple of dry goods stores, a drug store, a hotel and a restaurant, the latter making him hungry enough on his return to nibble on the apple Josiah had given him.

            Rattling through Botts, the train crossed a creek a local resident called Locust over yet another trestle bridge.  Plenty of targets for the rebels on this line, Adam mused. No wonder the army patrols it so regularly.  Can’t be everywhere, though.  He couldn’t help wondering how many bridges lay between him and the end of the line and whether they’d all be intact.  One more lost might well put reaching his destination in time beyond hope.  Don’t imagine the worst, he chided himself.  He and Pa would never have started west, never have found the dream waiting there, if they’d counted up all the things that could go wrong.  Dreams were strong things; if need be, they could conquer challenges.  All I need is determination, he concluded, and determination I have.

Passing Laclede, where another stage line connected, the train arrived in Brookfield, division headquarters, with a round house and machine shops for maintenance of the engines.  Now a little more than halfway to Palmyra, Adam took out his package of sandwiches and ate as the train rumbled through another series of small towns, crossing two branches of the Chariton River on the way—trestles thankfully solid.  He finally became relaxed enough by the presence of soldiers all along the line that he did pull out his Greek textbook to while away the remaining hours of the afternoon in study.  Whether from residual nerves or a desire to see the passing scenery, however, he frequently looked up from the book to peer out the window.

            Though brilliant yellow flowers dotted the tall, waving grasses, the passing scenery was somewhat monotonous.   Prairie stretched flat on both sides of the cars, broken only by a line of timber less than a mile away in either direction.  On one of his glances up from his book, Adam noticed a group of riders back near the trees.  Though he couldn’t see them clearly enough to spot their blue uniforms, he assumed they were more soldiers on patrol and lowered his eyes again.  His head immediately jerked up as the speed and direction of those riders belatedly registered.  They were coming straight at the train—at a gallop.  No soldier would do that unless there were trouble.

            At that same moment another male passenger, equally vigilant and more attuned to the dangers of this area, yelled sharply, “Raiders comin’!  Everybody down!”

            Amid the screams of women, Adam dropped to the floor between the rows of seats, grabbed his carpetbag and unlatched it quickly.  Grasping the walnut grip of his Colt Army revolver, he rose cautiously.  A quick glance to either side revealed a trio of other men positioned at windows all along that side of the car.  Martial law or no martial law, the men of Missouri were evidently prepared to defend their persons and their property.

            At the window directly to Adam’s left, a tow-headed lad of eight or nine bobbed up to peek out the window at the bad men.  “Get down,” Adam hissed.  The boy ignored him, continuing to stare, wide-eyed with excitement, at the oncoming raiders.  When the first shot pinged against the outside of the car, Adam reached under the seat, grabbed the kid by the ankles and yanked him down.  “Now stay there!” he hollered over the kid’s wail of protest.

            Coming up again, Adam pointed his gun out the window and fired repeatedly, as did defenders all up and down the train.  He saw one of the assailants grasp his shoulder and thought it was his shot that had winged the man, but couldn’t be sure.  The exchange of gunfire was brisk, but brief, as the raiders responded to the armed resistance by hightailing it back to the trees.  As he watched them retreat, Adam saw a line of bluecoats cut across the prairie from the east to intercept them, and again the air was struck with the staccato of gunfire.  Up and down the train shouts of triumph joined the martial percussion.

            Drained, Adam sank down in his seat and exhaled gustily.  As he became aware of someone standing next to him, he looked up and saw a middle-aged woman tightly gripping that reckless little towhead by the elbow.  “Tell the man thank you, Beau, for savin’ your disobedient hide.”

            “I just wanted to see,” Beau whined.  “Weren’t no real danger.”  A still tighter squeeze on his elbow made him wince.  “Thank you, mister,” he gasped.

            “You’re welcome,” Adam said, “but the next time you’re told to get down, you get down and stay down, hear?”

            Rubbing his freed elbow, Beau mumbled a monotone “Yes, sir,” but as he skittered down the aisle, he paused to turn back and stick his tongue out at Adam.

            Adam grinned, for a moment seeing a certain little brother in that boy’s behavior.  “That one keeps you hopping, I bet,” he said to the boy’s mother.

            She smiled.  “Now, you’re too young to have experience handlin’ wild younguns, but you guessed right.  He’s a handful.”

            “No guesswork involved,” Adam chuckled.  In response to her quizzically cocked head, he explained, “Little brothers . . . one of whom is every bit as wild as your boy at half his age.”

            “Oh, I see!  Yes, that would explain your quick response to Beau’s peril.”  She offered Adam her hand.  “Again, sir, and with more sincerity than he showed, I offer you my thanks.”

            Adam shook her hand.  “It was nothing, ma’am, but you’re entirely welcome.”

            The stop at Shelbina, the next station, lasted longer than usual, as the conductor reported the incident between there and Clarence.  The report, in fact, took longer than the incident itself, and Adam chafed at the delay.  He had connections to make!  Within minutes, however, the train was again rolling east, through Lakenan and a couple of miles further across the Salt River.  Hunnewell and Monroe flew past, and then the train curved northeast, toward Ely and Caldwell and finally into Palmyra itself, shortly after four o’clock that afternoon.

            Hungry as he was, Adam was tempted to forego supper, since he now had less than an hour until the departure of the Quincy and Palmyra short line.  He spotted a lunch counter attached to the depot, however, and purchased a couple of ham sandwiches and a hard-boiled egg to take with him.  He wolfed down one sandwich and the egg while waiting for the train and resolved to eat the other more leisurely once he was aboard, rolling toward the great Father of Waters.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam leaned heavily on the rail at the stern of the Emma, watching the sinking sun tint the western horizon a brilliant burnt orange.  The miles, the stress of making connections, the fear of missing or failing his exams in New Haven were catching up with him.  So far, though, everything was going according to plan.  The minor setbacks—if disasters like the burning of bridges or armed marauders attacking the train could be called minor—had not defeated his purpose, and the journey should be easier from this point on.  Besides, he was young, young enough that the peaceful golden-amber reflection on the water was enough to refresh his flagging spirits.  The Mississippi was wide, but he’d soon be across it and then he could really rest.

            The steamboat docked on the eastern shore, and Adam huffed as he climbed a hundred and twenty-five feet up a limestone bluff to reach the town of Quincy.  He dropped his carpetbag at the top and bent over, clasping his knees, as he gasped for breath.  Then, still fearful of missing a connection, he snatched up the bag and bounded past sawmills, flour mills and pork-packing plants on the edge of town and hurried through the brick business district to the depot of the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy.   Inside, he purchased his ticket, including the extra twenty-five cents for an upper berth, and boarded promptly when the conductor called, “All aboard.”  Thankfully, the berths had already been prepared, and without bothering to remove his clothing, Adam climbed into the top of three berths, putting his belongings into the green storage net and pulling the green curtains closed.

            The cane-bottomed planks were miserably hard, even with the bedding provided by the railroad.  That and the snores of a score of men all through the car made it difficult for Adam to get to sleep.  Once he did, however, the exhausted young man slept like a baby.  He woke only once, when a loud thud, followed by louder curses, told him that some unfortunate fellow passenger had fallen out of bed.  Sparing a hope that the man had not fallen from the top tier, a groggy Adam rolled over and went back to sleep.

            He woke around 5:30 the next morning, quite ready to vacate the plank bed and its thin mattress.  After splashing his face with water from a large stone jar at the end of the sleeping car, he took a seat in the day car just as the train pulled into a large station.

The conductor called out, “Aurora,” as he made his way down the aisle, and when he passed by, Adam inquired, “How long to Chicago, sir?”

            “Hour and a half, son,” the conductor responded cordially.

            Adam thanked him and turned to look out the window.  Aurora was a large town, with a buff limestone roundhouse and all the shops needed to keep a railroad moving.  While it probably could also provide an eating station as good as any, he elected to delay his breakfast until he reached Chicago.  According to the timetable he’d picked up at the depot in Quincy, he would have an hour between trains, enough time for a more leisurely meal.

            No sooner had the train pulled out of Aurora, though, than Adam’s stomach began protesting its emptiness.  To silence it and to get his mind off the challenge of making the upcoming connection, he took out his Greek text and pored over it to the rattling accompaniment of wheels rotating on iron tracks.

            “You might want to put that away,” his seatmate, a well-groomed man in his mid-forties, suggested some time later.  “Not far to Chicago now, and since that’s your destination, you’ll want to get your things together.”

            Adam closed the book and thanked the man.  “Chicago isn’t my final destination, though.  I’m going straight on to the east coast.”

            “Oh, too bad,” the man said pleasantly.  “Chicago’s quite a place to see, better’n 112,000 folks here, according to the last census, where thirty years ago there weren’t more than a hundred.”

            “Is Chicago your home, sir?” Adam inquired politely.

            The man beamed with pride.  “Shows, does it?  Yes, son, it’s my home, and you won’t find a place more on the grow than Chicago.  Got its problems, like any booming city, but the know-how to solve ‘em, too.  Like the street level, for instance.  Town was first built on swampy ground just a few feet above lake level.  That made for all kinds of problems, so a fellow named George Pullman and some others figured out a way to jack the buildings up some four to seven feet and build new foundations under ‘em, without even asking the occupants to move out.  Quite an engineering feat, that.”

            “Sounds like it.”  Adam’s interest was evident, so while he put his book into his carpetbag and fastened the latch, the man amplified on the subject a little.  There was no time for much discussion, however, for the train pulled into the grand terminal at Chicago, and all the passengers gathered their belongings and crowded into the aisles.

            Adam stepped off the train and abruptly stopped to gape, open-mouthed at the huge, multi-tracked station.

            “Get out of the way, boy!” a man behind him demanded.

            Adam apologized and moved aside a few steps.  He continued to stare up and down the tracks, wondering which would hold the train for the next leg of his journey.

            “You need somethin’, suh?” a thick voice drawled.

            Adam turned and saw a black porter.  “I don’t know where to go,” he admitted.  “I mean, the ticket office first, I guess, but . . . so many tracks . . . I . . .”

            White teeth gleamed in the coal-black face as the porter pointed toward the head of the train.  “Just follow dem other passengers, suh.  Dat be the way to de ticket office.  Dey tell you der which track t’ go to.”

            Adam smiled.  “Of course.  Thank you.”  He hesitated, unsure of whether a tip was appropriate, and then dug into his pocket.

            “No, suh, no need,” the porter, who recognized signs of financial need when he saw them, said.  “Not for dat little mite of advice.  Just follow ‘long with dem others and you be fixed fine right soon.”

            The noise was deafening as another train pulled in on the track next to the one housing the train from Quincy, so Adam merely nodded his thanks again and headed in the direction the porter had indicated.  He took his place in line and fretted at how long it took him to reach its head and purchase his ticket.

            “Do you have baggage to check?” the clerk behind the wooden grill asked perfunctorily.

            “Just this bag,” Adam said.  “I’ve been keeping it with me.”  He did not, of course, tell the clerk that he’d wanted to keep his gun handy, even when he boarded at Quincy.  In that town, directly across the river from the seceded state of Mississippi, he’d just felt more comfortable having it with him.  Now that he was further north, he supposed, there was no real need for that type of precaution.

            “Your choice, sir,” the clerk said, somewhat impatiently.  “If you wish to be spared the inconvenience, I can check it for you.”

            “I’ll keep it,” Adam decided.  The inconvenience had been slight, and this way he had his books with him, whenever he wanted them.

            He verified the track number and exact time of departure with the clerk and, pulling out his pocket watch, noted that its time did not match that of any of the large clocks hanging over the arched entrance to the terminal.  Not surprising, since each town or city determined its own time in accordance with the sun, as Josiah had taught him that morning.  He didn’t want to miss his train, so he set his watch to Pittsburgh time, the point of origin for the train he wanted to catch.  According to the clocks, that was thirty-one minutes later than Chicago time, but his own watch was further off than that.  He’d last coordinated it in Quincy, so he had to move the hands forward better than forty minutes.

            Stepping outside the station, a sense of release surged through him.  At first, he couldn’t identify its origin; then he smiled as his eyes swept the street both ways.  Building after building either displayed the Stars and Stripes or was draped in red, white and blue bunting.  That was something he hadn’t seen in Missouri, where even those loyal to the Federal Government had seemed afraid to declare their allegiance.  Here there were no divided loyalties, and people walked the streets without fear.  For the first time since crossing the Missouri River, Adam felt truly safe, and with a new spring in his step, he continued down the street in search of something to eat.

            He now had only half an hour until departure time, so he ate at the first eatery he came across, only a block from the station.  He found the food acceptable, if not sumptuous, and forced himself to eat slowly.  Of necessity, he’d rushed through virtually every meal for two and a half weeks now, and the habit was hard to break.  He arrived back at the terminal with a few minutes to spare, so he bought a copy of the Chicago Tribune at the newsstand inside the depot and sat down in the waiting room.

            As he scanned the front page, the most important news appeared to be the reported death of Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederate States of America.  Evidently, he had been seriously ill, and flags in the Confederacy were now flying at half mast after his passing.  Though he couldn’t rejoice in any man’s death, Adam exhaled with relief at the news.  Perhaps it presaged a quicker end to the war.  Having seen the ravages of the struggle in St. Joseph and the terror assaulting ordinary citizens on the train, he could only hope that without Davis to guide them, the Confederacy would quickly return to the Union.  Maybe that was wishful thinking, but the editorial he read seemed to express similar hope.

            Before he could finish the front page, however, the call to board resounded through the waiting room, and Adam, along with scores of others, rose and hurried to the designated track for the Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne and Chicago Railroad.  He found an open window seat and hurried to occupy it, news of the day temporarily forgotten.  The scenery, as the train skirted the south shore of Lake Michigan, was beautiful, almost ocean-like in its aspect.  Mounded sand hills lined the shore, and waves rolled repeatedly into them, not as wild and majestic as on the Pacific Coast, but striking nonetheless.  As far as eye could see, steamboats and sailing ships skimmed the waters, bustling passengers and cargo across the Great Lake.  Lake Michigan was grand, indeed, and Adam exulted in the opportunity to see it.  To him, however, nothing could compare with the pristine and pine-bordered sapphire jewel that graced the Ponderosa.

            The train crossed a bridge over the south branch of the Chicago River, and Adam noticed that the water ran away from the lake, not toward it.  Like the Truckee River back home, flowing away from Lake Tahoe.  Adam grinned.  The scenery here was nothing like home, but he couldn’t seem to get his mind away from there.  Wonder what they’re doing?  Roundup time, so I guess that’s what Pa’s doing.  Hoss has school, of course, and Little Joe . . . Pa must have left him with the Thomases.  Boy, that’ll be hard on the little fellow so soon after . . .

            Uncomfortable with the knot swelling up in his throat, Adam grabbed the newspaper and began reading again.  The President had declared another day for fasting and prayer.  Adam supposed he’d be doing plenty of praying if he entered Yale—chapel every morning, he’d been told—but he couldn’t face the thought of fasting right now.  After all the hurried meals he’d endured, all he wanted was one to just sit and linger over.  Time enough to consider a prayerful fast once that need had been met!

He scanned the news from Missouri next and shook his head at what he considered the stupidity of the law of the land—the Fugitive Slave Law, to be specific.  A correspondent from St. Louis reported that three runaway slaves were being held there and would be turned over to their owners as soon as the latter had provided proof of their loyalty to the Union.  Being a staunch Union supporter didn’t turn a wrong into a right, did it?  Bet it doesn’t much matter to those slaves which side their so-called master comes down on.  The burning of the bridges on the Hannibal and St. Joseph Railroad was still news, but the only information he hadn’t read earlier was a list of names of the victims.  Since he no longer knew anyone in Missouri except Josiah Edwards, he barely scanned that.

            Gazing out the window, Adam marveled again at the speed with which towns passed, though he had to admit that it would be greater still if the train didn’t stop at so many of them.  When he spotted the brickyards just west of Hobart, for instance, the train had traveled only a single mile since its last stop at Liverpool.  Stations that close together were rare, thank goodness; most of them were four or five miles apart, a few even more.  Adam welcomed the longer jaunts through fertile countryside, not only for the serenity of the scene, but also for the sense of moving faster toward his goal.

            It was well past noon, and the train still hadn’t pulled into Fort Wayne, the refreshment stop, so Adam bought an apple and a small bag of walnuts from the boy working the aisles.  “Want somethin’ to read, mister?” the boy, who appeared to be about ten, suggested as he pocketed the coins Adam had handed him.  “I got the latest papers out of Philadelphia, Chicago and New York and the Police Gazette and Harper’s Weekly and Frank Leslie’s, too.  And the best dime novels, if you be a literary gent.  Words to suit all tastes, just like me fruits and candies!”  He whipped out an orange paperback.  “Here’s the latest from Beadle’s, sir: King Barnaby; or, The Maidens of the Forest. A Romance of the Mickmacks,” he read from the cover.  With a scowl he added, “Now, I know romance may not sound like a fittin’ subject for a gent, but this un’s about Indians and such, up in Canada, and bein’ a Beadle’s, it’s chock full o’ action.”

            Adam chuckled, amused by the youngster’s earnest face.  “You’re a real connoisseur, I see.”  Seeing the boy’s bewilderment, he amended his word choice.  “Read them all, do you?”

“Oh, yes, sir!” the boy replied enthusiastically.  “Beadle’s is prime.  Can’t go wrong with this un, sir, at only ten cents.”  He held the latest issue temptingly beneath Adam’s nose.

Smiling, Adam shook his head.  “You’re quite the salesman, but I’ll just have fruit and nuts this time.”

            The boy grinned.  “Well, I’ll be back down the aisle in about an hour, if you change your mind.  Nothin’ like a good book to pass away the miles, you know.”

            “Ah, but I have one,” Adam said, lifting his Greek text.

            One look at the title was enough to make the little lad scrunch up his nose, shake his head at the peculiar taste of some folks and hustle down the aisle toward a likelier prospect for his wares.

            A couple of stations ahead of Fort Wayne, the conductor moved through the train, taking a count of those who wished to eat there.  “Specialty of the house is beefsteak,” the conductor announced.  “How many in this car?”

            Several hands were raised, Adam’s among them.  With the conductor telegraphing ahead to the depot restaurant the number to expect, the food would be ready when they arrived, so the mere twenty minutes afforded for a meal would be sufficient.  At least, that’s the way it was supposed to work.  When Adam, along with other passengers, rushed into the restaurant, however, the plates weren’t ready, and seven minutes were wasted, just sitting at the counter.  When his dinner was plunked in front of him, he went to work at once, sawing through the steak, a challenge considering its toughness.  Somehow, Adam choked down most of the steak, potatoes and a dish of custard in the thirteen minutes remaining before he had to board the train once more.

            When the conductor came down the aisle to take numbers for supper, Adam decided to pass.  The hour was late, and he didn’t want to try to sleep with something as heavy as that greasy beefsteak roiling in his stomach.  Most refreshment stops also had a counter where he could buy a sandwich, and if Crestline did not, he’d just make out on whatever the diligent train boy had to offer on his hourly rounds.

            At Crestline, the midway point between Chicago and Pittsburgh, he found the usual ham sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs and crisp sugar cookies—plenty to make a meal on.  After purchasing what he desired, Adam used the remaining time to look at the city, at least what he could see of it from the depot platform.  Crestline, lying in a flat, almost swampy terrain with large woods close by, was a division terminal, so although the depot itself was only frame, there was a full-circle brick roundhouse to maintain the trains, along with car shops, a tin shop and boiler shop, as well as machine and blacksmith shops.

            Adam yawned.  Crestline might be an interesting place to explore, if he had the time . . . or the energy.  Right now, nothing sounded quite as interesting as getting back on the train, eating his light supper and heading for a berth as soon as it was ready.  When he crawled into bed for the night, once again exhaustion made a feather mattress of the hard slab on which he slept.

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

Soldiers of the 2^nd Kansas were attacked at Shelbina the night before Adam’s passage through there on the train.

 

The steamboat Emma actually plied the waters of the Mississippi between Quincy and West Quincy around the time of Adam’s trip.

 

The reports of Jefferson Davis’s death, though confirmed, were, of course, false.  He lived to guide the Confederacy throughout the Civil War.

 

An account of the Platte River Bridge disaster, as well as the other news items Adam read in Chicago can be found in online copies of the New York Times for September 7, 1861.  That the Chicago paper covered the same news is conjecture.

CHAPTER SIX

New Haven, at Last!

 

 

Adam was up early Sunday morning, so his face was washed and he was ready to bolt from the train as soon as it pulled into the depot at Pittsburgh shortly before seven o’clock.  He had virtually no time to spare as he hurried to transfer to the Pennsylvania Railroad for the next leg of his journey.  From what little he did see, the city seemed almost as large as Chicago, and its location, where the Monongahela and Allegheny rivers joined to form the Ohio, appeared conducive to growth.  That thought didn’t occur to him until he was settled aboard the next train, however, and nibbling on the single boiled egg he’d taken time to purchase.  An apple, provided by the train boy, rounded out his breakfast.

            The train departed immediately.  Leaving the station on Grant Street, the track curved to the right, passing through beautiful countryside, dotted here and there with elegant houses.  Then, for the next forty miles, the train moved through a less picturesque setting, with a number of open bituminous coal mines visible through the window.  The coal region gave way to a fertile valley, and the train crossed the Loyal Hanna on a substantial stone bridge.  Passing through a gap in Chestnut Ridge, on a narrow ledge cut out of rock, the road ran above the Conemaugh River and canal, some one hundred sixty feet below, to Johnstown at the foot of the Allegheny Mountains.  Greek text laid aside, Adam pressed his face to the cool window glass and drank in the hardwood-covered mountainsides.  Some twenty-five miles later the train passed through a tunnel that was three-quarters of a mile long and emerged to even grander mountain scenery, distinct peaks blending with fruitful valleys.

            About four and a half hours after leaving Pittsburgh, Adam finally had a chance to grab a meal at Altoona.  Eastbound and westbound trains met here, and long tables were set up to accommodate everyone in the dining hall.  Adam was starving and gulped down as much as he could in the twenty minutes allowed.  That relaxing meal with Jamie at the end of his journey, which Josiah had recommended and paid to provide, was beginning to look more and more attractive.  And no matter what Jamie did, Adam intended to dawdle a full hour over his food—maybe two.

            No time for dawdling now, though.  Back on the train and keep those wheels rolling!  They rolled through the center of the Tuckahoe Valley, lying between the main range of the Alleghenies and Brush Mountain.  To the south rich limestone land stretched for a mile and a half, while an equal swath of clay soil lay to the north of the track.  After fifteen miles the landscape changed, as the train entered the deep gorge of the Little Juniata and followed its course into Petersburg.  The name of the town brought a nostalgic smile to Adam’s lips, as he recalled his first memories of Inger in an Ohio town bearing the same name.

            Charming mountain scenes accompanied him throughout the afternoon.  Anxious as he was about his entrance exam, he couldn’t resist the pull of such beauty.  He viewed it almost as a last glimpse of home, although the scene seemed tame, compared to the ponderosa forests populating the Cartwright’s ranch.

            It was nearly 8:30 that night when the train pulled to a stop at the depot in West Philadelphia.  Adam collected his baggage and asked the porter to recommend a clean, inexpensive hotel nearby.  Taking the man’s advice, he walked to the corner of 41^st and Elm, entered the brick building and inquired if there were any vacancies at the Elm Hotel.  There were, and though the room was small, the bed narrow and the mattress not as plump as the one back home, to Adam it looked like paradise.  After eighteen straight days of travel, any bed that didn’t move was heaven on earth to the weary young man, and he sank gratefully onto the mattress, pulled the covers up to his ears and was asleep within minutes after his head hit the pillow.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam woke early, but refreshed and ready, for once, to face yet another day’s travel, for this one would bring him to the end of his journey—and Jamie!  He had risen early enough to give careful attention to his grooming; his only regret was that he didn’t have time for a long, relaxing soak in a tub.  He’d stripped down and washed before going to bed, though, so he felt clean, and he indulged in a clean shirt from his baggage, as well.  After a hot breakfast of bacon and eggs in the hotel dining room, he walked to the depot of the New Jersey Railroad and purchased his ticket.

            Having twenty minutes to spare before his train departed, he purchased a copy of the New York Times and scanned the headlines, which began with THE GREAT REBELLION.  Probably the same headline every day, Adam mused.  War reports had been front-page news in the Territorial Enterprise, too, but there the conflict had seemed distant; here, it crouched close, ready to spring and disrupt a young man’s dreams.  Well, he wouldn’t let it.  He’d promised Pa, and what’s more, he’d promised himself.  Still, he couldn’t deny his interest in the war’s progress, so like every Easterner, he started with the first column, relating the support of Alexander of Russia for the Union, and read every line.

            He hadn’t finished the first page when the conductor called “All aboard.”  Hastily folding the newspaper, Adam sprinted for the train and took his seat for a short jaunt of three and a half hours.  For the first twenty to twenty-five miles, adjoining tracks were busy with passing trains, probably locals; Adam didn’t see a single car after that until he came equally close to the end of his journey.  He passed through Trenton and ten miles beyond a fellow passenger pointed out Princeton College, on a ridge above them.  The school was more than two miles away, though, so he couldn’t see it well, and he fared no better when the train passed Rutgers an hour or so later.  He rather wished for a closer view, just so he could get an idea of what a college campus was like, but he’d get his chance later that evening, when he reached New Haven.  At least, he hoped there’d be time to get his first glimpse of Yale before darkness fell.

Within an hour after passing New Brunswick, the stop for Rutgers, commuter trains again began to clog the rails, and Adam surmised that he must be getting near New York City.  The train passed through Newark and not long after the conductor called out, “Next stop Jersey City, end of the line.”  Adam closed his Greek text and gathered his belongings, in case he had to make a quick sprint to the ferry dock.  As it turned out, the track went directly to the dock on the Hudson River, and since the ferry over it ran every ten minutes, he lost only four minutes making that connection.

            The ferry deposited him at the foot of Cortlandt Street on the isle of Manhattan, and at first all Adam could do was gape at the towering buildings.  He thought he’d seen big cities before—San Francisco, Chicago, Philadelphia last night—but the view from the dock was overwhelming.  Buildings—eight, nine stories tall—surrounded him, one beyond another, as far as he could see.  Shaking off his awe, he focused on the daunting challenge now facing him.  He had to get to the nearest depot of that final train, but he didn’t know where it was.  Not far, he hoped.  “Please, sir, where might I find the depot for the New York and New Haven Railroad?” he asked the first passerby whose attention he could catch.

            “City Hall,” the bespectacled man tossed aside as he breezed down the street.

            “But where?”  Adam might as well have asked the wind, which was blowing smartly off the river.  Assuming his destination had to lie inland, he started walking east on Cortlandt and asked the next person he saw where City Hall was located.

            “Broadway and Chambers,” the man replied.  Then he, too, was gone with the briskness of the wind.

            “I hope one of those intersects Cortlandt,” Adam muttered grimly.  He saw another man headed his direction and, determined not to let this one get away from him, moved to block his path.

            “Here now, what’s this?” the burly man demanded.  “Get out the way, lad.”  He started to push the annoying youth aside, but Adam raised an imploring hand.

            “Please, sir.  I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m unacquainted with your city and I need directions,” he pleaded.  “The depot for the New York and New Haven Railroad—it’s at City Hall, I was told, but how do I get there?”

            “At the park,” the man replied.  Then, seeing Adam’s bewilderment, he chuckled.  “Which means nothing to you, does it, lad?”

            Adam grimaced.  “I’m afraid not, sir.  Please.  It’s important that I get there in time to catch my train.”

            “Aye, aye, I understand,” the man said.  “Now, the depot’s not at City Hall, lad, but you can take a streetcar there to the terminal at 27^th Street and 4^th Avenue.  Young lad like you might as well hoof it, first to Broadway; it’s not far—couple blocks that way.”  He pointed the direction Adam had been walking.  “Head north to Chambers.”

“It intersects?”

“Aye, aye, that’s right.  You’ll see the post office at one end of the park, City Hall at the Chambers end.  Streetcars in front of that.  Simple enough?”

            Adam smiled in earnest relief.  “Yes, sir.  I believe I can get there now.  Thanks!”

            “Off with you then.  Don’t know when that train leaves, but it’s about a half hour on the horse cars to the depot, so no dawdling, eh?”

            Adam took time to extend a grateful hand.  “No, sir, no dawdling.  Thank you again.”  With a wave he took off, covering the two blocks to Broadway with long, now confident, strides.  Though his heart was racing, youthful dignity wouldn’t permit his legs to follow suit.  Besides, since he didn’t know what time the train left—he hadn’t had time for inquiries before transferring to the ferry—he didn’t know whether he needed to hurry or had time to kill.  He couldn’t risk assuming the latter, however, so he quickened his pace.  Dignity be hanged.

            The brisk walk felt good after all the days of sitting, first on the stage and then on one train after another, and his strong muscles didn’t let him down.  In fact, he had energy left for a final sprint across the triangular green swath of the park when he saw a streetcar approaching what had to be City Hall, a grand building with tall pillars of white marble.  He swung aboard the car and paid his five-cent fare just before it pulled away.  “Do you know the schedule for the New York and New Haven Railroad, sir?” he asked the conductor.

            “Thirty minutes from now,” came the answer.  Seeing the young man’s anxious look, he added kindly, “You’ll make it in time to buy your ticket, son.”

            Adam smiled his thanks.  “Will you tell me where to get off, please?”

            “27^th Street and 4^th Avenue stop; I’ll call it out,” the conductor assured him.

            There were seats available toward the back, but Adam elected to stand, holding onto a hanging strap, so that he could remain close to the front.  Probably the conductor would shout out the stops all along the line, but he had to be absolutely certain he heard the right one and that he got off quickly and made a beeline for the depot office.  He didn’t doubt the conductor’s word that he’d have time to purchase his ticket, but at this late stage in his journey, he was unwilling to take the slightest chance of a mishap.

            The conductor’s estimate proved reliable, and half an hour after boarding Adam bounded off the streetcar and headed inside the depot.  The line at the ticket office was relatively short, but he breathed a sigh of relief once he had the all-important ticket to New Haven in hand.

            Soon he boarded, with an intense sense of relief.   Nothing left to fear.  Short of a train wreck, nothing now could prevent his arrival in time for the entrance exams, so Adam settled back to enjoy the scenery, sights that would no doubt be as familiar as the pines of home by the time he returned.  As the train reached each stop along the line, his anticipation mounted: Forty-second Street, Harlem, Williams Bridge, the stately residences of Mount Vernon and the beautiful villas surrounding New Rochelle.  Finally, he passed through Greenwich, whose fine view of Long Island Sound sent ripples of excitement surging up his spine.  A globe in the dean’s office of the Sacramento Academy had taught him that this body of water was within view of New Haven.  Not long now!

            But still more stops before he reached his destination: Cos Cob, the quiet homes of Stamford and the rural peace of Norwalk.  He caught his breath when the train passed through Bridgeport, for he recalled Josiah’s telling him of the sectional strife in that town.  He was soon past it, though, rolling through towns lined with stately elms at a speed that almost kept pace with his desire to reach the end of the line.  At last he heard the conductor call out, “West Haven,” and knew that only a few short miles along the seashore would conclude his journey.

            Only three miles, in fact, brought him into New Haven, just as twilight was falling.  “No seeing Yale tonight, I suppose,” Adam muttered, shaking his head at the fading light and his own failure to calculate the length of the journey.

            A hand tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and he spun around, expecting to see Jamie, but this dark-haired youth, sporting a top hat and cane, looked nothing like the picture he’d seen in St. Joseph.

            “I say, chap, did you say ‘Yale’?”  The young man inquired as his eyes traveled, with some disdain, up and down Adam’s unfashionable and travel-wrinkled attire.  “Planning to enroll there, by any chance?”  The slightly hesitant tone carried an air of barely disguised disbelief.

            “Well, yes, as a matter of fact,” Adam said.

            Before he could say more, the other fellow brightened.  “Ah, then!  Let me be the first to welcome you to New Haven and our illustrious school.  Pledged a freshman society yet?”

            “Freshman society?”  Completely befuddled, Adam stared at him.

            “No?  I thought not.”  The man clapped a hand to Adam’s shoulder.  “Take the advice of a sophomore with only your best interest at heart, then, youngster.  Delta Kap is the best society there is.”  He fingered the crescent-shaped, black enamel pin attached to his coat lapel.  “And you’re in luck, as we just happen to have a single place left.  Give the word, and I’ll secure it for you.”

            Dazed by the spiel of, to him, unintelligible babbling, Adam could only gape at the stranger.

            “Adam?”  The voice was soft, slightly tentative.

            Adam looked to his right and saw a fair-haired young man, whose kindly expression exactly matched both his memory and the portrait he’d studied in St. Joseph.  “Jamie,” he murmured and moved instinctively toward his old friend.

            Their reunion was shortchanged, however, by the earnest sophomore, who quickly placed himself at Jamie’s side.  “Edwards, isn’t it?  And this must be the friend you were expecting from the West?”

            “Yes,” Jamie said.  “Adam Cartwright.”  He flushed.  “I’m sorry; I can’t quite recall . . .”

            “Quite all right,” the sophomore assured him.  “So many new names and faces, eh?  And you freshmen have your heads too crammed with last-minute preparations for the exams to remember them all, I’m sure.  I’m George Pomphrey.  Have you decided on the Delta Kaps, then, Edwards?  Must decide soon, you know.”

            “I thought you said there was only one place left,” Adam said, though he still had no idea what that “one place” referred to.

            “Oh, we can stretch our number to include two such strong candidates, I’m sure,” Pomphrey returned glibly.  “Now—Cartwright, is it?—just take a look at this prize list, my boy, and you’ll immediately see the benefits of pledging Delta Kap.”  Pomphrey flapped a piece of paper under Adam’s nose.  “You can readily see we’ve had the most Spoon men, and—well, the list says it all, doesn’t it?  Would President Woolsey authorize it if it weren’t so?  Most certainly not!”

            Adam turned a bewildered gaze upon Jamie.

            Jamie took Adam’s elbow, saying quickly, “I’m sorry, Mr. Pomphrey, but we really can’t make a decision tonight.  My friend has just arrived, so we haven’t had an opportunity to discuss the benefits of joining any society.”

            “Oh, you must.  Everyone does,” Pomphrey gushed.  “And the Delta Kaps are the place for you, I assure—”

            “Yes, perhaps so”—Jamie drew Adam toward him—“but we must discuss our options.  I’m sure we can give you an answer soon, but now we must get Adam settled before the exams tomorrow.”

            “Oh, quite,” Pomphrey said, though he sounded disappointed.  “Do, at least, promise me you won’t go with the Gamma Nu grinds, now won’t you?”

            “Yes, yes,” Jamie said, hastily backing away.  “I think we can promise that much, but we must go and get situated now.”

            Adam followed Jamie’s lead, backing step by step away from George Pomphrey and his mysterious list.  When they were half a block down the street, both boys turned to walk forward.  “What was that all about?” Adam asked.

            Jamie laughed.  “Society man, looking for new pledges.  The sophomores wage a vigorous competition for the honor of their former freshman societies.  You were lucky to have come in so late, Adam; when I arrived, the station was packed with men from all three societies.  In fact, several accosted me before I got off the train!  One of the Sigma Eps bundled me into a hack before I knew what was happening and brought me to a good, cheap lodging house.  I was grateful for that, but he chattered at me the whole way about the virtues of his society and the faults of the others until my head was spinning.  He even bought my dinner, to influence me, although I told him, as I have everyone else, that I could not make a decision until I’d spoken with you.”

            Adam grinned.  “I still don’t know what a society is, but maybe we should have listened to that fellow longer, if it meant free transportation and food.  In my present financial condition, such benefits are not to be scoffed at.”

            Jamie smiled back.  “Nor in mine.  Oh, Adam, I’m so thrilled you were able to come East after all.  I’ve a thousand things to tell you and ask you, but”—he clapped his palm to his head.  “Your luggage!  I was in such haste to get away from Pomphrey that I completely forgot.”

            Adam hefted his bag.  “This is all I have.  I traveled light.”

            Jamie chuckled.  “Smart move, though going back would give us another chance to wangle that free meal.”  

            “I’d prefer a quiet meal alone with you,” Adam said, “and we’re being treated to supper, anyway.  Your father sent money with me for that precise purpose.”

            Jamie’s blue eyes misted.  “Dear Father, he sacrifices so much for me.  Did—did he tell you that his school has closed, possibly for the duration of the war?”

            “Yes, and I know you’re concerned, but as fine a teacher as your father will find a position somewhere.  I urged him to come East, to be near us, and he said he’d consider it.”

            “Wouldn’t that be perfect?”  Jamie’s face reddened.  “I’m sorry, Adam; I’m being thoughtless.”

            “You?  Never,” Adam disagreed firmly.

            “I mean, you’re so much further from home than I and must miss your family terribly, and here I prate on about life being perfect if only my father were here,” Jamie stammered.

            “And so it would be—for me, as well, since he’s very special to me,” Adam responded.  He shifted his bag to his other hand.  “Is it far to our lodging?  That is where we’re headed, isn’t it?”

            “It is, though I almost took the wrong turn, chattering away.” They had come to a point where five streets met, and Jamie gestured toward the one ahead and to the left.  “I do hope I’m not this scatter-brained during exams tomorrow!”

            Adam laughed as he turned into George Street.  “I just hope I’m awake!”

            “You must be exhausted,” Jamie sympathized.  “Just at the end of this block.  We’ll drop off your bag and then find a hot meal close by.”

            “Sounds great.  I haven’t eaten since breakfast.  Too anxious to make connections, you know.”

            Jamie nodded his understanding just before he stopped in front of a two-story house, whose narrow clapboards were covered with peeling green paint.  A chimney stood at each end of the house.  “It’s old,” Jamie said apologetically, “but clean and well kept.”

            Adam touched his friend’s shoulder in gentle reassurance.  “I trust your judgment implicitly.  Neither of us can afford a palace, so clean and well kept is the best we could have hoped for.”

            “Well, we could have tried for the Athenaeum,” Jamie said, though his countenance reflected distaste.  “That’s on campus, and some of the poorer freshmen do manage to get a room there.  I’ve heard, though, that there aren’t many available.  Upper classes have first choice of rooms, you know.”

            “And the Athenaeum is the dregs left at the bottom of the cup?”  Adam smiled wryly.

            Jamie gave a low chuckle.  “Something like that.  Father refused to let me consider it, though I was willing, considering our circumstances.  It would have been cheaper.  Anything on campus is.”

            “I think we can trust your father’s wisdom.”  For himself, Adam wouldn’t have minded “the dregs,” but he well remembered how susceptible to respiratory problems his friend was.  No doubt that was the reason Josiah had insisted on better accommodations, and Adam was happy he could contribute to the warmth and comfort Jamie needed.  He caught his friend by the scruff of the neck.  “Now, when are you going to show me what this place has to offer?”

            Three steps led to a central door, bordered by two decorative columns.  Jamie opened it and preceded Adam into a central hall.  “We’re on the second floor,” he explained as he led the way to the stairs.  They climbed up and then walked down a hall to the last door on the left.  “Here’s our shebang,” Jamie announced as he flung the door open wide.

            Adam arched an eyebrow as he followed Jamie inside.  “Shebang?”

            Jamie laughed.  “Just a bit of college slang I’ve managed to pick up in the time I’ve been here.  The silk hat Pomphrey was wearing, for instance, is a plug, and the cane’s called a banger.  We can’t sport those until we’re sophomores.  I don’t know much more than that yet, but it seems we have more than just Latin and Greek to learn here.”

            “So it would seem,” Adam chuckled, “but we’re good students; we can handle another language.”

            Jamie smiled broadly.  “That we can!”

            Adam set his bag down and took a closer look at their shebang.  Two oak tables with ladder-back chairs sat on either side of the six-over-six paned window that overlooked the side yard, while a large double bed with four short posters took up most of the space on the opposite wall.  An identical window, with identical drapes of heavy burgundy graced the center of the back wall.  Centered before it was a single washstand with pitcher and basin.  To the right of the door stood a tall walnut wardrobe cabinet and to the left a pot-bellied stove faced the foot of the bed.

            “Does it suit you?” Jamie asked with a hint of concern.  “I didn’t know if you’d want to sleep double, but it was cheaper and—”

            “Say no more.  It suits me perfectly.”  Adam grinned.  “As for the bed, I’ve slept with my little brothers before, and it’s not too bad, once they get past the wet-diaper stage.  It’s you who’ll be experiencing a shared bed for the first time, oh pampered only child.”

            Amusement flickered in Jamie’s blue eyes.  “I assure you I’m past the wet-diaper stage, and frankly, I’m looking forward to learning what it feels like to have a brother.”

            Adam’s dark eyes twinkled.  “So, what will this shebang set us back?”

            “A dollar fifty a week for the room, which doesn’t include board,” Jamie said, his brow wrinkling as he reported a sum he wished were smaller.  “Then we have to buy our own coal for the fire, but the college supplies that at cost to students.”

            “That’s good.  Anything else?”

            “Oil for our lamps, and Mrs. Wiggins, who runs the house, will do our laundry, but that’s an extra charge—sixty cents a dozen.”

            Adam nodded.  “Probably less than we’d pay to have it done elsewhere.  At least, that’s how it was at my boardinghouse in Sacramento.”

            “Yes, I’d say so, and I don’t doubt she’ll do a more careful job, judging by her impeccable housekeeping,” Jamie advised.  “If you’re through looking around, we should probably get to a restaurant.  I’m fair starved, and I know you must be.”

            As they left the room and headed for the stairs, a disturbing suspicion arose in Adam’s mind.  “Jamie, you haven’t been stinting on meals to save money, have you?”

            Jamie didn’t answer at first, but the flush on his face gave him away.  Realizing that, he said, “Well, I really do want to join a society, Adam, and that takes money. Skipping a meal here and there seemed the easiest way to save for that.”

            “You mustn’t,” Adam chided, descending the stairs slowly.  “We’ll cut corners where we can, but not on food and shelter.  You can’t house a sound mind in an unsound body.”

            Jamie smiled back over his shoulder.  “Your father or mine?”

            Adam shook his head.  “Neither, though I’m sure they’d both agree.  I learned that for myself during my early days at the academy in Sacramento.”

            They left the house and Jamie led the way down the darkened street.  “It’ll be better once we’re actually enrolled.  I hear they have eating clubs on campus.  Costs six to seven dollars a week, but that’s still cheaper than eating in restaurants, as you’re about to discover.”

            Adam laughed.  “After this trip I can quote you chapter and verse on the high cost of eateries.  You wouldn’t believe what I’ve paid for bacon and biscuits!”

            “We’ll do better than that tonight, I promise.  Here’s the place.”

            The restaurant into which Jamie led Adam was small and cozy, its décor simple and its fare hearty.  Both boys soon were dipping their spoons into bowls of steaming oyster stew.  “They grow the oysters in the riverbeds near here,” Jamie informed his friend.  “It’s quite an industry in New Haven.”

            “Best we support it, then,” Adam said, patting his stomach, “especially since it’s supporting us quite well.”

            They followed the stew with plates of Welsh rarebit and ended with dishes of creamy custard.  Between bites they talked of many things, from old memories to strategies for whittling expenses.  “Joining a freshman society will be expensive,” Jamie shared, “but I do think we should consider it, Adam.  They develop speaking abilities, and that can help us in our class recitations and, especially, in prize debates and competitions.  Some of those even bring cash awards.  If we could just win one . . .”

            Adam swirled a morsel of toast in the melted cheese on his plate.  “So it might actually be an investment to join a society?”

            “I think Father would say so.  No guarantee it would pay off, of course.”

            “How much would this investment cost us?”  Adam put the toast in his mouth, chewing and swallowing while Jamie answered.

            “Taxes are ten to fifteen dollars, and with the additional expenses it can come to thirty-five or forty for the year.”

            Adam whistled.  “And the prize money?”

            “As much as a hundred dollars for some,” Jamie said, “as little as five for others, but there are scholarships, as well.  Most of them go to society men, but I suppose that’s because most students do join one.”

            Adam mulled that over.  “Well worth the investment, I’d say.  I mean, even if we never won an award, the experience itself would be valuable, especially for you.  As a preacher, you’ll need to be comfortable with public speaking, so the more opportunities to try your wings, the better.”

            Jamie leaned forward earnestly.  “Oh, but I wouldn’t join without you, Adam.  I couldn’t!”

            “Then we join together,” Adam said with determination.  “I’m not sure I’ll be doing much public speaking back in Nevada, but I’d like to feel confident, if the need arose.”  He chuckled.  “At least, I should be able to use whatever powers of persuasion I develop on a certain pair of little brothers.”

            “Oh, tell me about them,” Jamie urged, his eyes brightening.  “I’m always amused by their latest antics.”

            Adam smiled.  “Another time.  Let’s decide about a freshman society first.  You’ve talked to all of them.  Which do you recommend?

            “Not the Delta Kaps, despite Mr. Pomphrey’s eagerness to give us the ‘last spots,’” Jamie said, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth.  “They’re much more interested in partying than academic pursuits.  The Gamma Nus are noted as the best scholars, and I won’t object if you want to go with them.  They do charge less.”

            “Because they offer less?  Let’s try to forget how empty our pockets are for now,” Adam recommended.  “Choosing the cheapest might be false economy.  What we want is the one that’s the best match for our goals.  You said there were three societies, I believe?”

            Jamie nodded.  “The Sigma Eps impressed me most—and not just because of the free meal and extra help they gave me.  They have a reputation for literary excellence, but also for having fun without the endless partying of the Delta Kaps.”

            Adam reached for his custard and sat thoughtfully drawing figure eights through it with his spoon.  “A balance between study and fun might be more profitable in the long run,” he mused.  “All work and no play, you know.”

            “Yes, that’s just what I was thinking.”

            Adam gazed warmly at his friend.  “We always did think alike.  I’m glad to see that hasn’t changed.  Sigma Ep it is, then.  Now, let’s tuck into this custard!”

            And so they did, with the gusto that only decisions made and a settled mind can give a man.  Before facing the chill of the New England night again, they elected to fortify themselves with a final cup of hot chocolate.  Jamie had actually suggested coffee, but Adam pointed out that the chocolate would be more conducive to a good night’s rest, which both of them needed, and Jamie readily concurred.

            As they sipped the hot drink, Jamie seemed to grow more somber.  Finally, after drinking about half, he looked tentatively across at Adam.  “I should have asked before: how are your father, your brothers . . . you . . . doing after . . .”

            “Marie’s passing?”  Adam’s eyes veiled as somber scenes flashed past his eyes:  Marie’s fall, his little brothers’ anguish, Pa’s devastation.

            “Yes, I . . . oh, I don’t know how to put this, Adam, but you seemed so downhearted in that letter you sent, when you said you couldn’t come to Yale with me, and I’ve been concerned . . . for all of you.”

            Adam nodded.  “I was downhearted then, as low as I’ve ever been in my life; I’m sorry it showed, but I guess I could hardly have disguised it from you.  Those were very rough days, mostly because Pa wasn’t coping at all with the loss.  I was trying to, for the boys’ sake, but between guilt and plain ordinary exhaustion . . .”—he couldn’t finish.

            Jamie cocked his head quizzically.  “Guilt?  What had you to feel guilty over, Adam?  It was an accident, you said.”

            “Not over her death,” Adam explained quietly, “but over the pain I’d given her in life.  I didn’t accept her at first, as you know; I did my best to make her life a living hell.”

            Jamie reached across the table to lay his slim hand atop Adam’s sturdier one.  “I think you exaggerate.  I remember your journal from that time, how you struggled with the surprise your father brought home, your confessions of your own bad behavior.  I know you must have caused her grief, but ‘hell’ is excessive, I believe, and all that changed, in time.  You loved her, Adam.”

            “But never told her,” Adam sighed.

            “She knew.”  Jamie’s voice was stronger than it had been all evening.  “I know she knew, Adam, and anything she didn’t know then, she knows now.”

            Adam’s lips curved slightly.  “Practicing your preaching skills already, I see.”

            Jamie blushed and ducked his head, but looked up again quickly.  “I’m only saying what I believe.  If that’s preaching, so be it.”

            Adam turned his hand over to clasp the one that still rested on it.  “Preach away, my boy; I’m sure I’m in need of it.”

            “Not more guilt, surely?” Jamie hinted with a smile.

            Adam chuckled as he slid his hand back and lifted his cup again.  “Sometimes I think I’m a bottomless well of that.  I’m so excited to be here at last; yet I can’t help thinking that I’m abandoning Pa when he needs me most.”

            “I understand,” Jamie said sympathetically.  “I feel the same at times, spending Father’s good money when he has no promise of more, but I truly believe God has a plan for each of our lives, Adam, and His plan, for both you and me just now, is to be here together, working toward a common goal and finding His will for our lives.”  His face reddened as he mumbled into his cup, “Sorry.  Preaching again.”

            Adam shook his head slowly.  “I don’t know, Jamie.  A plan . . . it’s a comforting thought, but . . . well . . . three wives, three deaths . . . so much sorrow for one man . . . does that speak of a plan?  Pure chance couldn’t have dealt us a much harder hand.”

            Jamie looked up again.  “Three fine sons, too.  Don’t forget that.  I have questions, too, Adam, and I don’t have all the answers.  Why did my mother have to die?  Why did God take Inger, who was like a second mother to me?  Could Heaven possibly have needed another angel more than we needed her here?  But if He hadn’t taken her, there would never have been a Marie . . . or a Little Joe.”

            Adam suppressed a snicker.  “That’s your idea of a blessing?  That little . . . well, yes,” he conceded, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips.  “I can’t imagine life without him.”  He sighed.  “I don’t know, Jamie.  I guess it comes down to faith, and mine just isn’t as strong as yours.  I believe in God, but a plan?”  He shook his head again.  “Like you, I have questions; that’s all I’m saying.”

            Jamie’s face beamed bright as an angel’s.  “And that’s all right.  God doesn’t mind our having questions, I’m sure.  That’s how we learn anything, isn’t it, by asking questions and seeking answers?  Isn’t that exactly what we’ll do in our classes here at Yale?”

            “Not if we don’t pass the entrance exam!”  Adam drained his cup and stood up.  “With that end in mind, we should get back to our room and turn in.  And no chatting away under the covers—your father’s orders.”

            “Which I shall obey—almost gladly.”  Jamie quickly finished his chocolate and stood, as well.  “I could cheerfully talk all night, but Father’s right.  We should be rested for tomorrow.”

            Adam threw an arm around his friend’s shoulders as they walked out into the nippy air.  “Once we pass, we’ll celebrate with the longest chat on record.”

            “That’s a bargain,” Jamie agreed.  “And a prize like that is sure to inspire our success!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Entrance Exams

 

 

Adam splashed his face with cold water from the basin beneath the window.  He’d washed earlier, before dressing, but his face felt hot and he hoped the jolt of cold water would cool him down.  Nerves, nothing but nerves, he chided himself, the same reason he’d had a hard time getting to sleep last night.  All he’d been able to think about as he lay beneath the covers listening to Jamie’s soft snores, was the exam the next morning and the consequences if he failed.  Disappointment in himself loomed large at the top of the list, followed by the waning of his father’s pride, a short-changed reunion with Jamie and the death of his hopes for further education, for he’d never find the courage—or the funds—to try again if he failed now.  Finally, exhaustion had won out, and he had gotten some much needed rest.  Now he was too keyed up and too downright queasy to even think about how tired he was.

            “You look like I feel,” Jamie said with a woeful shake of his head as he sat on the side of their bed.

            Adam dried his face and then tested the warmth of his cheeks with the back of his hand.  The water hadn’t helped much, if any.  “I feel like putting anything on my stomach is a major risk,” he moaned.

            Jamie smiled wryly.  “Some wise man once told me that you couldn’t house a sound mind in an unsound body.”

            Adam winced as he recognized his own words from the night before.  “My mind’s still sound enough to know that fellow was right, but my body’s screaming that he was just an inexperienced dolt!  We’ll eat, but let’s keep it light, for mercy’s sake.  I don’t want to begin my career at Yale by depositing my breakfast on the examiner’s shoes.”

            “My unsettled stomach is in complete agreement.”  Jamie rose and put a narrow-brimmed bowler hat on his head.  “You have your characters?”

            Adam drew a set of envelopes from his coat pocket.  “All three of them.”

            Jamie’s pocket crackled as he patted it.  “Just two for me.”

            “I’m from further west,” Adam muttered.  “It might take more to convince them that I’m fit material for Yale.”

            Jamie clapped a hand to his friend’s shoulder.  “Your test scores will do that.  Ready?”

            “For breakfast?  Just barely.  For the exams?  Questionable.”  Shaking his head, Adam put on his flat-crowned black hat with a determined hand.  “Lead me to the lions’ den, kindly pastor.”

            Jamie groaned.  “No pastorate for me until I pass these exams, and suddenly I feel as likely to end up some lion’s breakfast.”

            “So pray God shuts the lions’ mouths,” Adam jibed.

            “And opens ours when we’re called on to recite,” Jamie joked back.

            Laughing, both boys left the room, made their way down to the street and headed back to the restaurant they’d patronized the night before for a light breakfast.

 

* * * * *

 

            The sky was overcast with threatening clouds of gray as the two young men walked northeast on Temple St.  I hope that’s not an omen, Adam thought morosely.  To further dampen his melancholy state of mind, the oatmeal he’d hoped would soothe his stomach was settling like a lead weight to its pit.

            “Not far now,” Jamie said.  He pointed straight ahead.  “That’s the Green.”

            Adam looked up and saw, on the right side of the street ahead, an attractive swath of lawn enclosed by an iron fence.  On its left side stood three churches and beyond them a stately building with impressive white columns.  Beneath the maple and buttonwood trees, some of whose leaves were just beginning to turn, a number of young men were frolicking about.  “Part of the college?” he inquired, for the players seemed about the same age as he and Jamie.

            Jamie shook his head.  “No, that’s town property, but those might be some of our future classmates, working off nervous energy until Alumni Hall opens.”

            “We’re still ahead of time, aren’t we?”  Adam couldn’t keep a note of anxiousness from his voice.  How ironic if he’d traveled day and night to reach New Haven, only to miss the exam because they’d dawdled too long over breakfast!

            “Still early.”  Jamie grinned.  “If you’re that nervous, maybe you should go for a romp with those other fellows.  It might help, Adam.”

            A touch of crimson crept over Adam’s countenance.  “I’d rather stay with you, my sedate and calming friend.”

            Jamie released a sputtering laugh.  “Sedate and calming!  If only you could see the butterflies cavorting riotously through my stomach!”

            Adam took a playful poke at his friend’s ribs.  “If you can come up with a description like that at a time like this, sir, you have nothing to worry about regarding these exams.”

            “It’s not the literary portions I’m worried about,” Jamie said with a shudder.  “I’m good with words . . . but the math!”

            “The only part I’m not worried about,” Adam chuckled.

            “This is Chapel Street,” Jamie said as they turned left and walked past one of the churches on the Green.  At the end of the block he paused and pointed across the street.  “There!  That’s Yale.”

            Weary as they were from lack of sleep, Adam’s eyes drank in his first sight of the row of brick buildings facing New Haven Green.  Stately, symmetrical, with a classic beauty he’d only seen in wood engravings within the covers of a book.  “Oh, it’s grand,” he murmured.  “All I dreamed and more.”  For a moment he forgot the uneasiness of his stomach and the persistent ache in his sleep-deprived head.

            “Isn’t it?” Jamie agreed with starry eyes.  “And it’s ours, Adam.  Four years from now every building will seem like home.”

            The nausea came surging back with a vengeance.  “If,” Adam croaked.  Having seen the goal made failure seem both more possible and more unthinkable.  “Which one is Alumni Hall?” he inquired as they turned onto a lane Jamie said was called College Street and began to walk northeast beneath the leafy canopy of elms that arched over the path from both sides.

            “None of these,” Jamie replied.  “It’s on the back side of the college yard.”  He pointed to the second building in the row.  “That’s the Athenaeum.”

            Adam whistled.  “Pretty fancy ‘dregs.’  Different from the other dorms.”  Impressive as those buildings were, architecturally they were rather plain, just long rectangles with four banks of windows, one above the other.

            “Because it wasn’t one, to start with,” Jamie laughed.  “It was the old chapel.  The steeple was where that tower is now.  There’s a telescope up there I hope to get a look at.”

            “First things first,” Adam advised.  “Let’s find Alumni Hall.”

            “Northwest corner of the yard,” Jamie said, pointing.  “We can cut through this way.”

            They moved between two of the brick buildings, one obviously another dormitory, and walked diagonally across the broad lawn behind the first row.  A crowd was gathered before the red sandstone building in the northwest corner.  “It’s a castle,” Adam gasped as he caught sight of the parapets at the top of the building and the twin, turreted towers flanking the arched entrance.

            A merry laugh greeted his description.  Turning toward its source, Adam saw a set of twinkling blue eyes beneath an unruly crop of golden brown curls.

            “It does rather look it, doesn’t it?” the other boy chuckled.  “Now, if they’d just lower the drawbridge and let us in!”

            As if on command, the massive doors opened, and every young man in the yard instinctively moved toward them.  Adam, Jamie and the boy who had had no opportunity to introduce himself were far back in the pack.  As they drew near the door, the other boy bowed and gestured toward the door.  “After you, gentlemen,” he quipped.  “I’m in no particular hurry to be thrown in the dungeon.”

            Adam suddenly felt a similar reluctance to walk through those imposing doors, and the sensation felt odd after rushing so frantically across the country for that very purpose.  He saw Jamie take a deep breath before entering, and he did the same—out of sympathy, he tried to convince himself.

            Just inside he found himself facing a long table, behind which sat three official-looking men in black frock coats.  Their august presence made him painfully aware of just how provincial he appeared in his worn and, compared with theirs, shapeless suit.

            “Your characters,” Jamie whispered.

            Adam flushed and drew the envelopes from his jacket.  As he waited in line behind his friend, he glanced at the interior of the building.  The hall was a vast open rectangle with exposed beams above, and between tall windows its walls were adorned with portraits of men who must have had some connection with the college. The room itself was bare, but for row after row of small octagonal pedestal tables, each with its own straight-backed chair.  Must be a hundred or more, Adam mused, wondering if only a set number of candidates would be accepted and, if so, whether he had a chance of achieving the upper ranks.

            “Your character, young man?”

            The voice startled Adam, and as he hastily handed his envelopes to the man behind the table, one fell to the floor.  Adam dived for it and came up so quickly that he his hat hit the edge of the table and toppled off.  He scrambled to pick it up, started to put it back on his head and then remembered that he was indoors now and held it awkwardly to one side.  The college official smiled kindly, though he looked somewhat surprised when handed the final envelope.  “Three?” he asked.

            “Y-yes, sir,” Adam stammered.  “I wasn’t sure what was customary, so I brought one from my minister, one from the head of my academy in Sacramento and one from a former Yale student, now a lawyer in Nevada.”

            “Indeed!  An alumnus?  And his name?”

            “Bill—uh, that is, William Stewart, sir.”

            “Ah, yes!  I knew Stewart.  An excellent student, one we were loath to lose.  I would be interested, at another time, to learn how he is prospering,” the official said, “but we must attend to more important matters now.”  He laid the three envelopes aside and motioned toward another figure in a long black frock coat.  This one appeared younger, young enough, in fact, to be a student himself, though a few years older than those assembled for the entrance exams.  “Escort this young man to his table please, Mr. Perkins,” the official requested.

            As Mr. Perkins nodded, he stared at Adam’s western-style hat as if it were as exotic and out of place as a Turk’s fez.  Then, seeing Adam’s attempt to hide it behind his back, Perkins remembered both his manners and his duty.  “Follow me, please.”  He turned and Adam fell into step behind him as they walked toward the rows of octagonal tables.  At about half of them nervous young men already sat, writing on a piece of paper.  Adam spotted Jamie nine rows back from the front of the room, but his escort didn’t stop until he’d reached the third row beyond that.  The desks were lined up four across, and Adam found himself sitting in the second from the end.

            Perkins pointed to a blank form, which was lying on the desk.  “Please fill this out completely and then wait for the examiner.  Be sure to give the full name wherever asked.  Is there anything you don’t understand?”

            “No, it seems clear,” Adam murmured.  He picked up the provided pen and dipped it into the inkwell.  On each line he filled in the requested information: name and residence, date and place of birth, name and address of father or guardian, place of preparatory study, chief preparatory instructor and the class he wished to enter.  Then, laying the pen down, he folded his hands and waited.  Someone came by to pick up the completed form, but no examiner appeared to begin his exam.  He saw men, probably professors, going to other desks, but he remained alone so long that he began to worry that he’d already been rejected, just on the basis of his residence and preparatory school.  How impressive could Nevada and Sacramento possibly sound, compared to Boston or Philadelphia?  Still, he saw an examiner stop at Jamie’s table, and St. Joseph and St. Louis, the location of Jamie’s preparatory school, weren’t much more illustrious, were they?  Surely, they’d at least give him a chance, even if he did hail from the wilds of the West.  Just when he was about to despair of that chance, an examiner appeared before him and asked his name.

            “Adam Morgan Cartwright,” he responded somewhat shakily.

            The examiner nodded and copied the name into a pocket-sized book.  Then he handed Adam a textbook and, after pointing to a passage, walked away.  Not quite sure what was expected of him, Adam read the designated selection from the orations of Cicero in the original Latin.  Then he read it again.  And again.  At the sound of a throat being cleared, he looked up and responded to the examiner’s invitation to translate the passage.  Twice he stumbled over a word, using the wrong tense in one instance and the definite, instead of the indefinite article in the other.  Though he corrected himself before proceeding, he saw the examiner making marks in the score book—not positive ones, he feared.  When he’d finished, the examiner thanked him and left, his face so studiously inexpressive that Adam couldn’t tell what the man thought of his performance.

            Adam himself was thoroughly disgusted with it.  He knew every word of that passage, knew it cold!  He’d studied it in Sacramento, reviewed it on the stagecoach and then he’d made two utterly ridiculous errors, out of sheer nerves.  He expected better of himself and vowed it wouldn’t happen again.  The trouble with that vow, even he realized, was that his poor opening recitation had only added to his nervousness—and more nerves were likely to lead to more mistakes, not fewer.

            The seemingly interminable wait for his next opportunity increased his tension, too.  Twenty minutes passed before a different examiner appeared at his table and handed him a paper with problems in mathematics for him to solve.  Adam felt himself relax, for mathematics had always been one of his best subjects.  He studied the problems carefully, however, determined not to let cockiness rob him of a single point.  When the examiner returned, he took a deep breath, to make sure nerves wouldn’t be a factor this time, and began to give each solution and explain his procedure.  When he’d finished, he exhaled with satisfaction; his recitation had been flawless and he knew it.

            By the time the third examiner appeared, Adam was comfortable with the process, and since the subject this time was geography, his confidence continued to build.  He’d seen first hand much of his own country’s geography and had always felt a keen interest in foreign lands, so he found each question posed to him quite simple.  Only one caused him any hesitation, and he thought, though he wasn’t sure, that he’d answered that one correctly, as well.

            And so it went throughout the morning.  The hardest part was the tedious wait between the appearances of examiners.  When Adam was working, he could stay alert, but sitting still and waiting sent waves of exhaustion surging through him.  Once his head even fell forward as his eyes closed, but he woke with a jolt and grasped the octagonal table tightly with both hands as he fought off the grogginess.  He didn’t fare particularly well with the recitation that followed that episode, but thought he’d performed acceptably with the next one.  Homer’s Iliad was a particular favorite of his, so translating it was more like visiting an old friend than being put to the test.

            Not long after the Greek examiner left him, at about 1 p.m., an intermission of one hour was announced.  Eager for a breath of fresh air, Adam hurried outside and searched the surrounding grounds for Jamie.  Jamie was looking for him, as well, and waved when their eyes met.  The two friends quickly compared notes, both agreeing that the interminable waiting was worse than the actual exams; then Jamie suggested that they should get something to eat in the brief hour allotted to them.

            Adam groaned.  “My stomach feels like it’s asleep.  Don’t see how it could properly digest a meal.  Besides, we don’t have time.  I won’t risk getting back late.”

            “A little food will settle your stomach,” Jamie insisted.  “You’re right about the time, though.  Let’s just find an apple vender or something like that.  Look!  There’s a fellow over there.”

            “An apple?”  Adam nodded soberly.  “Yeah, maybe I could handle that much.  Let’s try him.”

            As they approached the vender, who had set up a small table beneath a towering elm, Adam noticed the black man’s clouded eyes and realized with a shock that he was blind.  Yet the disability didn’t seem to hinder the man’s ability to pitch his wares or count out the proper change for each customer.  “We’d like two apples, please,” he asked when the previous customer had been served.

            The black man flashed a bright smile as he picked up a deep red McIntosh and polished it against his tweed vest.  “One for you, suh”—he gave the same attention to a second apple and held it out—“and one for yo’ mate.  Two bits, please, suh.”

            Adam fished a quarter from his pocket and placed it in the wrinkled palm stretched toward him.

            “I got de best confections on de campus, too,” the vender suggested.  “Dey don’t call me Candy Sam fo’ nuffin.”

            “I don’t think something sweet would set well just now,” Adam replied, “but thank you for the offer.”

            “Maybe ‘nother time,” the effervescent black man said.  “I goes to all de dorms ev’ry day, stops by each and ev’ry room.”

            “We’re not in a dorm, sir,” Jamie told him.  “We’re lodging in town.”

            The salesman seemed completely unperturbed.  “Well, den, young massas, Candy Sam be on de lookout fo’ you on campus.”

            Adam couldn’t help wondering how a blind man could possibly spot them on such a large campus, but he had a feeling this enterprising fellow would find a way.  “If we make it in, we’ll look you up, Sam.”

            “Oh, you will, suh, you will,” the vender assured him.  “Candy Sam got de nose fo’ sniffin’ out de good ones”—he tapped his nose—“and you got dat smell.”

            Jamie laughed.  “Faith like that must be rewarded, Adam.  I’ll take a small bag of your candies, Sam, for a celebration after we pass our exams.”

            White teeth gleamed as Sam’s smile broadened.  “Dat de spirit, young massa, dat de spirit!”  He placed several pieces of fluffy divinity in a small paper bag, collected the coin Jamie offered him, felt its size and rendered the correct change.  Both boys thanked Candy Sam and made their way to an accommodating shade tree, for the sun had finally come out and was shining brightly.  They threw themselves down on the grass and savored the sweet-sour taste of their apples as they shared in more detail the questions put to them in each subject.  They quickly discerned that the questions had been different, even when the subject was the same.

            The hour passed all too quickly, and promptly at two the boys returned to Alumni Hall, taking the same seats as before.  As Adam settled into his, he decided that Jamie had been right.  He did feel better with something on his stomach.  Hope Candy Sam is right about how we’ll fare here, he thought when he saw his first examiner approaching.  Though he knew the vender actually knew nothing about what type of student he was, somehow it helped to have someone, even a stranger, express such strong confidence.

            For Adam, the first subject of the afternoon was English grammar, followed by a quiz on the metric system of weights and measures and then a page of algebra equations to solve.  Then more Latin, more Greek, more of everything until his head began to throb.  He was mightily tempted to lay it on the desk between recitations, especially when one of his waits was almost an hour in length.  For mercy’s sake, he thought, there has to be a better way of determining a young man’s fitness for academic life.  This is the most inefficient . . . he had no time to complete the thought, for just then another examiner appeared.

            Around five o’clock that afternoon, he saw a few fortunate scholars depart, with either a blue or white certificate in hand.  From a conversation overheard during the break, he knew what they meant.  The white was the most desirable, for it meant admission on probation to the freshman class; the blue meant the candidate had passed certain parts of the exams and would be admitted on condition of passing the others at a subsequent exam.  Oh, God, at least let me get a blue, Adam prayed.  Surely, surely he had done that well.  He had mistranslated a word here and there, missed some questions due to weariness, simply not known other answers, but he couldn’t possibly have performed below average on enough subjects to be rejected, could he?

            At 6:30 he saw Jamie leave, empty-handed, and his heart sank.  It didn’t mean failure, of course.  Very few young men had received one of the prized certificates today; most would simply continue the process on the second day of exams.  Surely that was the case with Jamie.  If not, if his friend, whom Adam considered the better scholar, had been rejected so readily, what chance did he himself have?

            Fifteen minutes later Mr. Perkins approached Adam’s desk with no sign of a certificate in his hand.  “Mr. Cartwright?”

            Somehow Adam managed to say, though weakly, “Yes, sir?”

            “We’ll see you tomorrow at eight o’clock,” Perkins advised.

            Adam exhaled in relief.  He’d be back; hope wasn’t lost; he had another chance.  “Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.”  As Perkins walked away, to deliver a similar message to another candidate, Adam rose stiffly and moved toward the door.

            Jamie was waiting for him just below the short flight of steps descending from Alumni Hall.  “How do you think you did?” he asked earnestly.

            “No certificate,” Adam replied with a tinge of disappointment, “but at least they didn’t send me home.  I must have made at least a somewhat favorable impression.”

            Jamie threw an arm around him.  “Oh, Adam, you are such a worrywart; of course you did!”

            Adam eyed him with disbelief.  “Aren’t you the least perturbed that you didn’t make it through today?”

            Dropping his arm, Jamie laughed.  “How could I be?  I wasn’t even tested on algebra today, so I knew I’d have to come back for that, at the very least.  I think I did rather well on everything except geometry.”

            Adam massaged his temple as he walked across the yard beside his friend.  “I haven’t had any geometry yet, and I just this minute realized it.  My head must be muddled to overlook that!”

            “It’s probably too consumed with thoughts of starvation,” Jamie suggested lightheartedly.  “Let’s tuck something substantial into our tummies tonight and silence their screaming.”

            Adam laughed, his mood suddenly lightened.  “Ah, that must be what was shouting so loud my brain couldn’t concentrate on Latin tenses.  By all means let’s silence that bellowing belly.  Maybe a piece of Sam’s divinity would soothe it until we reach the restaurant,” he hinted.

            With a grin Jamie obligingly offered Adam a piece of candy.  “I’ve already had one, while I was waiting for you,” he confessed, “and I can attest to its soothing powers.”

            Adam let the meringue melt in his mouth for a minute.  “As good as advertised,” he attested.  “Candy Sam definitely gets as much of my business as my pocketbook can afford.”

            Jamie threw an arm around his friend’s shoulder.  “And now let’s have the best supper our pocketbooks—or, rather, Father’s—can afford.”

 

* * * * *

 

            Promptly at eight o’clock the next morning Adam and Jamie were again escorted to desks in Alumni Hall, and the testing process began again, with different questions and sometimes different subjects.  Adam was relieved that no more Latin texts were thrust under his nose, though during his waits between recitations he found time to worry whether that meant he’d only receive a blue certificate and have to retest in that area.  He was examined more fully on Greek, and even though he’d never read Xenophon’s Anabasis before, he felt comfortable with his translation.  Only one word had been completely unfamiliar.  Euclid’s geometry finally appeared, but Adam breezed through that and could only hope that Jamie would do as well with the dreaded algebra.  He’d spent some time the previous night helping his friend with that subject, and while he wasn’t sure the extra tutoring had calmed Jamie’s nerves, thinking about someone other than himself had definitely helped him forget his own.

            A final recitation in English grammar rounded out Adam’s morning, and he was thrilled to be handed a white certificate at its close.  Admitted!  On probation, of course, but that was true for everyone.  He’d have to continue proving himself, but having passed the first hurdle, his confidence again became buoyant.  He finished first this time and had to wait outside for Jamie.  He had no doubt that his friend had fared as well as he, and his faith was confirmed when Jamie came flying down the steps, waving his white certificate.

            “We made it!” the fair-haired boy cried.

            “Of course, we did, worrywart,” Adam teased, welcoming the opportunity to toss back at Jamie the epithet his friend had thrown at him the previous evening.  “Let’s find Candy Sam and splurge on some celebration divinity.”

            “Since we ate all we bought for that purpose yesterday!” Jamie snickered.

            Over a meal of corned beef, potato croquettes and green peas the two boys discussed their agenda for the afternoon.  “I have to see a tailor,” Adam declared, “as well as find a hat that won’t have everyone on campus gawking at me.”

            Jamie smiled at the flat-brimmed black felt Adam had placed in the empty chair at their table.  “It does make you stand out, Adam.  Are you sure that’s a bad thing?”

            “I want to stand out for my school work, not my chapeau, thank you kindly,” Adam snorted.  “And my suit shouts my western origins.”

            “You’re not ashamed of that, I trust?” Jamie asked with a cock of his head.  “My wardrobe probably speaks a bit loudly, too.”

            “Not as much as mine,” Adam assured him.  “No, I’m not ashamed of where I come from, but the suit’s old, anyway.  Pa expected me to have another made once I arrived and provided the funds for it.”

            “Let’s stop by our rooming house and ask Mrs. Wiggins if she can recommend a good, reasonably priced tailor,” Jamie suggested.  “Then while you’re being fitted for your suit, I’ll drop by the Treasurer’s office and order our coal.  Quarter ton, you think?  We’re allotted limited space in the basement to store it, but that’s the smallest amount they sell.”

            “Definitely not more,” Adam concurred.  “We need oil for our lamps, too, don’t we?  I could pick that up while I’m in town, and we’ll settle up this evening.  You’ve already laid out some money for the room, and I want to be sure I’ve paid my share.”

            Jamie nodded.  “Down the middle on everything.”  He picked up the certificate of admission that lay to the side of his plate.  “Here’s the bill I dread paying.”

            Adam lifted his own certificate and sighed at the form attached to it.  “Two hundred dollars bond.  Steeper than I’d expected, but I can just manage it.”

            “Of course, we get it back at the end of our senior year, provided we’ve paid all our bills,” Jamie said, “but it’s a lot to lay out at one time.”

            “Do you have enough?” Adam asked with a frown of worry.  There was little he could do to help, since his own finances were tight, though not, he suspected, as tight as his friend’s.

            “Father set that aside long ago,” Jamie assured him.  “Let’s just say I hope we don’t run into any sudden emergencies.”

            Adam gave a short chuckle.  “Same hope here, pal.  Anything else we need?”

            “Nothing that won’t wait.”  Jamie looked fondly at his certificate of admission.  “I can’t spare the funds yet for a proper memorabilia book, but we’ll each want one eventually, to save mementos like this.  All the students have one, I’m told.”

            Adam’s fingers brushed his own certificate.  “It’s a keepsake, all right, but we won’t need a book until this one has others to keep it company.”

            Jamie laughed.  “Oh, it will have plenty of company before you know it!”  He rested his chin dreamily on the back of his gracefully curled fingers.  “I must write Father tonight to let him know I passed, even though he said he had no doubt I would.  I wish I could wire him the good news, but that constitutes a luxury I can’t afford, I fear.”

            “Telegrams are costly,” Adam agreed.  “I’m tempted to send one, though.  Mail takes so long to reach Nevada, and I’m not sure my father was as confident as yours that I’d make it.”

            “I think you should, if you can spare the funds,” Jamie urged.  “He shouldn’t have to wait a month to learn he’s lost a son . . . for four years, that is.”  His blue eyes twinkled as he winked at Adam.

            “Yeah, I think I will, and then I’ll write tonight—to Hoss, maybe.”  Adam smiled in fond remembrance of his younger brother.  “He’ll like getting the first letter.”

            “And tonight you are going to tell me what he and Little Joe have been up to lately, aren’t you?” Jamie asked pointedly.

            “That won’t take long,” Adam laughed.  “I haven’t seen them for almost a month, but I guarantee Little Joe’s been up to mischief and probably managed to drag Hoss into it with him!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

First Day

 

 

The breeze off Long Island Sound was balmy, the air pleasantly cool, but tingling with excitement, or so it seemed to Adam and Jamie as they passed the Green, headed for their first chapel service.  Although Temple was slightly closer, they had traveled up Church Street this time, so that Adam could deposit his letter to Hoss at the Post Office.  “We should mark this day with stars on our calendar,” Jamie said, referring to the one hanging above their bed at the boardinghouse, which touted the reliability of one William Whitney, local apothecary.

            “Oh, and which one of us gets that page for his memorabilia book—when we can afford one?”  Adam laughed.

            “That’s a harder question than any on our entrance exams,” Jamie teased back.  “When we can afford one, I mean.”

            Adam groaned appreciatively.  “We have got to find a cheaper way to eat, chum.”

            “I might be able to help you with that.”

            Adam turned and smiled as he recognized the brown-haired wit from the first day of exams.  “We never properly met,” he said as he extended his hand.  “Adam Cartwright.”

            “Lucas Cameron,” the other boy said with a hearty pump of Adam’s hand, “and I really might be able to help with your mealtime expenses—if you’re interested in an eating club.”

            “Oh, we are!” Jamie exclaimed enthusiastically.  “I’ve heard”—he halted abruptly as the prayer bell began to ring from the chapel steeple.

            “You’ve heard the chapel bell, you say?” Lucas jibed.  “That’s just the five-minute bell, though . . . I think.”

            “Are you sure?” Jamie asked, for Lucas seemed hesitant.

            Lucas chuckled.  “Well, if another rings in two minutes, then that was the five-minute bell.  If not . . . well, we’re doomed.”

            “I don’t think we should chance being late to the first chapel,” Jamie insisted, his gaze on Adam, who nodded his agreement.  First impressions were important, and he didn’t intend Yale’s first impression of him to be one of tardiness.

            “You’re probably right,” Lucas conceded agreeably.  “Meet me here directly after, and I’ll tell you about the Vultures.”

            “We’ll be here,” Adam assured him.  Then all three incoming freshmen dashed for the chapel door.

            A boy sporting plug and banger pushed Lucas, who was in the lead, aside.  “Mind your place, Freshie,” he taunted, “and let your betters in before you.”

            “Mind your mouth, Sophie,” a red-faced Lucas demanded, drawing back his fist.

            “No, please!” Jamie cried, putting himself between the two.  He turned to the sophomore.  “After you, sir, by all means,” he said.  When the other boy, with superior smirk, passed through the door, Jamie whispered to Lucas, “I think it’s tradition.”

            “It is,” said another fresh-faced lad coming up to them, “and we sit in the rear of the house or the galleries—at least this time.  That’s tradition, too.”

            “The galleries, I say,” Adam suggested.  “A better view, perhaps?”

            “Suits me,” Jamie agreed.  “Will you join us, Lucas, and you, too, sir?”

            “Don’t call me ‘sir,’” the other boy chuckled.  “I’m a lowly freshman, just like the rest of you.  Introductions can wait.  Let’s get inside!”  That need was emphasized by the ringing of the final chapel bell.  The freshmen hurried through the door and up the stairs to the gallery, where they found an empty wooden pew on the left side, just the right size for four.

            The chapel, although austerely furnished, seemed elegant to Adam and Jamie, who were accustomed to the frugality of frontier meetinghouses.  The pews were plain, wooden benches, but the smooth pillars supporting the gallery gave the room a classic sophistication.  A pulpit, which contained a sofa, stood at center front, flanked by double boxes.  Before it was a small parlor table with hair-covered chairs on each side that might just as readily have fit beneath a dining room table.  Two older men, dressed in black greatcoats and black ties, entered the pulpit and sat on the sofa.

            Soon one of them, a man of medium height and slender, but wiry build rose and gazed upon the student body with steadfast, discerning eyes.  “Good morning, young gentlemen,” he said warmly.  “It is my privilege and pleasure, as President of Yale College, to welcome you to the beginning of a new term—and for some of you, the beginning of your time at Yale.   Beginnings are always moments of great importance, and whether you are beginning your college education or simply beginning another year of its continuation, you will want to make that beginning an auspicious one.  I can think of no better way to insure that than to heed the instruction of Holy Scripture, which tells us in Proverbs 1:7, ‘The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge.’”

            Adam glanced to his left and smiled as he saw Jamie, elbows propped on the balustrade, eyes fixed on the speaker, totally enrapt.  A well-spoken sermon would appeal to the would-be preacher, of course, but the words held Adam’s interest, as well.  Having been brought up in traditional New England fear of the Lord, he figured he had already made the beginning of which President Woolsey spoke; now he was ready to build on the solid foundation that Ben Cartwright had laid.  And knowing what a challenge lay before him, to succeed at such a prestigious school, Adam figured it wouldn’t hurt to invoke a little divine aid each morning.

            With a twinkle in his eye, President Woolsey leaned forward, the stance emphasizing the slight stoop of his shoulders.  “There are some, I regret to tell you, even among the select scholars of Yale, who think that a few minutes extra sleep of a morning will profit them more than spending those brief moments inviting the presence of God into their daily studies.  Those students might do well to remember the second half of our text, ‘but fools despise wisdom and instruction.’  They might also do well to remember that each absence from chapel prayers will earn them two demerits and that tardiness results in the same penalty.  Incurring too many too quickly would, indeed, be the mark of a fool.”

            He straightened, and his eyes moved across the back of the auditorium and up into the galleries with a kindly affection.  “I am certain, however, that the fresh faces I see before me today are not those of fools, but of wise young men, who will remember where true knowledge begins and who will apply themselves to its cultivation throughout the day.  And now let us hear an appropriate anthem from the choir, ‘Nearer My God To Thee.’”

            The choir, seated in front of the tall pipe organ in the center back gallery, rose.  As they began to sing, now it was Adam who leaned forward, engrossed in the most beautiful four-part harmony he had ever heard.  Surely the angels in heaven would bend down to hear such music!  Attendance at morning chapel would be no hardship with music like this to lift the soul.  The song was new to Adam, and he felt a sudden yearning for his guitar, that he might pick out the simple tune and enjoy it in private.  Pa had promised to send the instrument, and maybe in the meantime he could find sheet music for the song.  He shook his head in sudden frustration.  Unless Pa sent along some extra funds with the guitar—and why should he, after all he’d already donated to the cause?—the luxury of sheet music must give way to the necessity of eating—and books!

            “Adam?” Jamie whispered.

            Adam turned and, seeing the concern in his friend’s eyes, smiled reassuringly.  “I’m fine,” he whispered back, “just caught up in the music.”

            Jamie nodded and relaxed into his own enjoyment of the song.

            President Woolsey offered a short benediction at the end of the service, which had lasted about fifteen minutes.  Then, beginning with the seniors, he announced when and where each class should meet.  The freshmen were to return to the chapel at 11:30.  That left them with several hours of free time, so the four who had banded together earlier moved out onto the lawn, where the last to join their ranks introduced himself as Marcus Whitmore.  Slight of build, with hair even lighter than Jamie’s, Marcus—or Marc, as he insisted they call him—was the son of an Ohio farmer and, like Jamie and Adam, the first in his family to attend college.

            “Let me tell you about the Vultures,” Lucas offered after introductions had been made.  “The food is good and the price reasonable, much cheaper than the Knights of the Knife and Fork.  That’s the only other club I’ve heard about that’s still looking for new members.  They’re a snooty bunch, too.  What they want is gourmet cuisine.”  Lucas thumbed up his nose as he uttered the final two words with an affected hoity-toity accent.

            Adam, Jamie and Marcus all laughed.  “Definitely not what we’re looking for,” Adam declared.

            “Of course not!”  Lucas’s chin dipped decisively.  “What you want is good hearty food—and plenty of it—at a decent price, and that’s what you’ll get from the Vultures.”

            “Count us in, then,” Adam said.

            “Well, it’s not as easy as all that,” Lucas admitted.  “You’ve got to be approved by the other members.”  Seeing expressions of dismay cross the faces of his new friends, he added quickly, “I’m sure that won’t be a problem.  They just want to make sure we’ll all get along—and that you’re not the type to skip out on the bill.  That’s very important, since we don’t collect ‘til the end of term.”

            “Would—would there be room for me, too, possibly?” Marcus asked shyly.  “I tried to join the Fowl Fiends, but they said they were full up, and the others I’ve looked at charge more than I can afford.”

            “How much will the Vultures charge?” Jamie asked.

            “Six-fifty a week is what they charged last year,” Lucas told them.

            “You were here last year?” Adam queried, looking puzzled.

            Lucas hooted.  “No, it’s my first year, same as you, but I had a brother here—graduated last year—and he was a Vulture.  That’s how I got in with them straight off, and it’s how I know there’s room for all of you.  Several of the Vultures graduated with my brother, so they’re in need of fresh blood.”

            Adam chuckled.  “Having seen vultures in action back home, I’m not sure I want to be fresh blood for a pack of them.”

            Lucas laughed in appreciation of the jest.  “You’ll be safe enough, so long as the table stays well supplied—and it will.  Dinner’s served at 1 p.m.  You all come along with me then and try the food and the company.  I’m sure both will suit you.”

            “And we, them, I hope,” Jamie said.  “Well, we’ve some time to kill before the meeting.  Any thoughts?”

            Adam pondered only a moment.  “I think I’ll go back to our room and at least start a letter to—”

            “Little Joe?” Jamie suggested saucily.

            “Pa first, I think,” Adam replied with a grin.  “There’s so much I want to tell him, but if I have time, I’ll put in a short note to Joe, as well.”  His lips puckered in thought.  “No, on second thought, I’d better wait and give him one all to himself.”

            “Can’t have the little fellow feeling slighted,” Jamie said with a knowing smile.

            “Oh, no,” Adam chuckled, “because if he does, he’ll let everyone know about it—and just who’s to blame!”

 

* * * * *

 

            At 11:30 the incoming freshmen met with three faculty members and were assigned their permanent seats in chapel, which were located across the back rows of all three sections of the room.  Adam and Jamie were disappointed at being separated, but the seating was done alphabetically, and “C” and “E” were too far apart to hope for continued togetherness.  Adam was seated next to Lucas, however, causing young Cameron to observe that their meeting the day of entrance exams was not only fortuitous, but a matter of destiny.  “Perhaps so,” Adam chuckled in response, “especially if we turn out to be tablemates, as well.”

            “Destiny, my boy,” Lucas declared.  “Our meeting was divinely ordained—an auspicious beginning, as President Woolsey might say.”

            The boy in the seat on the other side of Lucas jabbed an elbow in his ribs.  “If so, it was ordained to keep you on the straight and narrow, Cameron.”  He leaned forward to look around Lucas at Adam.  “And God has ordained you, sir, for the challenge of your life.”

            Adam laughed softly, not wanting to attract the attention of the faculty, who were still seating freshmen with names appearing late in the alphabet.  “You speak as one who knows.”

            “To my unending regret,” the other said with exaggerated, and therefore comical gravity.

            “Butler and I went to the same prep school,” Lucas explained, “but don’t be telling old tales out of school, Henry.  I’m a changed man, I tell you!”

            “Oh, no doubt.”  Butler favored his old schoolmate with a dubious grin.  “Remember, sir, you’ve been forewarned,” he added to Adam before settling back into his place on the hard wooden bench.

            Cocking his head, Adam gave Lucas a quizzical look, but no confessions were forthcoming.  From his expression Lucas might have been a cherub interrupted at his bedtime prayers, and Adam almost laughed out loud, for the expression reminded him so strongly of his baby brother.

            Following the placement of the final student, the freshmen were divided into four sections, again according to the alphabet.  The first section extended through “E,” so Jamie was delighted to find that he and Adam would at least attend classes together.  Their new friend Lucas was in the same section, of course.

            A middle-aged man, using a cane to assist his halting walk, approached them and introduced himself as James Hadley, Professor of Greek.  “You’ll be studying Homer’s Odyssey with me,” he said, “and your first recitation will be at five this evening.  The room is on the first floor of the Athenaeum, and I would advise you to know the material thoroughly, young gentlemen.  I will require exactness in your translations and understanding of the grammatical relationship of each phrase.”

            With that the students were dismissed.  “Old Had himself!” Lucas said and issued a long, drawn-out whistle.

            “Who else would teach us Greek but the Professor of Greek?” Adam laughed.

            “My boy, you show your ignorance,” Lucas snorted.  “We’re lowly freshmen; it takes a miracle of Biblical proportions for us to sit under anything but a tutor.  But Hadley—he’s tiptop, best in his field—or so I’ve heard.”  Mere academics could obviously not hold his attention for long, however, for he rubbed his hands together jubilantly and announced, “Now for lunch!”

            “We need to find Whitmore first,” Jamie reminded him as they filed down the aisle in no particular order.

            “Bound to be on the far side, with the last section,” Lucas announced.  “With a name like that, he could scarcely be anywhere else.”

            “True,” Jamie said.  “It’s sad we’ll never share a class with him.”

            “I’m sure we’ll share many other things,” Adam consoled his friend.

            “Like every meal!” Lucas laughed, and the others joined in.

            Marc was looking for them, as well, so finding him was an easy task.  “What’s your first recitation, Whitmore?” Lucas asked.

            With a shudder Marc replied, “Geometry—and how I dread it.”

            “Tutor or professor?” Lucas inquired loftily.

            “Tutor—George Nolen.”

            “I rest my case,” Lucas said with a bow to Adam.

            Adam returned the gesture.  “I bow to your superior familiarity—and, further, I bow to your familiarity with where dinner is to be found.”

            “Ah, you have, indeed, come to the right source for that.  Follow me, boys.”

            The foursome headed for a house about a block north of the Green, where the Vultures had contracted with a woman for their board.  With the others behind him, Lucas walked into a dining room, where several other young men were already seated around a large oval oak table, and boldly announced, “Here I am, boys, with the answer to your prayers.”

            “You’re short two of the answer to all our prayers, Cameron, my lad,” said a tall fellow with black hair, black eyes and a poised manner.  “Still, I’m pleased to see that you’ve taken to heart our need for more Vultures.”  From the head of the table, he nodded to the newcomers.  “Welcome, gentlemen.  I’m Alexander White, the steward of our eating club.  Do take a seat, and we’ll get to know you over the fine meal our cook, Mrs. Swanson, has prepared.”

            “Thank you for having us,” Adam replied.  “We are most appreciative of the opportunity of dining with you and hope that you will find us the sort of companions with whom you might wish to share future meals, to our mutual advantage.”

            “Here, here,” said a lanky youth with a genial smile, who was sitting at the foot of the table.  “A fine speech, sir, and worthy of a tasty reward.”  He gestured toward the empty chair nearest him and Adam took it.  Lucas, Marc and Jamie found empty seats elsewhere at the table and sat down.

            “Introductions are in order,” Alexander said, “but since we also want to hear a bit about each of you, let’s begin the meal and have them over dinner.”

            “Hunky,” declared the young man sitting beside Jamie, to the complete mystification of three of the four freshmen.  Only Lucas sported a knowing grin.

            “Mrs. Swanson,” the steward called, “we’re ready to begin.”

            A middle-aged woman with a full, rosy face emerged from the neighboring kitchen with a large tureen.  “Start with this, then, Mr. White,” she said cheerily, “while I dish up the remainder of the meal.”  Pushing a stray brown curl back beneath her white, ruffled mobcap, she bustled back into the kitchen.  Just that brief glimpse of the cook enhanced Adam’s expectation of good things, for Mrs. Swanson was apparently an enthusiastic connoisseur of her own culinary art, being almost as wide as she was tall.

            Alexander White ladled creamy soup into bowls and passed them to the man on each side of him until all had been served.  “Dig in, boys,” he urged.  “You won’t regret it.”

            “Clam chowder!” Adam cried.  “Now, there’s a rare treat.”

            “Not rare in this part of the country,” laughed the man at the foot of the table.

            “You can tell from his accent he’s not from hereabouts,” declared a younger man, sounding somewhat scornful.

            “True enough,” Alexander said, “and so long as you’ve become the subject of conversation, lad, we might as well begin introductions with you.”

            “I didn’t mean to horn in,” Adam apologized, “but as we must start with one of us, I don’t mind going first.  My name is Adam Cartwright, and if my accent seems unfamiliar to you, I suppose that’s because I’m from Nevada.”

            “Well, that explains why clam chowder is rare where you come from,” the man beside him chuckled.  “Is there a single shellfish in the whole territory?”

            “Oh, yes,” Adam returned with a smile.  “We grow them in cans.”  As laughter circled the table, he added, “I have occasionally eaten clam chowder in California, where I had my preparatory schooling, but other than that, I don’t think I’ve enjoyed a bowl since we found freshwater clams along the trail west and my stepmother prepared them to perfection, though she’d never heard of clam chowder before that day.”

            “You weren’t coming from New England, I take it,” observed the scornful one.

            “Actually, I was born in New England,” Adam said, “but my stepmother was not from here, so the dish was new to her.”

            “She was Swedish and the dearest lady I ever met,” Jamie put in, a wistful look in his eyes.

            “You’re from Nevada, too?” asked a haughty voice.

            “No, Missouri,” Jamie said.  “That’s where Adam and I met.  Then he went on west.  We’ve kept in touch for years and attending college together is a long-held dream.”

            “And your name, lad?” asked Alexander.

            “Oh, sorry.  I’m Jamie Edwards.”

            “Jamie?  That’s a boy’s name, not a man’s,” chuckled a young man sitting to Alexander’s right.  In coloring he reminded Adam of Billy Thomas with his red hair and blue eyes, but the resemblance ended there.  Where Billy was thin and wiry, this fellow tended toward plumpness and didn’t look as though he had a spark of mischief in his makeup.

            Jamie smiled good naturedly.  “I suppose it is, but I’ve always been Jamie, and frankly, I wouldn’t know how to answer to James.”

            “A good thing,” the other laughed, “since that’s my name, and two of us might be confusing.  James Goodman at your service, my boy.”  He leaned forward in semblance of a bow.

            “You might as well tell our prospective members a bit about yourself, James,” Alexander suggested.

            “Oh.  Well, like Mr. Cartwright here, I didn’t mean to ‘horn in,’ but I’m from Rhode Island, third generation at Yale.  My father’s a lawyer in Providence.”

            “And what about the background of these newcomers?” inquired the man beside Jamie.

            “My father’s a teacher,” Jamie said.

            “At what level?”

            “Grammar school,” Jamie admitted.  He wasn’t blind to the look of disdain that crossed the other man’s face.  He’d seen that look on the faces of boys in his St. Louis academy, some of whom had expressed the opinion that no man with any ambition would remain a teacher of grammar school children.  “He considers it a calling,” Jamie added.

            “And the way he performs it, it is,” Adam added loyally, for he, too, had sensed the negative reaction of Jamie’s interrogator.  “Mr. Josiah Edwards is due much credit for the fact that I’m at Yale today.”

            “He gave you a good beginning, as our President so profoundly advised this morning,” Alexander said so kindly that any disparagement others might have felt immediately vaporized.  “What does your family do in Nevada, Mr. Cartwright?” he inquired.

            “What else is there to do?” jibed the man beside Jamie.  “Nothing but miners there—or so I hear.”

            Adam bristled.  He’d had about enough of this man’s arrogant attitude.  “Then you haven’t heard enough, sir,” he suggested with forced constraint.  He faced the steward.  “My father owns a cattle ranch, the Ponderosa, and we have some timber interests, as well, which do keep us in association with the mines.”

            “Most interesting,” Alexander said with a stern look at the man who had so frequently challenged these newcomers.  “Though we have not yet finished our introductions, perhaps this would be a good time for me to explain a fundamental principle by which the Vultures have always functioned.  You may have wondered why we have members from all four undergraduate classes.”

            Adam grinned.  “Actually, sir, this is all so new to us that we wouldn’t have known what to expect.”

            Alexander laughed aloud at Adam’s forthrightness.  “Well, I assure you, Mr. Cartwright, it is not the norm.  Most clubs are made up of members from a single class.  The Vultures chose otherwise, from its beginning four years ago.  That makes it one of the most long-lived clubs about campus, incidentally.  Outside the academic life we will meet and mingle with people of different backgrounds and certainly of different ages.  If our college years are to be a preparation for that future, would it be wise to isolate ourselves for four years and socialize only with those exactly like ourselves?  Our founding feathers—if you will permit me a slight witticism—deliberately chose diversity when others elected uniformity.  We believe they chose wisely, and I further believe that we would be continuing that tradition of wisdom by inviting you gentlemen to join our ranks.”

            “Here, here!” declared James Goodman.  Others around the table murmured their approval.

            Only one voice rose in opposition.  “We don’t even know this one’s name!” the man beside Jamie protested with a brush of his hand toward Marc.

            Alexander sighed.  “Warington, you seem determined to be disagreeable today, but you do have a point.  Would you please tell us your name, lad, and where you’re from, something about your family?”

            Marc flushed and stammered out his name.  “I’m from Ohio, and my family—well, we’re just farmers.”

            “Nothing wrong with that.  Farmers are the backbone of America,” proclaimed the tall, lanky man seated at the foot of the table.

            “So they are,” Alexander declared in staunch support, “along with those who pioneer new lands.”  His sweeping gaze took in both Adam and Jamie and defied anyone to contradict him.  “Now, all in favor of admitting these young gentlemen into our company, please raise your hands.”

            All hands eventually went up, although that of Warington and one other man rose more slowly than the others.  “Excellent!” exclaimed Alexander.  “Now, on that note let us have the main course served, and while we eat, the rest of us will make ourselves known to you.”

            Over plates filled with pork and stewed apples, buttery squash and peas seasoned with mint, the newcomers gradually became acquainted with the other Vultures.  There were two from each level of upperclassmen.  The seniors, Alexander White and Robert Raines, were seated at the head and the foot of the table.  White was the son of a hardware merchant in Hartford, while Raines came from a banking family in New York City.  He could have afforded to dine in the best restaurants, but preferred the camaraderie of a club.  James Goodman was a junior, as was Milton Bradford, who complained good-naturedly about being named for John Milton.

            “We have something in common, then,” Adam observed.  “I was named for the character in Milton’s Paradise Lost, of which my mother was especially fond.”

            “But at least you got a good, solid first name out of it, my dear boy,” Bradford said, “nothing quite so thoroughly archaic as Milton.”

            “And you have a good, solid family name,” Adam suggested.  “Any relation to William Bradford?”

            “Yes, although I’m not a direct descendent of our venerated Pilgrim,” Bradford replied.  “Just a side branch of the family.”  His pride in the family name was, nonetheless, apparent.

            The two sophomores were Edgar Warington, who had already made himself odious to the freshmen and George Miller, whose only comment thus far had been an expression of his hope that something other than freshmen would be sought to fill the final two places among the Vultures.  “If we’re to maintain our touted diversity,” he added pointedly.

            “Agreed,” Alexander said.  “We do have rules, which we’ll go over with you at supper, gentlemen.  Nothing overly stringent, never fear.  Now, I know that you’ll all want to prepare for the first recitation of the year, so we’ll go our separate ways and meet again promptly at six.”

            “We need to purchase our textbooks,” Jamie reminded Adam as they met at the door.  “Do you suppose we could share them, to save money?”

            “Let’s try it,” Adam agreed.  “If we find later that we each need our own, maybe we’ll have pinched enough pennies elsewhere to manage it.”  His face scrunched in thought.  “Any idea where we find them?”

            “I can answer that,” Lucas stated proudly.  “Thirty-four South Middle.  Know the building?”

            “Yes,” Jamie said, “but don’t you need to buy yours, as well?”

            Lucas shook his head.  “I inherited my brother’s texts.”

            “Oh, well, we’ll see you at recitation then.”

            Lucas tipped his bowler and took off, whistling, in the opposite direction.

            “Now, where do you suppose he’s going?” Jamie asked Adam.

            Adam shrugged.  “I don’t know, though I have a feeling he won’t be going near his brother’s textbook.”

            “Perhaps he’s already prepared the first lesson, since he had the book,” Jamie suggested.

            Adam laughed.  “That’s my saintly pastor, never willing to think ill of any man.  I’m afraid my suspicions about our new friend are less generous.”  He looked toward the shy freshman still with them.  “What about you, Marc?  Will you be going with us to South Middle?”

            “Yes, if I may,” Marcus said softly.  “I’m in need of a text—well, several, in fact.”

            Adam hooked an arm through each friend’s elbow, and, a modern portrait of the Three Musketeers, they sallied off to the College Bookstore.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam, Jamie, Marc and Lucas met outside the Athenaeum and walked in together.  “My recitation room is on the second floor,” Marc told them, and the others wished him well as he headed for the stairs.

            The remaining three loitered in the hall, along with about thirty other young scholars.  Finally, Professor Hadley entered the building, and the ranks parted to let him limp past.  “Come in, gentlemen,” he said.  “Take any seat for now, but I will be seating you alphabetically, so if you’ll approximate your chapel positions, with the first man taking the back corner, you will assist in accomplishing that without waste of time.”

            “Here, you take the book,” Adam said, pressing their shared Greek text on Jamie.

            “But what if you’re called on to recite?” Jamie whispered back anxiously.  “He may do that alphabetically, too.”

            “Cartwright can share mine,” Lucas offered.  “Come on, boy,” he added with a slap of Adam’s shoulder.  “It’s up to the top riser for us.”

            As he had indicated, three rows of benches rose, one above the other.  Followed by Adam, Lucas made his way to the top and sat next to his old schoolmate, Henry Butler, while Jamie made his way to the front row.  As Professor Hadley called the roll and verified that everyone was in the correct place, Adam looked around the room.  Blackboards and maps covered the whitewashed walls, with rows of hat hooks lining the one nearest the door.  The only heat came from a cylindrical coal stove behind the professor, and Adam wondered if the heat would reach the back row during the cold days of winter yet to come.

            “You will retain these seats throughout the term,” the professor advised them.  “And now, without further delay, let us begin our study of Homer’s great epic.  How many of you have read it in its entirety before?”

            Only three or four students raised their hands.  Adam had at first felt embarrassed that he could not raise his until he saw how few of those, even with the advantage of an eastern preparatory education, could either.  Perhaps he and Jamie would be able to hold their own, after all.  They’d both studied the assignment diligently that afternoon, but each had felt a little nervous about his first recitation.  This was, after all, Yale!

            Professor Hadley made a few opening remarks about the author and his work.  “You will find that nothing conveys the power and beauty of a work like reading it in its original language,” he stated.  “Hidden shades of meaning will reveal themselves to those who studiously seek them.”

            “He should know,” Lucas whispered to Adam.  “Old Had is fluent in about every language there is—even Sanskrit, for the love of mercy.”

            Hadley let his learned hand rest upon a small box at his lectern.  “All your names are contained herein.  In order to be completely impartial in the order of recitation, I will draw a name, and that man will read the designated passage.  Then the man whose name I draw next will translate.”

            “Heaven preserve me,” Lucas murmured.  “Not the first day.”

            Adam rolled his eyes.  What had his friend thought would happen the first day?  Just an introduction?  To be honest, Adam had also thought that might be the case.  Some of his instructors in Sacramento hadn’t done much the first session, but others had hit the ground running, so he hadn’t been so foolish as to come unprepared.  If he, like Lucas, had had the advantage of an older brother to query about how things were done, he certainly wouldn’t have left anything to mere presumption.  A smile played at his lips as he wondered whether either of his little brothers would ever come to him for advice about how to prepare for his first college recitation.  He really couldn’t picture Hoss sitting on one of these benches, but Joe—well, he couldn’t picture Little Joe sitting still anywhere, but time would tell.

            He jerked his attention back to the recitation of the first student.  The fellow read reasonably well, though Adam thought he caught a misplaced accent on one word.  Hadley didn’t mention it, though; he merely said, “Satisfactory,” and drew the next name.  After several rounds of reading and translation, Lucas groaned upon hearing his name called.  He stood and stammered through a few lines, slaughtering more than one word along the way.

            Hadley frowned throughout the reading, and when Lucas had finished, he made several corrections.  “I would suggest you review that material before proceeding to the next passage, Mr. Cameron,” the professor said soberly.  He drew another name, and that man successfully translated the passage.

            Adam gulped as he stood after hearing his own name read from the slip of paper drawn from the box.  Borrowing Lucas’s text, he read the passage, as directed, and then looked hopefully at the professor.

            “Your elocution reveals understanding of what you read, Mr. Cartwright,” Hadley said with evident approval.  “Well done.”  He paused.  “I noticed that you borrowed Mr. Cameron’s book for the reading.  Did you leave yours in your room, sir?”

            Adam flushed.  “N-no, sir, I didn’t forget it.  I had hoped to share a text with Mr. Edwards, with whom I room, but we hadn’t realized we’d be separated during recitations.”  A titter of laughter started, but was almost instantly quelled by the professor’s dour look at the culprits.  “Mr. Cameron was good enough to loan me his book when you called on me,” Adam finished quickly.

            “I see,” Professor Hadley said, and while neither words nor expression conveyed his opinion, Adam thought he caught a sympathetic gleam in the man’s eye.  The professor drew the next name.  “James Brand,” he announced.

            Mr. Brand, who looked to be considerably older than the other students, stood and translated the passage Adam had read.  He made a couple of mistakes, which the professor corrected before declaring, “Satisfactory.”  Then, consulting his pocket watch, Hadley said, “Our hour is almost concluded, young scholars.  Those of you who did not recite today will do so tomorrow.”  He gave the next assignment and dismissed the class.

            Bursting with energy after their hour-long confinement, the young scholars erupted from the classroom.  On his way to the door, Adam heard his name called.

            “Mr. Cartwright?  A word with you, please.”

            With some trepidation Adam approached the Professor of Greek.  “Yes, sir?”

            “Your attempt to share texts with another student, is that a matter of pecuniary necessity?” Professor Hadley inquired gently.

            Adam cast an embarrassed glance back at Jamie, who waited for him by the door.  “Well, we—uh—we thought we might conserve expenses, sir, by sharing, but if that isn’t feasible . . .”

            “You should each have your own,” the professor said with a smile.  “Some of your other instructors may insist upon it.”

            Adam held himself straight.  “We’ll—we’ll manage then, sir.”

            Hadley smiled more broadly.  “To that end, might I offer you the use of an old copy of my own—on loan until you’ve more fully analyzed your assets?”

            Adam made a concerted effort to keep his jaw from dropping.  “That’s—that’s very kind of you, sir.  I—I don’t know what to say.”

            The professor chuckled.  “I believe ‘thank you’ is the standard response, Mr. Cartwright.”

            “Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir!”

            “I’ll bring it to recitation tomorrow.  Until then you’ll have to manage sharing—with this young man?”  Hadley nodded toward Jamie.

            “Yes, sir—and thank you again, sir.”

            “Not at all, my boy,” the professor said with a kindly twinkle in his eye.  “A promising student—and your reading today proclaimed you as such—should not be deprived of so simple an asset as his own textbook.  You might even find mine somewhat beneficial.  I seem to recall scribbling some notes in the margins.  Now, off with you.  Surely, supper awaits you somewhere, and you can scarcely give due attention to your studies if your stomachs are rumbling.”  He looked across the room at Jamie.  “I’ll be looking forward to your recitation tomorrow, young man, if your grasp of Greek is anything to match your friend’s.”

            “His is better,” Adam declared loyally.

            “Ah!  Then I’ve something to look forward to,” Hadley chuckled.  He clapped his hands smartly.  “Supper, boys, supper!  Run along now.”

            “Oh, Adam, how could you?” Jamie chided as soon as they were outside the Athenaeum.  “How could you give me such a reputation to live up to?”

            “I only spoke the truth,” Adam insisted as he circled his friend’s slim shoulders with his strong arm.  “And you’ll prove the truth of my words tomorrow, you know you will.”

            “If I don’t faint dead away first!” Jamie moaned.

            “That’s hunger talking,” Adam laughed, “and my stomach is answering right back.  To the Vultures, my boy, before Lucas—or more likely, those voracious sophomores—gobble it all up!”

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

Henry Butler and James Brand were actual students at Yale during the time of Adam’s fictional sojourn.  All other students are the author’s creation.

 

Thomas Woolsey was President of Yale College from 1846 to 1871.

 

The Vultures, Knights of the Knife and Fork and Fowl Fiends were all actual eating clubs at Yale, though not necessarily all in 1861.

 

George Nolen was actually a tutor in mathematics at Yale during Adam’s tenure there.

 

James Hadley, affectionately called Old Had, taught Greek at Yale from 1845 to 1872, beginning as a Tutor and later becoming Professor.  He was crippled in an accident at age nine and earlier in his life had walked with crutches.  That he had advanced to the use of a cane by 1861 in the author’s surmise.

CHAPTER NINE

An Unwelcome Visitation

 

 

“Lucas!” Adam called the following night as he exited the house where the Vultures had met for supper.  “Where are you going?  Alumni Hall is this way.”

            “The Statement of Facts?” Lucas asked with a deprecatory shake of his head.  “Not for me!”  With that he turned and walked briskly away.

            Marcus frowned in puzzlement as he came up to Adam and Jamie.  “I thought everyone had to join one of the open societies.”

            “They’ll sign him up for one or the other, whether he’s there or not,” Jamie said.  “At least, that’s what I heard.”

            “Maybe he’s already pledged one,” Marcus suggested.  “I heard you can do that, but I didn’t know which one to pick.”

            A light breeze rustled the elm leaves overhead as Adam led the way back toward the college.  “That’s what the Statement of Facts is about, I suppose.  I, for one, prefer to hear what each side has to say and then make my own choice, but I suppose Lucas is probably joining whichever one his brother was in.”

            “Pity he didn’t share that with us,” Jamie offered, his shorter legs working hard to keep up with Adam.

            Marcus nodded his agreement.  “If he had, I might have pledged early and skipped this.  I could really use the study time!”

            “Couldn’t we all?” Adam commiserated.  The day had been packed full, and because the routine was new to the freshmen, they hadn’t moved from one scheduled activity to the next with the same fluid ease as the upperclassmen.  Adam and Jamie had risen and dressed in time to reach the Vultures club for breakfast at 6:30.  Then it was straight to chapel and after that to the first recitation of the day, Latin with Tutor Smith.

            By nine o’clock they were back in their rooms, working on their Latin assignment and trying to anticipate what might be required in their mathematics class.  That recitation took place at 11:30 and fortunately turned out to be a review of material both Adam and Jamie had already covered in preparatory school.  As soon as it was over, they went by the post office, so Adam could mail his letter to Pa, and then hustled to make it to lunch at 1 p.m.

            Then the friends had three hours to complete their assignment in Euclid’s Geometry and to brush up the next section of The Odyssey, which they had studied the night before.  Arriving early for class, Adam picked up the textbook the Greek professor had offered him, and while he was glad to have a book of his own, he was still more grateful that he had no Greek recitation the next day.  He wasn’t sure when he would have crammed in time to prepare for it on this busy night.  Supper had been directly afterwards and now, still toting the textbook, he and his two friends were heading back to Alumni Hall for a special meeting.  Obviously, his planned letter to Little Joe wasn’t going to get written tonight, but tomorrow was Saturday, and the schedule would be lighter.  He’d make a point of writing something to his youngest brother then.

            As they approached Alumni Hall, Adam noticed a group of young men ranging out from the turrets of the red sandstone building, but none of them looked familiar.  “Any of those fellows in your division, Marc?” he asked.

            “No,” Marcus said.  “I—uh—don’t think they’re in our class, Adam.”

            “Plugs and bangers,” Jamie hissed.  “They’re sophomores!”

            If the silk hats and canes didn’t reveal the young men as sophomores, their behavior soon did.  As the freshmen mounted the first step to the hall, hands reached out to shove them from side to side.  “Watch your step, Freshie,” someone called loudly when Marcus fell to one knee.

            Adam reached down and pulled his friend to his feet, managing to elbow the offending sophomore as he did.  “Watch your own,” he warned.

            “Off with your chapeau, boy,” taunted another sophomore, using his banger to knock off Adam’s hat.  “Don’t they teach you farm boys any manners?”

            Adam snatched his new bowler from the step.  “They teach us the difference between a farm and a ranch,” he snorted.

            “Adam, let’s get inside,” Jamie pleaded.  He doffed his own hat and dipped his head in acknowledgement of the flourishing bow with which the sophomores ushered him up the three steps into Alumni Hall.

            With a gusty exhale Adam, still holding Marcus by the elbow, followed him in.  “Jamie, I know the Good Book says ‘Blessed are the peacemakers,’ but I have just about had enough of those sophomores.”

            “So quickly,” Jamie chuckled as they filed into a row of seats.  “They haven’t done anything that bad, Adam.  You’re still put out because they wouldn’t let you join in the songfest at the fence last night.”

            When the two roommates had passed the campus after supper the night before, they’d seen students perched on the fence surrounding the yard and heard them singing heartily.  Pausing at the corner of College and Chapel streets, Adam had started to vocalize in harmony with the unfamiliar melody.  The response from the sophomores extending down College Street had been immediate and vociferous.  They’d all shrieked and howled in protest and threatened to come down from the fence and teach “Freshie” his place if he didn’t stop.  “No freshmen allowed,” explained a junior perched on Chapel, close to the corner, “but keep practicing that harmony, youngster.  Your day will come.”

            Adam had been close to yanking the nearest sophomore off his exalted rail throne, but the junior’s straightforward words had a calming effect.  Rules were rules and tradition had its place, he supposed, although he personally thought that any rule that excluded any man from the liberating delight of song was ridiculous.

            “You’re right,” he conceded, taking a seat.  “They haven’t done anything that bad, but it is beginning to add up.”

            “Good thing Lucas isn’t here,” Marcus whispered.  “He’d probably take a poke at those silly sophomores.”

            Adam arched an eyebrow.  “I just might join him.”

            “Really?” Jamie asked with a beguiling smile.  “I thought you wanted to be here for four years, not just four recitations.”  More seriously, he tapped his friend’s arm.  “They aren’t worth it, Adam.  Let them have their silly fun.  We’ll outlast them, and next year we’ll show them how mature sophomores behave.”

            “That we will,” Adam agreed, and for him it was a vow.  If he had anything to do with it, next year no newcomer to campus would suffer indignity or harassment just because he was a year younger.

            The juvenile harassment continued even after the meeting began.  Six orators, three from each side, presented arguments in favor of either Linonia or Brothers in Unity, the two societies open to all students.  A speaker from Brothers in Unity had just finished listing illustrious Brothers of earlier years—people like Joel Barlow, called the father of American poetry; Noah Webster of dictionary fame; and President Woolsey himself—when Adam felt something strike his neck.  Then he saw Marcus rubbing his ear and, hearing something plunk at his feet, he bent over to pick it up.  “Beans,” he hissed to Jamie.  “You’d think they were grammar school students, not men with a year of college under their belts.”

            “Sophomores,” Jamie said with a shake of his head, as if that explained everything.  For both Adam and Marcus, it did.

            Everyone in the audience put up with the pellets striking right and left, for only the speakers themselves seemed off limits to the sophomores’ bombardment.  Somehow, between the beans and the hoots of laughter accompanying them, the trio of freshmen managed to pick up a few remarks of the orators, each touting the virtues of his own society and decrying the failings of the other.

            “I don’t see much difference between the two,” Adam admitted as they left the hall, “especially since anyone can attend the meetings of either one.  As long as we join the same one, I’ll be satisfied.”

            “Shall we toss a coin?” Marcus suggested.

            Adam shrugged.  “Better than tossing beans.  Jamie?”

            Jamie smiled a bit wistfully.  “I suppose you’ll think me foolish, but I rather like the idea of having brothers.”

            Adam chuckled.  “I wouldn’t say foolish; you’re just displaying the inexperience of an only child.”

            “Adam, you know you wouldn’t take the whole Comstock Lode for those little brothers of yours,” Jamie chided.

            “No, I wouldn’t,” Adam admitted, “and you and I have always been brothers at heart, Jamie, but if you want it made official, we can join Brothers in Unity.”  He added, as he turned toward Marcus, “If you don’t mind, that is.”

            “I don’t mind,” the other freshman said agreeably.  “Their hall is on this side, I believe.”  He pointed toward a staircase.

            The trio mounted the steps, without any sophomore blocking their path this time.  Even those certified nuisances, after all, were anxious to have as many freshmen as possible join their society, for the sheer honor of besting Linonia in the membership campaign.  The room the new candidates entered was about fifty feet long and half that wide.  It was elegantly accoutered with frescoed walls and blue hangings, to match the blue upholstery of the sofas and chairs.  A large painting of some august personage hung behind the desk at one end of the room, and a bronze classical figure of a woman with her finger uplifted to heaven sat upon it.

            One by one, to the rousing cheers of the established members, those freshmen who had elected to join Brothers in Unity signed their name to the society’s constitution and promised to be “true to its interests and faithful to its secrets.”

            “Whatever those may be,” Adam said to Jamie as they walked home.  “It all seemed like ‘much ado about nothing’ to me.”

            “And then to lose to Linonia.” Jamie clucked his tongue, amused by the way even he and Adam had gotten caught up in the general moaning that had met that announcement.  “Let’s hope the regular meetings will be better.”

            Adam laughed.  “They could scarcely be worse!  It appears to me that Lucas was the only wise one among us tonight.”

            “If he spent the evening in preparation for his recitations, I’ll agree.”

            Adam clucked his tongue.  “Surely you jest, my new brother.”

            Jamie laughed.  “Indeed, brother, I do!”

            Adam had the last word—or so he intended.  “You’re definitely adopting the role with ease; your teasing may be a bit more sophisticated, but this is exactly what I remember little brothers being like!”

            “Ah, but you forget.  I’m the elder brother—by a good four months,” Jamie declared, “and that’s a relationship you’ve never had to deal with before.  Perhaps this will give you a chance to experience life from the other side, little brother.”

            Adam’s eyebrows knit together, an expression which, coupled with his wry smile proved quite inscrutable.

 

* * * * *

 

            Rarely had Adam been so grateful to see a weekend arrive.  Of course, he had to be up just as early on Saturday as any other day of the school week, but at least there were only two recitations.  The third would also be omitted on Wednesdays, he learned, but what mattered today was that after lunch he was free to spend the afternoon and evening any way he chose.  He chose to spend the first couple of hours taking a much-needed nap.  The weeks of non-stop travel, the strain of taking his entrance exams and then plunging immediately into classes had taken its toll, and Adam wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was tired.  While he rested, Jamie worked quietly at his desk, studying and writing to his father.

            Adam rose refreshed, and even before he started his own studies, he wrote a short letter to Little Joe.  He tried to think of details of his trip and his first week at Yale that a four-year-old might find interesting, and he admitted that he’d been tired enough that day to take a nap, just like the ones his baby brother so often protested.  He thought Little Joe would laugh when that was read to him, and he wished he could be there to hear that welcome sound.

            Supper with the Vultures was somewhat later on Saturdays, to give its members a longer afternoon of free time, and it was nearly eight o’clock when Adam and Jamie arrived back at their lodgings.  They sat down at their adjoining desks, which they had moved to meet in front of the side window, so that they might more easily consult on their studies.  Almost immediately, Jamie asked if Adam would help him with a geometry problem.  “I’m afraid I’ll never be as conversant with numbers as I am with words,” he sighed.

            “Just think of it as another language,” Adam suggested, “and you’ll soon be chattering away.”

            They had worked together for about fifteen minutes when their study session was interrupted by a strong pounding on the door.  “Open that door, Freshie!” came a demanding shout.

            “Sophomores,” Jamie groaned.  “How did they track us down here?”

            Adam scowled at the closed door.  “I doubt it was that hard, especially since it was a sophomore who first led you to these lodgings.  Ignore them.  Now, as to Euclid’s second proposition . . .”  The two freshmen tried to concentrate on lines and angles, but it became impossible when the hubbub in the hall intensified and the door shook on its hinges.

            Jamie cast an anxious glance over his shoulder at the door.  “They’ll break it down, Adam.”

            “And we can’t afford to replace it,” Adam muttered through gritted teeth.  “I suppose we’ll have to let them in, but be on your guard.”  Jerking his chair back, he strode to the door and opened it.  “Gentlemen,” he said loudly, “we weren’t expecting callers at this hour.”

            “What’s the matter, Freshie?” one asked snidely.  “Past your bedtime?”  He shouldered Adam aside and stepped boldly in.  He was followed by seven others, whose heads were all haloed with rings of cigar smoke.  They stood looking around, and the leader finally nodded in Adam’s direction.  “Decent shebang, youngster.”

            “Thanks,” Adam said tartly.

            Jamie, ever the peacekeeper, said, “It was one of your class, gentlemen, who directed us here, and we are well content with it.”

            The leader smiled, a bit too loftily for Adam’s taste.  “Ah, it’s good to find a grateful freshie—such a rare breed.”

            The other sophomores snickered their agreement of that appraisal.  One of them spoke up, addressing Jamie.  “And you’ll have still more reason for gratitude after our visit tonight, youngster.  We’re only here to help you.”  Peals of laughter met this statement, but the sophomore insisted, “No, it’s true.  We remember what those first recitations were like, and we’ve come to offer our assistance.”

            “We can manage on our own,” Adam muttered tersely.

            “Tsk, tsk,” scolded one of the sophomores.  “This one doesn’t exhibit the proper gratitude at all, does he now?”

            “Indeed not!” said the one who had offered help with their studies.  He took a step toward Adam.

            Seeing that and fearing the reaction of his more volatile friend, Jamie said quickly, “Oh, but I do!  Please, sir, do give me the benefit of your experience.”

            The sophomore eyed the stubborn set of Adam’s jaw, hesitated a moment and then laughed.  “Now, how could I refuse a plea so prettily phrased?”  He moved over to the desk and picked up the open book.  “Ah, Euclid,” he said, examining its cover.  “Offer us your recitation, Freshie, and we’ll see if you can pass the grade.”

            The other sophomores, as a group, surged toward Jamie, who backed up a step.

            “Now, Freshie, don’t be shy,” his instructor ordered, sweeping everything off the desk.  “Mount up and recite for us.”

            “You don’t have to!” Adam shouted.

            The eight sophomores turned on Adam, but Jamie quickly mounted the chair and then stepped onto the desk.  “It’s all right, Adam.  I don’t mind reciting; it’ll be good practice for me.”

            The sophomores’ attention swerved back to him.  “Good choice, Freshie!” they cheered.  “Good choice!”  The self-appointed instructor began demanding definitions, propositions and postulates.  Jamie fared well for the first few questions, but one followed another so quickly that he had no time to think, and he started to stammer hesitant responses.  The hoots of derision that met each mistake only intensified his insecurity and led to more.

            “Not good enough, by half,” the instructor said with a sad shake of his head.

            “Smoke him out!” demanded another.  “That’ll clear his foggy brains.”

            One man grabbed the blanket off the bed and dragged it over to the desk.

            “What do you think you’re doing?” Adam demanded, snagging the man by the shoulder.

            Another sophomore pulled him off.  “Stay out of it, Freshie,” he ordered, “unless you wish to join your feeble-minded friend.”

            “Feeble-minded!” Adam snorted.  “He’s twice the student any of you are likely to be.”

            More howls of laughter met his defense of Jamie.  “Can’t even recite Euclid and he’s twice our worth?  Doubtful, Freshie.”

            Two men pulled Jamie down to sit on the desk and threw the blanket over his head.  As the sophomores started puffing vigorously on their cigars, Adam suddenly saw what they intended.  “You can’t,” he protested.  “He has weak lungs.  You’ll make him ill!”

            “Want to take his place, Freshie?” the instructor challenged.  “There’s obviously nothing wrong with your lungs.”

            Adam’s assessment of the situation took only a moment.  By himself, even at odds of eight to one, he’d have fought.  He’d have taken a beating, of course, but he would have taken one or two of his tormentors down with him.  If he’d been in this situation with Lucas, fighting might have been an option, but frontier boy that he was, Jamie was no fighter, and he was the one most likely to get hurt if a brawl ensued.  Adam wasn’t willing to take the risk.  After only a brief hesitation he declared boldly, “Yes, I’ll take his place.”

            Surprise flickered across the faces of the sophomores and was quickly replaced with mild nods of admiration.  “Down you come, youngster,” the instructor said, offering a hand to Jamie.

            Jamie seemed rooted in place, staring in shock at his friend.  Then he said stalwartly, although with a quaver in his voice, “I can’t let you do that, Adam.  I’ll be all right; don’t worry about me.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” Adam said gruffly.  “Get down from there.”

            The sophomores gave neither freshman a choice in the matter.  Jamie was pulled down from his perch and Adam shoved toward the desk chair.  As he stepped onto it, one of the tormentors declared, “For one so regal as this high-born freshman, we must have a throne!”  He hoisted the other desk chair to the top of the desk and patted its seat.  “And here it is, your majesty,” he sneered.

            Head held as high as if he were truly a king, Adam took the seat, reached down and with an arrogant sneer placed the blanket over his own head.  From beneath the wool he heard laughter from the sophomores and pleas from Jamie, but he ignored both and set his mind to endure without sound or movement what was about to transpire.  He felt the blanket lifted on all sides, and soon the aroma of cigar smoke wafted toward his nostrils.

            At first it reminded him of the fragrance of Pa’s pipe back home, but this odor was stronger and nostalgia was not sufficient to distract him from the lurching of his stomach as the fumes strengthened.  His head reeled and bile rose into his throat, but he made no sound, not wanting to give the sophomores the satisfaction of breaking him.  Eventually, however, he could not resist the urge to cough.

            “Had enough, your majesty?” someone taunted, from the sound of his voice the one who had offered Adam his “throne.”

            Stubbornly, Adam refused to respond.  He wanted more than anything to ride out the abuse, to spoil those sour sophomores’ fun.  More smoke blew his way, and his resolve grew harder to carry out.  He felt like vomiting and dreaded to think what sport the sophomores would make of that.

            Suddenly there was a hubbub in the room, and Adam felt the blanket go slack.  No one was holding it any longer; no one was blowing smoke beneath it.  He didn’t assume that his punishment was over, but fearing that the commotion meant the sophomores had turned their attention back to Jamie, he raised the blanket and peered out.

            Indeed, the sophomores’ attention was fixed on Jamie, but this time in a more benevolent fashion.  The man posing as instructor had dragged the freshman over to the other window and opened it.  When he noticed Adam, he called, “Open that window behind you, Freshie.  Your chum here’s in trouble.”

            Seeing a blue-faced Jamie doubled over in a coughing fit, Adam reacted instantly, though clumsily since his own senses were still dazed.  He turned and flung open the window; then he leaped from the desk top and rushed across the room.  The sophomore was thumping Jamie on the back, encouraging him, “Come on, Freshie.  Deep breaths.  You’ll make it.”  The other sophomores were just standing around, looking awkward.  “Time to clear out,” their leader suggested.  “There’s other fresh fish to fry.”

            The room cleared quickly—of sophomores, if not of smoke—until only the one thumping Jamie on the back remained.  “You were serious when you said he had lung problems, were you?” he said, looking apologetic.  “We wouldn’t have carried it so far if we’d known—thought you were just trying to squirm out, you know?”

            Adam thrust himself between Jamie and the sophomore.  “As you can see, I told the truth.”

            “Well, yes . . . as I said, sorry.”  The sophomore leaned around Adam.  “Better now, Freshie?”

            “Y-yes,” Jamie stammered.  “Th-thank y-”—another paroxysm of coughing cut off his final words.

            The sophomore stepped toward him, but Adam intervened.  “I’ll take care of him,” he growled.  “Just leave!”

            “Yeah, okay,” the sophomore said awkwardly.  Then, as if to recover his eroded dignity, he added, “Just remember to show proper respect for your elders, youngsters.  See you around.”  With a weak wave of his hand, he backed toward the door and disappeared, closing it behind him.

            “Are you all right?” Adam asked Jamie anxiously.  “Is there anything more I can do for you?”

            “More?” Jamie stared into his friend’s face.  “Oh, Adam!  How—how could you do more?”  Another coughing spell silenced him, but then he sucked in a deep draught of the cool night air and said, “How can I possibly thank you for what you did tonight?”

            “It was nothing,” Adam said, thinking that the words were almost literally true, since his grand sacrifice hadn’t spared Jamie, after all.

            Jamie shook his head, the only way he could express his disagreement, for he was still too winded to argue with his friend.

            Again a loud knock sounded on the door.  Adam and Jamie exchanged a concerned look.  Sophomores again?  They’d seemed contrite enough that neither freshman had expected to see them again that night.  Still, it could be another set, who weren’t aware of the problems their classmates had caused.  Motioning to Jamie to stay by the window, Adam approached the door.  “Who’s there?” he called.

            “Open this door at once!” called an irate female voice.

            Recognizing the voice of their landlady, Adam exhaled with relief.  “Of course, Mrs. Wiggins.  Come in,” he said politely as he opened the door.

            Mrs. Wiggins tromped in.  “What sort of wild goings on have you two been up to in here?” she demanded.  “It sounded like a barn full of draft horses, breaking down their stalls.”  She waved her hand through the haze hanging in the air.  “I told you young gentlemen when you moved in that I keep a quiet house!  And didn’t I say that there was to be no smoking?”

            “We haven’t been smoking,” Adam said.  “That was some uninvited guests who just left.”  He explained what had happened.  Jamie tried to confirm his account, but every time he said more than three words together, he started coughing.

            “A hazing,” Mrs. Wiggins snuffled with disgust.  “I should have recognized the signs, though it’s been three years since any of my boarders were bothered with such nonsense.”  As Jamie coughed again, a look of motherly concern crossed her face.  “You poor lad,” she cooed.  “What you need’s a hot bowl of steam vapors to breathe in.  I’ll fetch one.”  She headed toward the door, but glanced back over her shoulder and spoke to Adam.  “Strip off those sheets and toss that smoky blanket into the hallway.  I’ll see you have fresh bedding, and as it wasn’t your fault these were sullied, there’ll be no charge for the extra laundry.”

            “You’re most kind,” Adam said, “and we thank you.”

            Her normally cheerful attitude completely restored, Mrs. Wiggins beamed broadly.  “Such polite young gentlemen.  I knew it was no mistake to rent these rooms to you.”

            As soon as she was gone, Adam went to work removing the bed linens.  “Still think sophomores haven’t done anything that bad?” he asked gruffly.

            “It was bad,” Jamie admitted hoarsely, “even if it was just mischief.”  He cleared his throat.  “It must have been much worse for you, under that blanket.  I’m sorry if I encouraged them, Adam.”

            “Don’t be foolish,” Adam chided.  “They did what they came here to do; it had nothing to do with you.”

            Jamie leaned disconsolately against the window jamb.  “I can’t help thinking that I’m a liability to you.”

            There had been a moment when Adam had entertained that traitorous thought himself, but hearing it voiced, he knew that it didn’t represent his true feelings.  He came across the room to lay a companionable hand on Jamie’s slim shoulder.  “You are my oldest and dearest friend,” he said.  “And don’t think I didn’t notice how you drew their attention off me and onto yourself.  I could never call someone that brave a liability.”

            Jamie shook his head.  “I’m not brave, Adam, not as men generally define bravery.”

            Adam disagreed sharply.  “There’s more than one type of bravery, Jamie, and I won’t hear you denigrate yours because it doesn’t involve fisticuffs.”

            “You’d have fought, though, if it weren’t for me, wouldn’t you?”

            Knowing that Jamie would see through a lie, Adam acknowledged the assessment with a nod.  “And probably have been the worse for it,” he added wryly.

            Jamie had to smile.  “You were outnumbered rather badly.”  He sighed then.  “I don’t feel much like it, but I suppose we should try to study.”

            “Pointless,” Adam said firmly.  “Neither of us could concentrate.  Let’s just turn in and get a good night’s rest.  Chapel isn’t until 10:30 tomorrow, so we can put in some study time in the morning.”

            “On the Sabbath?”

            Adam threw bedding and blanket into the hall and turned to face his friend.  “I always thought reading was an appropriate activity for the day of rest,” he said.   “Sometimes, back on the Ponderosa, that was the only time I could get!”

            Jamie nodded his agreement.  “I don’t suppose God would mind, especially since we’ll be in chapel twice tomorrow.  After all, He did say the Sabbath was meant for man, not man for the Sabbath.”

            “As always, pastor,” Adam said with a chuckle, “you rightly divide the word of truth.”

            Mrs. Wiggins returned with a bundle of sheets under one arm and a bowl of steaming water in both hands.  She set the bowl on a desk and ordered Jamie to sit over it and breathe deeply.  Then she and Adam worked together to make the bed afresh.  The treatment did seem to help Jamie breathe more easily, but the night’s experiences had drained both him and Adam, and both fell asleep shortly after crawling between the crisp, clean sheets.

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

The painting of the “august figure” in the Brothers of Unity Hall is that of David Humphreys, one of four founders of the society.  He later served as a colonel in the Revolutionary Army and aide-de-camp and secretary to George Washington.  The bronze figure on the desk is most likely a replica of the Forefather’s Monument in Plymouth.   While not actually erected until 1889, plans were developed as early as 1850, and the Brothers in Unity had contributed largely to the project.

CHAPTER TEN

Disturbing News from the Western Front

 

 

As he descended the chapel steps, Jamie raised a beatific countenance to the face of the friend beside him.  “Inspiring, wasn’t it?”

            “Umm,” Adam murmured noncommittally.  The sermon by the college pastor had been both longer and more traditional than the chapel services conducted daily by the president of Yale, and in Adam’s opinion, its being the second one in the space of four hours added nothing to its capacity to inspire.  He wouldn’t have put a damper on Jamie’s enthusiasm for anything, however, especially since his own lack of response might properly be credited, at least in part, to residual fatigue.  Sometimes he thought he’d never catch up on the rest he’d lost.

            “Adam, you’ve turned the wrong way,” Jamie chided with a chuckle.

            Adam shook his head.  “No, I haven’t.  My direction is completely intentional, I assure you.”

            Jamie caught up to his side.  “Where are you going?”

            “Haven’t a clue,” Adam said, thrusting his hands in his pockets and stepping out briskly.  “Anywhere but back to our room.  I can’t face an open book just now.”

            “We have put in a goodly amount of study already,” Jamie conceded.  As agreed upon the night before, they had dutifully spent an hour with their books between breakfast and the morning service and had put in another session in the early afternoon.

            They walked north on College Street, past Wall and continued on another block.  Adam stopped at the corner and looked to the west, where stretched a large swath of lawn covered with shady trees.  “Let’s go there,” he suggested.

            “The cemetery?” Jamie queried.

            Adam laughed.  “You’re not superstitious, are you?  Not becoming in a future pastor, you know.”

            Jamie responded with good-natured laughter of his own.  “No, not at all.  It would be a pleasant and cool place for a stroll, and it would do us good to be out in nature, I suppose.”

            “I more than suppose it,” Adam said firmly as he turned to walk toward the massive gate set in a brown, ivy-covered wall and swung it open.  “You can’t house a sound mind in an unsound body, remember?”

            Jamie bit his lip.  “I wish you wouldn’t say that, Adam.”

            Adam stopped abruptly.  “Why?  Do you disagree?”

            Jamie shook his head as he walked through the gate.  “I wish I did.”

            Adam closed the gate behind him and hurried to Jamie’s side.  “Why?” he asked again, with concern this time.

            Jamie sighed.  “Because I don’t have a very sound body, Adam.  I rather obviously demonstrated that last night.”

            “I had problems with the smoke, too.”

            As they walked beneath the sheltering elms and evergreens, Jamie gave his friend a look of rebuke.  “Not to the same degree and you know it, Adam.”

            Adam put a supportive arm about Jamie’s slim shoulders.  “I do know it,” he admitted, “but I don’t know that it has to remain that way.  Look, why don’t we make a point of taking some exercise out in God’s good fresh air like this every week?  We’ll have you strong and sturdy in no time!”

            As Adam flexed his biceps to demonstrate the new strength his friend would soon possess, Jamie laughed.  “The medicine’s enjoyable enough,” he said as they stopped to rest on a bench beneath the trees, “but I’m not as confident as you that it will affect a cure.”

            “I can’t promise a cure,” Adam admitted, “but I do know that I always felt healthier at home on the Ponderosa than at school in Sacramento, where I kept my nose too much in my books.”  He leaned back into the trunk of the tree behind them, his hand idly rubbing the moss that was obscuring the inscription on a nearby tombstone.  “I wish I could capture the fragrance of the pines and give you three doses a day, but I do think a weekly dose of sunshine, fresh air and exercise can’t possibly hurt.”

            “I’ll place myself in your hands, then, Dr. Cartwright,” Jamie said as he, too, leaned back and gazed at the fluttering leaves above them.  Inhaling, he tried to imagine himself taking deep draughts of the healing fragrance of Ponderosa pine.

 

* * * * *

 

            Dr. Cartwright and his premier patient spent two hours walking about the shady paths, talking over old times and new experiences and, whenever Jamie seemed to weary, resting on some convenient bench or “unoccupied” plot of grass.  “I declare, I do feel as though I were breathing more freely,” Jamie announced as they left the Grove Street Cemetery behind and headed toward Wall Street, where supper with the Vultures awaited.

            Adam adopted his best imitation of Dr. Martin back home.  “That will not release you from your next dose of medicine, young man.  In fact, I believe a longer walk would be in order, perhaps to some more scenic destination.”

            “I’m all for it,” Jamie said enthusiastically.  “Perhaps on Saturday?  We’d have a longer afternoon then.”

            “Just what I was thinking,” Adam replied as they turned into Wall Street.  “I wonder what’s on the menu tonight.”

            “Something thoroughly tasty, I’m sure,” Jamie said.  “Mrs. Swanson is a genius in the kitchen.”

            Adam laughed.  “I wouldn’t go quite that far.  She’s good—very good, in fact—but I believe Hop Sing could outmatch her.”

            Jamie clapped a hand to Adam’s shoulder.  “My dear Dr. Cartwright,” he intoned soberly, “I do believe you’ve taken too much of your own medicine, and this excess has brought on a case of intense homesickness.”

            Adam paused just outside Mrs. Swanson’s door.  “And do you have a cure for that, my friend?” he inquired with a wry smile.

            “Alas, no,” Jamie declared with a dramatic sigh.  “I fear I suffer from the same complaint.”

            But the drama soon became all too real, and the case of homesickness more definitely incurable.  No sooner had the plates of fried oysters and Saratoga potatoes been passed than George Miller, seated across from Jamie, asked, “Aren’t you from Missouri, Edwards?”

            “Yes,” Jamie answered cautiously.  None of the Vultures had ever made any comments about his western origins since that first meal, and all had been courteous at table, as the rules demanded.  But Miller was, after all, a sophomore, and, therefore, a creature that merited watching.

            “What part of the state?”

            “St. Joseph.”

            Such a thick pool of silence met the simple statement that Adam laid down his fork and asked sharply, “And what’s wrong with St. Joseph?”

            “Oh, I say, I am sorry,” Miller muttered, diving desperately into his oysters.

            Jamie and Adam exchanged a swift glance of concern.  Something was wrong, and everyone seemed to know it but them. 

            “You might, at least, have waited until the lad had his supper, Miller,” the steward, Andrew White, chided.  He turned kind eyes toward Jamie.  “You haven’t seen a newspaper today?”

            It was Adam who answered.  “No, we haven’t.  What is it?  The war?”

            “Brace yourself, lad,” White said to Jamie.  “The news out of St. Joseph is quite bad.”

            Jamie straightened in his chair, literally squaring his shoulders as if in obedience to the steward’s direction.  “Tell me.”

            “The rebels are in full possession of the town,” White explained, “and they have it completely blockaded.  No mail or passengers allowed in or out, and they’ve seized the steamer Omaha to halt river traffic.”

            Jamie’s complexion, pale to begin with, blanched nearly white.  Beneath the table Adam reached for his hand.  He’d seen for himself the tension in St. Joseph, even under partial occupation, but this report sounded as if conditions had worsened.

            “Do you still have family there, my boy?” asked Robert Raines, the other senior Vulture.

            “My father,” Jamie whispered.

            “Union or Secesh?” asked Edgar Warington with barely contained aggression.

            “Union!” Adam declared staunchly.

            “No politics at table, Warington,” White warned.  “What matters is that one of our Vultures has a parent at risk.”

            “Perhaps not,” Raines inserted.  “The paper did say that most Union men had crossed over into Kansas, taking the ferry with them.  Unless you hear otherwise, young Edwards, I suggest you believe that your father is among them.”

            “How is he supposed to hear if the mails have been stopped?” Warington snorted.

            “Be civil, sir, or I will ask you to leave the table,” White said sternly.

            “My apologies, sir,” Warington said stiffly to Jamie, “though the question seems reasonable.”

            “I’m afraid he’s right,” Jamie sighed.  He pushed back from the table.  “Would you excuse me, gentlemen?  I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.”  When Adam stood to leave with him, Jamie protested, “Please don’t miss your supper on my account, Adam.  I’m going straight home, and I’ll be fine.”

            “Wait long enough for Mrs. Swanson to package up your share of the food,” White suggested.  He gave Jamie an encouraging smile.  “You may feel more like eating once the initial shock has worn off.”

            Jamie had considerable doubt about that, but mostly for Adam’s sake he accepted the gracious offer.

            “I’ll tell her,” Miller said, hurrying out to the kitchen, as if intent on making amends for his premature mention of a painful topic.

            Adam moved from the table to offer his friend a supportive arm.  White followed and drew them to one side.  “Now, you mustn’t despair, lad,” he said warmly.  “It’s an old and perhaps trite saying, but sometimes no news really is good news.”

            “Yes,” Jamie said, “and I will hold to that until I know otherwise, as you and Mr. Raines so wisely advise.  Thank you, sir.”  He nodded, as well, at Robert Raines, who had left his place at the table to join them.

            “You can be confident that Union forces will retake the town as soon as possible,” Raines said with an encouraging smile.  “Keeping the mails running is vital to maintaining the loyalty of the western states and territories, and St. Joseph is a key link in that chain.”

            “He’s right,” Adam said, giving Jamie’s arm a bolstering squeeze.

            Miller jogged over with a paper-wrapped package.  “Here you go, boys,” he said, thrusting it out, “and—and I really am sorry, Edwards, to have caused you such concern.”

            Jamie put out his hand, which Miller clasped.  “You’ve done me a service, Mr. Miller.  I was bound to learn, sooner or later.”

            Miller smiled with relief.  “Don’t let the oysters and chips get too cold before you indulge,” he advised.  “You’ll enjoy them more.”

            “Thank you,” Adam said for both of them.

            Other members of the Vultures called out farewells as they left, which each boy acknowledged with a wave of the hand.  As they walked quietly down Temple Street, Jamie paused in front of the North Church and gazed up at its steeple as a focus for his faith.  “I know Father’s in God’s hands,” he said, “but it is hard not to worry, not to know whether he made it safely over the river to Elwood.”

            “He’s not in Elwood,” Adam said, quickly adding, “When I came through St. Joe, I urged him to come this way . . . to us . . . if he decided to leave, and he promised he would.  I believe that’s what he’s doing, Jamie.”

            “Yes, I remember now!” Jamie cried.  “You told me the first night you arrived.  Oh, Adam!  Do pray with me that he will come through safely and that we’ll soon see him.”

            “With all my heart,” Adam vowed fervently.  He smiled ruefully.  “And, perhaps, you should pray for me, as well.  Remember that letter I mailed yesterday to a certain demanding little someone?  It’s not going to get through, at least not anytime soon, and I will be in trouble with the little prince of the Ponderosa.”

            Jamie laughed, for a moment forgetting his own problems, as Adam had intended.  “Indeed!  Your troubles may be graver than mine, little brother.”

 

* * * * *

 

            It was well that both Adam and Jamie had put in more than adequate study time before hearing the news from Missouri, for practical concerns were a distraction from classical ones in the Monday morning recitation.  Jamie even earned a sharp rebuke from the Latin tutor for his lack of attention, an event unheard of in his entire previous academic career.  That embarrassment, however, proved itself a blessing in disguise, for it shocked the young freshman back to reality and reminded him of his father’s sacrifices to send him to Yale and that failure here would only add to his parent’s sufferings.

            Just in time, thought Adam, as Jamie flawlessly worked one of Euclid’s propositions at the blackboard.  Mathematics being his friend’s weakest area, he couldn’t have afforded an unfocused mind here.

            After that noon recitation, the two friends joined Marc and Lucas for the short walk to the Vultures’ dining hall.  As usual, their path seemed lined with sophomores, snickering out taunting catcalls.  “What a pretty freshman!” called one, pointing to Marc.

            “Oh, see his pretty necktie,” rejoined another.

            Marc’s fingers automatically reached for his cravat, but the freshmen otherwise ignored their tormentors until one shouted the typical, “Oh, Freshie!”

            Lucas had taken all he intended.  He turned on his heel and yelled back, “Oh, Sophie!”

            Adam took him by the shoulders and spun him back around.  “You’re asking for trouble, boy,” he chided, “and neither Jamie nor I feel up to a row with sophomores this morning.”

            “Sorry,” Lucas said contritely, for he did not wish to add to the burden his friends carried, “but sooner or later I think a row is owed those imps from—”

            “Lucas,” Jamie cautioned.

            “Oh, all right, preacher boy.”  Lucas stuffed his hands in his pockets and moved out ahead of the other three.  When he swiveled back to face them, his face had resumed its normal lively countenance.  “Race you to dinner!” he challenged and took off, with the others in hot pursuit.

 

* * * * *

 

            Tuesday morning the trees on campus appeared to have sprouted new foliage, for each was bedecked with a poster of either blue or red.  On closer inspection Adam and Jamie noticed the red ones all announced the first meeting of Linonia, while the blue ones listed the program to be presented the next evening by the Brothers in Unity.  “Well, shall we remain true blue to our colors,” Adam quipped, “or sample the scarlet letters of Linonia?”

            “Attendance isn’t required,” Jamie pointed out.

            “Oh, yes, it is,” Adam insisted.  “For now, at least.  You need all the distraction college life affords right now, my friend.”

            Jamie offered a wan smile.  “It is hard to think of anything but Father, but I know only time will settle that issue.  You’re right, Adam, as you so often are; it is better to spend that time in some useful pursuit, rather than just fretting away the hours.  However, if the debate proves as boring as the Statement of Facts, I may revise my opinion of its usefulness.”

            “Let’s stick with our own society this time,” Adam suggested.  “The topic for debate on those blue posters seems a bit more interesting than Linonia’s.”

            The ringing of the chapel bell forestalled further discussion as it heralded the beginning of another full day of recitations and study.

 

* * * * *

 

            On Wednesday Adam and Jamie woke to a beautiful, sunny day, with scarcely a whiff of wind, and the balmy weather was a portent of bright hope to come.  As they took their places in Latin class that morning, Lucas slipped a folded copy of the New Haven Morning News to Adam.  “Show this to Edwards whenever you think it prudent,” he whispered.  “I think it’s good news.”

            Behind his textbook Adam surreptitiously peeked at the headlines and smiled broadly when he read, “ARRIVAL OF THREE UNITED STATES REGIMENTS AT ST. JOSEPH.”  Latin was forgotten as he scanned the article and learned that the rebels had been expelled from Jamie’s home town.  He was just into the third paragraph when he felt a hard elbow ram his side.  “Translate,” Lucas hissed under his breath.  “Line 44.”

            Adam jumped to his feet, the Morning News dropping to his feet as he held up his text and began translating the passage.  Rattled, he made two mistakes, but corrected them before going on.

            “Less exemplary than heretofore, Mr. Cartwright,” Tutor Wilder Smith pronounced.  “Can we have so quickly reached the limit of your western school’s tutelage?”

            Adam flushed, more with anger at the insult to his Sacramento academy than embarrassment.  “No, sir,” he declared firmly.  “My attention wavered momentarily.  I apologize, sir.”

            There had been nothing apologetic in his tone, and nothing but token acceptance in the tutor’s reply.  “Please review today’s assignment conscientiously before beginning your preparation for the next.”

            “Yes, sir,” Adam said tersely and took his seat.

            “What is the matter with you?” Jamie asked as they left the Athenaeum at the close of the session.  “I know you’re as concerned about Father as I am, but—”

            “No, I’m not,” Adam said.  He’d planned to save the news until they reached their room, but couldn’t contain his give-away grin.

            “What is it?” Jamie asked breathlessly.  “You know something!”

            Adam nodded.  “St. Joe’s been relieved,” he said.  “Rebels out, Union men back in, as of Friday.”

            “Father’s safe!  I know he is!” cried Jamie.

            “I believe so, too,” Adam said as they turned from College St. onto Chapel.  “Where is now the question:  Elwood, St. Joe or somewhere between here and there?”

            “You said he promised to come east,” Jamie said, almost dancing as they turned onto Temple St.

            Adam nodded, but looked far from convinced.  “But he might have gone the other way temporarily, for safety’s sake . . . or the other Union men may have demanded that he go with them or be termed a Rebel himself.”

            Jamie sobered.  “I suppose anything’s possible in such a volatile situation.”

            “Now, you’re not going to start worrying again, are you?” Adam chided.  “It is good news.”

            Jamie smiled again then.  “It is, and I’ve learned a lesson through this, Adam.  We first heard about Father’s danger on Sunday, and the situation had been resolved two days before that.  How often we worry about problems when the answer has already come or is, at least, underway in God’s perfect timing.  I won’t do it again . . . well, if I can help it.”

            Adam threw an arm around his friend’s shoulders.  “That’s what I love about you, pastor: you see a lesson in everything, but are wise enough to realize they may take time to learn.”

            They had reached the boardinghouse and as they climbed the front steps Jamie said, “I’m wise enough to know I have to prepare for our next recitation—Father would expect no less—but I’d much rather spend the time writing an urgent plea to him to come to us without delay.”

            They entered and took the stairs to the second story.  “We’ll do our duty by our studies first,” Adam agreed.  “Pa would expect no less, either, but we’re free after the noon recitation today, so we’ll have ample time to write this afternoon and still make our first Brothers in Unity meeting.”

            “But where do we send the letters?”  Jamie again asked the all-important question as he opened the door to their room.

            Adam dropped his Latin text onto his desk.  “Send yours to St. Joe.  That’s where I think he is, but to give us a double chance of reaching him, I’ll write to Elwood, general delivery, and tell him that there’s a letter from you waiting in St. Joe.  And if he’s already left there, it won’t matter if the letters miss him, because he’ll already be doing what we’re urging him to!”  He pulled out his mate’s desk chair and gestured toward it authoritatively.  “And now, sir, buckle down and do your duty by Euclid.”

            Jamie bowed gracefully and took the proffered seat.

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

Wilder Smith is listed as tutor of Latin in the Yale catalog for 1861-62, available online.

 

The Confederate occupation of St. Joseph and the resulting blockage of the mails is detailed in the New York Times of September 15, 1861.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A Changing of the Guard

 

 

The student seated to Adam’s right in geometry recitation nudged his arm with a discreet elbow and, while the tutor was engaged in helping a student at the blackboard, slipped a folded piece of paper into his hand.  Keeping one eye on Mr. Nolen, Adam glanced down and saw “Read and pass on” scrawled on the paper.  He opened it cautiously and read the inside message: “Rush on Library St. tonight at 7 p.m.”  He looked quizzically at the man who had passed the note to him, but just then the tutor turned back to face the class and, like all the other students, Adam feigned instant attention.  Lowering his hand, he tapped Lucas on the knee and passed the note on to him.

            “‘Rush on Library Street?’” he asked Lucas as soon as they were dismissed from class.  “What is that supposed to mean?”  Thanks to having had an older brother at Yale, Lucas was often a good source of information about college matters.

            Before Lucas could respond, however, another classmate laughed.  “A chance to show those vile sophomores who’s the better class,” he said, “and every man must be there to defend the freshmen’s honor!”

            “We’ll be there, never fear,” Lucas promised.  The other freshman saluted him and walked over to another circle of students, no doubt discussing the same vital topic.

            “Maybe you will,” Adam snorted, “but I want to know more about this rush business before I commit myself.”

            “As do I,” Jamie said, coming up to them.  Since he sat on the front row in recitation, he had received the note early, but had been as mystified as Adam by its cryptic message.

            “You will be there!” Lucas declared stoutly.  “You won’t be able to show your faces on campus tomorrow if you don’t—and—and I’ll wash my hands of the both of you!”

            “Sounds serious, doesn’t he?” Adam said with a wink at Jamie.

            “It is serious,” Lucas insisted.  “Ah, good.  Here’s Marc, so I’ll only have to explain this once.”

            “Do it as we walk to dinner, please,” Jamie suggested.  “A bout with Euclid tends to leave me famished.”

            “And Latin has the same effect on me,” Marcus, who was in a different section from the other three, said with a grin.

            “It’s a bout I’m trying to tell you about,” a clearly perturbed Lucas sputtered, “a bout with the sophomores.”

            “Do you mean a fight?” Jamie asked.  “If you do, count me out.”

            “Nothing so gruesome as that,” Lucas scoffed.  “More like a simple shoving match.  Both classes line up opposite each other—on Library Street this time—and we rush at the fool sophomores and sweep them from the street.”

            “A shoving match!” Adam exclaimed.  “In Virginia City we call that a free-for-all!”

            “Well . . . yes,” Lucas admitted, “but it’s all in good, clean fun, Adam, I assure you.  It’s a substitute for the freshman-sophomore football game, which the faculty, in its infinite lack of wisdom, saw fit to abolish four years ago.”

            “They approve of this, instead?” Adam asked incredulously.

            Lucas grinned a bit sheepishly.  “Well . . . not exactly.”  He chuckled.  “If you see a teacher, yell a warning—then run for your life!”

            “Perhaps we shouldn’t participate, then, if the faculty disapproves,” Jamie suggested tentatively, and Marcus, biting his lower lip, nodded.

            “That, sir, is not done,” Lucas snapped.  “Every man must support the honor of the class.”  He cast pleading eyes on each of his friends.  “Don’t you see?  It’s the only way to get back at those blasted sophomores.”

            Jamie and Marcus looked to Adam for advice.  “They do need taking down a peg,” Adam agreed.

            “Of course, they do.  I knew I could count on you!”  Lucas beamed with triumph.  “Now, keep quiet at dinner.  I’m sure that Warington and Miller will try to bait us, but we ignore them.  Let them show themselves for the empty bags of air they are.  We’ll show what we’re made of tonight!”

 

* * * * *

 

            The night air was chilly, and even in his wool jacket, Jamie shivered as he and Adam made their way toward Library Street.  “I know Lucas is right: the other freshmen will see it as a betrayal if we don’t participate, but if this turns into an out-and-out brawl, I can’t helping thinking I’ll be more liability than asset.”

            “If you’re not comfortable with participating, don’t,” Adam said plainly.  “No one whose opinion matters will think any the less of you.”

            Jamie laughed sharply.  “Meaning you, of course.  Somehow, I think Lucas and even Marc might well think less of me.  But I’m not going against my will, Adam.  I do think those sophomores deserve a dose of their own medicine.  I just hope it is all in good, clean fun, as Lucas says.  I’d hate to see even a sophomore injured.”

            Grinning almost as impishly as Lucas himself might have, Adam gave Jamie’s back a light clap.  “And that, my charitable friend, is what makes you a better man than I.  I could quite cheerfully knock a few sophomore heads together.”

            “Oh, you’re not serious,” Jamie chuckled.

            “Oh, but I am!”  Adam declared, though he laughed as he said it.

            “Adam!  Over here!” a sturdy voice called, and Lucas waved his arm wildly to attract the attention of Adam and his companion.

            Adam and Jamie hurried over to join Lucas and Marcus.

            Lucas pumped both their hands.  “I knew I could count on you.”  He eyed both Jamie and Marcus soberly.  “Look, you two lightweights had better keep behind me and Adam.”

            Marc’s nostrils flared with evident offense. “Lightweight or not, we’re here to do our part.”

            “And so you shall, my boy; so you shall,” Lucas assured him.  “Just not in the front line.  The sophs will put their biggest men up front, so we can’t do less.”

            “Adam’s not that big,” Marc argued.

            Lucas grabbed Adam’s arm and pounded his biceps.  “But he’s rock hard.  No doubt due to punching cattle.  Those sophomores won’t know what hit them.”

            The quartet of friends laughed, and Jamie and Marcus agreeably took their places behind the other two to await the signal for the rush to begin.

            Puffs of fog escaping his lips each time he exhaled, Adam took deep draughts of air in preparation for the rigorous work to come, and he could feel his heart rate rising in expectation.  Then a loud voice shouted out, “Look alive, Sixty-five!”

            In response, another voice hollered to his freshman classmates, “Break ‘em like sticks, Sixty-six!”

With a mighty roar the class of ’66 rushed forward, and with a bellow of outraged superiority, the sophomores charged back at them.  Adam felt his left shoulder crash into one equally solid.  For a moment he and his opponent grappled; then the momentum of the men rushing behind pushed them past one another.  No one made a fist or struck a blow at a fellow student, but many a cap was snatched from a freshman’s head and many a sophomore lost his silk plug in the scuffle.  Adam managed to keep his hat, but felt a sudden breeziness about the shoulder when a sophomore grabbed his coat sleeve as he pushed past.

            Eventually, everyone made their way through the opposing line and immediately turned to line up again and make another rush at the other class.  The results were largely the same.  Neither side had emerged the clear victor, so a third rush was called for, and yet another wild melee of flying arms and legs met in the middle of Library Street.  Suddenly, someone on the outskirts of the tangle screamed, “Faculty!  Faculty!” and everyone broke for the side streets and alleys.

            Adam searched frantically for Jamie; then, spotting him, he rushed over, snared his friend by the arm and dragged him into the nearest alley, where they crouched behind a pile of wooden crates.

            “Fancy meeting you here,” a low voice chuckled, and the two roommates turned to see Lucas’s smiling face.

            “You look the worse for wear,” Adam said, cocking his head to examine Lucas’s bruised cheekbone.

            Lucas reached out to finger the rip in Adam’s coat sleeve.  “Not looking so nobby yourself, chum.”

            Glancing down, Adam shook his head in disgust.  “Pa would chew me up one side and down the other—with good cause,” he muttered.  “I just hope it can be mended.  I can’t spare the money for another coat.”

            Jamie assessed the damage carefully.  “I think it just pulled apart at the seam, Adam.  A tailor would do a better job, but I can sew it for you.”

            Lucas meanwhile had peered over the crates.  “Looks like it’s all quiet now,” he said, still keeping his voice low.  “Safe to make a try for our rooms, I think.”  He stood up, and the others slowly joined him.

            “This was idiocy,” Adam grunted, rubbing his sore left shoulder.

            Lucas doubled his fist and punched the other boy in the arm.  “Yes, but it’s jolly fun idiocy.”

            Adam laughed.  “You’re incorrigible—and a decidedly poor influence.”

            “You loved every minute of it, admit it,” Lucas challenged.

            Giving his shoulder another rub, Adam grinned, “Well, not quite every minute.”

            “But most,” Lucas pressed.

            Adam chuckled.  “Most.  Now, how do we get home without being spotted by the faculty?”

            “Follow me,” Lucas advised.  “I know all the back streets to your place.”

            “I’ll just bet you do!”

            Whether due to Lucas’s familiarity with back streets or just plain luck, Adam and Jamie made it to their lodgings without being spotted.  A few freshmen and a couple of sophomores were not so fortunate.  Nabbed by the faculty, each received heavy demerits for participating in the fracas, and when he heard that news whispered in chapel the next morning, Adam offered up sincere thanks that he had not been caught and would not have anything of that nature to report to Pa in his next letter.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam and Jamie were seated at their adjoining desks, comparing solutions to a proposition from Euclid, when a rap sounded on the door to their shared room.  Instantly their eyes communicated the same concern.  Sophomores again, up to their usual harassment, perhaps in payback for injuries inflicted in the recent rush?  With set lips Adam crossed the room and opened the door, while Jamie turned in his seat to watch him.  The silk hat and cane did immediately identify their visitor as a sophomore, but this time the man only inquired politely, “Mr. Cartwright?”

When Adam nodded, the man bowed and extended a black-edged envelope.  Adam took it, managing to get past his surprise in time to mumble “Thank you” before the visitor turned and left.

“What is it?” Jamie asked.

            Adam gave him a crooked grin.  “I’m about to find out,” he said, carefully opening the envelope at its seal.  From it he took a black-edged card with an emblem that resembled a Greek cross with five bars between each point of a star.  In its center was a shield of black with the letters KSE and “Yale” printed on it.  He read out the text on the card:

 

Mr. Cartwright:

 

You will be waited upon at your room this evening and be presented for initiation into the dark and awful mysteries of Kappa Sigma Epsilon.  Surrender yourself only to the person bearing the matching half of this card.  Per order.

 

            Jamie jumped up from his chair.  “Oh, Adam!  You’ve been accepted into Sigma Ep!”

            “So it seems,” Adam said, quietly setting aside the notched card.

            “Aren’t you excited?” his friend asked.

            Adam pulled out his desk chair and sat down.  “Not yet.”

            Jamie came to stand behind him.  “You mean because I don’t have one?”  He rested his hands on Adam’s broad shoulders.  “That doesn’t matter.”

            “It does to me,” Adam said gruffly.  “I will not join without you.”

            “That is ridiculous,” Jamie sputtered.  “I will not hear of you giving up such an honor.  Think what it can mean for your college career.”

            “To join any society foolish enough to reject you would be genuinely ridiculous,” Adam snorted.  “Now, can we please get back to Euclid?”

            “Adam!” Jamie protested, but his friend silently buried his nose in the geometry text.

             About an hour later a second knock sounded at the door.  Adam looked up, his countenance clearing.  “Maybe we’re arguing over nothing,” he suggested.  “You open the door this time.”

            Jamie did and soon turned around, smiling and waving an identical black-edged envelope.  “Apparently, Sigma Ep is not a ridiculous society, after all.”

            “It must be the wisest of all societies,” Adam exulted, “even if it is initiating a couple of idiots tonight.”  Jamie threw his arm around his friend and joined in his self-deprecating laughter.

 

* * * * *

 

            Having been advised to forego supper, the two roommates spent extra time grooming themselves scrupulously and, while waiting for their conductors to arrive, drilled each other on their latest Latin assignment.  About 7:30 the blast of tin horns assaulted the occupants of Mrs. Wiggins’ boardinghouse, the more elderly of which loudly expressed their low opinion of college shenanigans.  Within minutes two young men appeared at Adam and Jamie’s door and asked them to present the cards they had received that afternoon.  Each was notched differently, so that it perfectly matched the cutout on the card of the designated conductor.   The mate to Adam’s was held in the hand of the sophomore who had taken charge and stopped the smoking out when he saw that Jamie was in real physical distress.

            As the four young men exited the boardinghouse, they separated.  Jamie and his conductor went one direction, while Adam and his went the other.  “I’m Percival Demmings,” the man at Adam’s side said as they walked toward the docks.

            “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Demmings,” Adam replied.  “Am I allowed to ask about the activities of the evening or do I simply accept them as they unfold?”

            Demmings laughed.  “Mostly, the latter, Freshie, but it’s only fair to tell you that you are expected to treat your conductor to a light repast first.  Oysters sound good to me, if you’re willing.”

            “I’m willing . . . indeed, happy to treat you,” Adam returned pleasantly.  He deliberately put off until a more appropriate time calculations of what he might have to give up later to provide his conductor with the expected meal.

            Near the harbor they turned into a small oyster house, where the prices were quite reasonable, Adam was glad to note.  Over bowls of succulent stew and cups of hot coffee, they had an agreeable conversation about the benefits of the society to which Adam was now pledged.  Pushing aside his empty bowl, Demmings asked soberly, “Does your little friend have a weak heart, as well as weak lungs?”

            Adam’s brows knit together with concern.  “Not that I’m aware,” he said slowly and then asked, “Just how bad is this likely to get?”

            Demmings wagged his finger beneath Adam’s nose.  “Can’t tell you, Freshie.”  Then, seeing Adam’s concern and guessing that it wasn’t for himself, he relented.  “You needn’t worry about your chum, though; I warned everyone to take it easy.”

            “I’m grateful for that,” Adam said earnestly.

            Demmings grinned impishly.  “Ah, but I didn’t say it would go easy for you, now, did I?”

            Adam grinned back, just as broadly.  “I can take it, as long as I know Jamie’s all right.”

            Demmings smiled with warm admiration.  “You’re a true friend, Freshie.”

            Adam’s initiation began the instant they left the oyster house.  A black scarf was tied around his eyes, and in the sudden blackness the toot of a tin horn sounded directly in his face.  “Follow the sound,” Demming ordered.

            A horrible feeling of vulnerability washed over Adam, but he balked for only a moment.  He could see nothing as he stepped forward.  The horn sounded again, and again he walked forward, each step a small act of courage.  He was trusting his life, or at least his limbs, to this barely known sophomore, and one never knew what sort of bedevilment a sophomore might be capable of.  Walking him into a wall or off a pier might merely amuse a creature capricious as that!  He had no idea where he was headed or even which direction they were going.  His only clue during a journey that seemed everlasting was the whistle of a train, which told him they were close to the depot.  Not long after that the horn stopped sounding and he was pushed through a doorway.  Though his blindfold was removed, he still couldn’t see anything, for the room was pitch black.  Hearing voices whispering all around him, he surmised that this was a holding area for the new society inductees.  “Jamie!” he called.  “Are you here?”

            “Adam?” came a voice from across the room.  “Is that you?”

            “Yes.  Keep talking, and I’ll come toward you.”  Calling back and forth to one another, the two friends finally bumped into each other and each clasped the other’s arm in the darkness. 

             “What do you think they’ll do to us?” Jamie asked, a hint of anxiety in his voice.

            “Nothing you need to worry about,” Adam assured him, taking Demmings at his word.  “They may try to scare us, but I don’t think it’ll get too bad.”

            “I hope it’s not another smoking out,” Jamie said with a shudder.  “I’ll fail for certain.”

            “You’ll be fine,” Adam said firmly, patting his friend’s shoulder.  “Don’t let your imagination get the best of you.”

            “No, I won’t,” Jamie said with solid resolve.

            Adam felt his own resolve weaken when a door creaked open and a supernatural voice that seemed to echo from far away called out his name.  When he hesitated, again its ghostly tones summoned, “Adam Cartwright . . . present yourself.”

            Adam gulped.  “Yes . . . I’m . . . here.”  As he walked toward the light, two figures appeared in the doorway.  Neither was likely to alleviate his apprehensions.  One was dressed in a red devil suit, complete with horns and forked tail; the other was all in black, except for the skeletal bones painted on with eerily glowing phosphorus.

            “Are you ready to enter into the august and ancient mysteries of Kappa Sigma Epsilon?” demanded the skeleton.

            “I’m ready,” Adam declared staunchly.

            The devil uttered a fiendish cackle.  “He thinks he’s ready; the overconfident fool thinks he’s ready.”

As the skeleton joined in the mocking laughter, he presented Adam with another blindfold.

            Adam accepted it and began to wrap it around his eyes.  Someone—he couldn’t tell who at this point—evidently didn’t trust him and took the trailing ends from his hands and pulled them tight.  “None but the brave can enter into the august and ancient mysteries of Kappa Sigma Epsilon,” said a voice he recognized as that of the devil.

            Expecting the horn in his face again, Adam was surprised when, instead, his arms were grabbed on each side and the devil urged, “Hurry, Freshie, hurry.”  Then he was practically raced across the room and up a flight of stairs he could not see.  After stumbling his way to the landing above, he felt himself propelled down what he presumed was a hall.  “Run, Freshie, run!” his guides demanded.

            Without warning, they released him.  Adam tried to stop himself, but he lurched forward and suddenly there was nothing beneath him but air.  Arms flailing, he tumbled into blackness, too surprised to do anything but gasp as the air whistled past his ears.  He landed on some yielding surface and was immediately thrust upward again.  Not far, for he soon bounced back into something soft, but solid.  His hand brushed against scratchy fabric, and he smiled in relief.  A blanket—he was being tossed in a wool blanket, that’s all.

            “Do you remember Sweet Betsy from Pike?” an unknown voice asked soberly.

            “What?” Adam asked, his head turning toward the sound.  “You mean the song?”  Up he went again in the blanket.

            “No, foolish Freshie, the girl.”

            “No, no, the song,” another voice rang out.  “Sing us the song, Freshie.”

            “Uh—okay,” Adam panted.  He struggled to remember the words, but found it hard to think when every few seconds he again found himself airborne.  “Do you . . . remember . . . sweet Betsy . . . from Pike?” he quavered in a voice far less steady than his usual strong baritone.  “Who crossed the”—for the life of him he couldn’t remember the next phrase, although he’d known the trail favorite from the time he and Pa had started west.

            Hoots of laughter met his frustrated ears.  “For shame, Freshie . . . and you a westerner, too!”

            “Try another test,” called one of his tormentors.

            “Yes, another!” echoed around him as the blanket continued to bounce Adam up and down.

            “Which is sillier, a freshman or a goose?” demanded one inquisitor.

            “A—a goose!” Adam shouted.

            Resounding laughter met this response.  “Wrong again, Freshie!”

            “Shake him up; his wits are addled,” someone demanded.

            The blanket tossed him higher this time.  Adam spun in the air and landed on his stomach.  It’s only a blanket toss, he reminded himself, but that didn’t ease his mounting nausea.  Just when he thought he could no longer keep down his oyster stew, the blanket grew taut and then was slowly lowered to the ground.

            “Oh, poor Freshie,” someone said, and then two sets of arms lifted him by the elbows and set him on his feet.  “There.  Better now?”

            “Yes—yes, thank you,” Adam said with shakiness he tried to conceal.

            “Well done, Freshie, well done, but you must be tired.  Here, have a seat.”

            Adam, still blindfolded, was guided to a chair, but as he gratefully sank into it, his bottom fell through the open frame into a bucket below and he winced as his buttocks hit something cold and wet.

            “Oh, I don’t think he wants a rest, after all,” someone taunted.

            “Perhaps he’d rather lie down,” another suggested.

            “Yes, yes!  Lay him down!”

            Adam was jerked up from his uncomfortable perch; then hands were all over him—arms, legs, torso, head—bearing him away, he knew not where, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t find it any more restful than the chair had been.  He was laid on some flat surface with his neck cradled in something hard and curved, but before he could guess what it was, his blindfold was whipped off and he screamed as he saw a sharp, silvery blade rushing down toward his bare throat.  It jerked to a stop a foot above him.  “Rest in peace, Freshie,” the skeleton said in spectral tones.

            “Rest in peace,” the others all repeated ghoulishly.  Again and again they echoed the words as his body was lifted from the guillotine and placed solemnly in a nearby coffin.  The lid was put on, and there was a sound of hammering on the lid.  Inside, Adam chuckled, loud and long.  Did they honestly think they could fool a country boy, well acquainted with the sound of nails going into wood?  There were no nails here, just bare hands pounding on the coffin.  Like the guillotine, it was a sham, and compared to that, this was nothing.

            “He’s laughing!” someone cried, and within moments Adam was resurrected from his mock burial and being patted on the back for his exemplary display of courage.

            Percival Demmings, his face painted like an Indian on the warpath, stepped up to shake his hand.  “Well done, Freshie.  You were as good as your word; you pass the initiation.  Now, wear your coat inside out the rest of the evening.”

            “Is this what happens to everyone?” Adam asked him softly as he removed his coat and turned it inside out.

            “Relax,” Demmings whispered back.  “I promised, didn’t I?  Stand back and watch the fun now; you’re entitled.”

            One by one, the other initiates were dropped through the trapdoor in the ceiling into the blanket below, while sophomores in a variety of bizarre or grotesque disguises asked ridiculous questions or made impossible demands.  Each inevitable failure earned the freshman another bounce toward the ceiling.  What happened after the obligatory blanket tossing, however, varied from man to man.  Only a few underwent as thorough an initiation as Adam, and he began to wonder if his rough treatment had been part of the bargain for letting Jamie off easily.  Lucas Cameron, however, suffered even harsher treatment, for in addition to everything Adam had endured, he was also placed in a pillory and reviled with every insult an inventive sophomore could conceive.  He didn’t even scream when the guillotine blade descended, though, and that won the sophomore’s respect.  He wasn’t placed in the coffin, but simply congratulated and welcomed into the society.

            Instead of the guillotine, Marcus was presented with a noose around his neck, but though he paled as one end was tossed over a rafter, he didn’t flinch, and the noose was never tightened.  After the typical burial and resurrection, he turned his coat outside in and joined Adam and Lucas.

            The next freshman fared well enough until he was placed in the coffin, but then he completely lost control.  Screaming maniacally, he pounded on the coffin and begged to be let out.  Though the sophomores released him almost instantly, the boy was pale and shaken and could barely stand on his own two feet.  He was weeping in shame as he was escorted outside, but after a couple more freshmen had been initiated, he was brought back in, smiling and wearing his coat inside out.  His acceptance into the society significantly raised Adam’s opinion of sophomores, who apparently were not creatures completely without mercy, after all.

            Adam immediately recognized the high-pitched yell when Jamie fell through the trapdoor into the blanket, and he leaned forward, intensely interested to see what his friend would experience and ready to intervene if it got out of hand.  His friend’s blanket-tossing was short-lived, and Jamie was next escorted to the pillory.  He didn’t suffer the scorn Lucas had endured, however, but only the sort of silly questioning that Adam had received while being tossed in the blanket.

            Demmings led the examination.  “We all remember, Freshie, how you failed at reciting Euclid for us, so we won’t bother with that.  I’ve heard, however, that you’re quite the Latin scholar.  True?”

            “I—I try to be,” Jamie replied, a most modest answer, since he was acknowledged by everyone who’d ever heard him recite to be the best in the class.

            “Then you won’t mind translating a few phrases for us?”

            “No,” Jamie said, but he sounded cautious.

            “Give us the Latin for ‘I am ridiculous,’” Demmings demanded.

            “Ego sum ridiculum,” Jamie replied with a slight smile, for at that moment, with his head and hands in a pillory, he thought the statement quite accurate.

            Demmings nodded acceptance of the phrasing.  “Translate this: Meus mens est quoque plumbeus pro Euclid.”

            “My mind is too dull for Euclid,” Jamie said.

            “He admits it!” cried another sophomore.

            “What else do you admit, Freshie?” called yet another.

            Demmings waved his hand to silence the other inquisitor.  “Another translation, please,” he suggested.  “Meus mens est ut pallens ut meus latuseris.”

            Adam stiffened.  How could they ask his friend to say that?  They were only words, of course, but still . . .

            Jamie, on the other hand, hesitated but a moment before translating, “My mind is as weak as my lungs.”  He looked up earnestly.  “Though I hope it’s not.”

            “I hope not, as well,” Demmings said gravely, though there was a twinkle in his eye.  “Now, be a polite little Freshie and  say, ‘Please toss me in a blanket again.’”

            “Commodo operor non,” Jamie said softly.

            Adam couldn’t restrain his proud grin, for his friend had not complied this time.  He had, instead, said, “Please don’t.”  Would the sophomores accept that response as an indication of courage and character, or would they treat it as defiance deserving of punishment?

            “Oh, all right, Freshie, we’ll let that pass, since you ask so politely,” Demmings chuckled, “but only if you can successfully translate one more phrase: ‘Sophomores rule over all.”

            Jamie favored his inquisitor with a beguiling smile.  “Sophomores septrum super totus, utique, hic quod iam,” he said.

            Demmings laughed out loud.  “What?  Not forever . . .  only here and now?  You’ve got a lot of cheek, Freshie.  And do you know what that means?”

            Jamie tried to shake his head, but the pillory inhibited his movement.

            Demmings laughed again at the futile attempt.  “It means, you self-proclaimed ridiculous Freshie, that you are now a member of Kappa Sigma Epsilon!”  He released Jamie from the pillory and helped him turn his coat inside out and put it back on again.  “Join your friends and watch the fun,” he said.

            There wasn’t much fun left to watch, though, for only a couple of freshmen had not yet been initiated.  Once they were, the evening became more ceremonial.  The new members pledged to observe the secrets of the society and several, Jamie included, were ordered to make speeches, which were exuberantly, if somewhat mockingly, applauded.  Then everyone was ordered to assemble at Brewster Hall the following evening for their first meeting.

            “I wonder why they didn’t ask you for a speech,” Jamie said as he and Adam walked home.

            Adam had a secret opinion about that, but he didn’t share his suspicion that the speech was another part of the bargain for an easy initiation.  “They were probably impressed with your quick thinking during that Latin quiz,” he suggested.

            Jamie’s face brightened.  “You think so?”

            Adam threw an arm around his friend’s shoulder.  “I know I was impressed.”

            “I’m sure you were equally impressive,” Jamie said with a pat to his friend’s back.   “I wish I could have seen your initiation.”

            Adam felt a shiver ripple up his spine as he recalled his first sight of that guillotine blade rushing toward him.  If you only knew, my friend, he thought.  If you only knew.

 

* * * * *

 

            “We’ve certainly had a full week,” Jamie observed as he walked beside Adam along the quiet paths of Grove Street Cemetery.  Though they had intended their next outing to take them somewhere further and, perhaps, more scenic, the activities of the preceding night and those anticipated for this evening had made a shorter jaunt more appealing.

            “That we have,” Adam agreed.  “Unfortunately, most of it isn’t the sort of thing I can write home about!”

            Jamie laughed.  “Why not?  I intend to tell Father all about the initiation—in person, I hope, but by letter, if not.”

            Adam smiled quizzically, thinking that if his initiation had been like Jamie’s, he might be writing home the details, too.  But he didn’t dare share his experience.  He could just imagine how quickly Pa would order him home if he heard about that business with the guillotine!  Avoiding that subject, he arched an eyebrow and asked, “And the rush?  Do you intend to tell your father that you were involved in a faculty-frowned-upon brawl?”

            Jamie winced.  “Well, perhaps not,” he conceded.  “All that and studies, too—we have been a busy pair, haven’t we?”

            Adam dropped down to the browning turf beneath a towering elm.  “I do think we’re developing a routine, though.”

            “With rather a lot of deviations,” Jamie chuckled.

            “Like tonight’s meeting, you mean?”  Keeping his legs straight, Adam stretched forward to touch his toes.  “That’ll soon be a part of the weekly routine, as well.”

            “It had better be!” Jamie exclaimed.  “You and I, my friend, cannot afford the fine for missing a meeting.”

            “No, we can’t.”  Adam bounced to his feet and reached for Jamie’s hand to pull him up.  “And as much as I’m enjoying this, we can’t afford to stay longer, either.  We have assignments to complete before our first Sigma Ep meeting.”

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam carefully pinned Jamie’s society badge to the left side of his vest, near his shirt collar.  Actually, the badge wasn’t Jamie’s, any more than the one affixed to Adam’s vest belonged to him.  Though they both had paid their society fees and purchased pins that afternoon, those were not engraved yet.  Each of their conductors, however, had kindly loaned them his own pin until theirs were ready.  In fact, all the freshmen would be wearing borrowed insignias tonight.

            “They’re beauties, aren’t they?” Jamie observed, eyes aglow.

            “Definitely a symbol to wear with pride,” Adam returned.  He stepped back to admire Jamie’s pin.  On a surface of gold, about one inch in diameter, was a black enamel shield like that which had adorned their invitations to the initiation.  On the five bars, between the points of the star were a fasces, a caduceus, an anchor, a torch and an olive branch.  “We’d better get going, though,” he suggested, “or we’ll be feeling something other than pride.”

            Jamie nodded, taking his coat from the bedpost.  “I agree.”

            The sky was clear and the temperature cool, with only a slight breeze to add a bit of chill to the air as they walked the five blocks to the southeast corner of State and Chapel.  Entering the Brewster Building, they found the sophomore members stretched out on the carpet in an aspect of complete relaxation.  Curls of smoke enwrapped their heads as they laughed and chattered companionably in the center of a circle of freshmen, seated on the floor.  Adam pointed out a spot on the far side that seemed to be furthest from the heavy smoke, and he and Jamie claimed a place there among their peers.  Marcus and Lucas came in later and made their way to the others.

            “So, what happens tonight?” Adam asked Lucas in an undertone.

            Lucas shook his head.  “My brother never would tell me anything about the society.  All those secrets we’re never supposed to reveal, I suppose.”

            “I suppose,” Adam chuckled.  “Just as long as it doesn’t involve a second initiation.”

            Lucas grinned back.  “No, I don’t think so.  We’re in now and, therefore, brothers.”

            “With sophomores?” Marcus teased.  “Now, there’s a thought!”

            Lucas shuddered.  “ Remarkable notion, isn’t it?”

            “Ah, but you forget, Lucas, that we are all brothers under God,” Jamie intoned solemnly with a sidewise wink at Adam.

            “No preaching tonight, parson,” Lucas ordered, wagging his finger beneath Jamie’s nose.

            While there was no preaching, the meeting did begin, like many church services, with singing.  The sophomores were, of course, familiar with the songs of Sigma Ep, but they handed around songbooks for the freshmen, who sang out lustily as they caught on to the tunes.  Adam picked the songs up more quickly than most, and those nearest him, freshmen and sophomores alike, leaned to their neighbors to whisper admiring comments about his rich, melodious tones.  After several choruses a sophomore stood in the very center of the circle and introduced himself as the president of the society.

            “For a few more minutes!” called one of his laughing classmates.

            “Indeed,” the young man said.  “Tonight—not without trepidation, I might add—we deliver our eminent society into the inexperienced hands of mere striplings.”  He waved down the hoots of outrage from the outer circle.  “It was gratifying to hear that some of you, at least, can carry a tune.  It gives us hope.”  For a moment his eyes rested on Adam, and then he continued.  “Our first order of business tonight will be the reading of our constitution by the outgoing secretary.  Mr. Osgood, if you please?”

            A lanky youth stood and read a typical club constitution.  Much applause greeted its completion and the president invited each new member to affix his name to the document.  Once each freshman had signed the constitution, a short comedic play was presented by the sophomores, and then the president led the new members through an election for his successor.  Adam was unacquainted with the man who won, but he seemed to be a popular fellow.

            “Our work now is done,” the retiring president announced, “and so we bid you good evening, gentlemen.  The other sophomores rose as one and formed a line.  Then with many a friendly wave, they marched out singing, to the tune of Yankee Doodle, “Oh, Kappa Sigma Epsilon; oh, Kappa Sigma Ep.”

            The freshmen stayed only long enough to elect their remaining officers before adjourning.  They all seemed to have come from the same New England preparatory school and had, undoubtedly, been acquainted long before they reached Yale.  “It’s a shame we’ve met so few of our classmates yet,” Jamie said.  “You’d make a wonderful president, Adam.”

            “Oh, I don’t know,” Adam said modestly, but as he lay in bed that night, he wondered if he might ever win such an honor from his classmates.

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

While modern students retain membership in the same fraternity for life, the men of Yale in the nineteenth century joined different societies each year, and these were composed only of men of their own class.  They did, however, preserve warm feelings and ties with those they left behind as they progressed through college, particularly their freshman societies.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Extracurricular Activities

 

 

            “Get a move on, chum,” Adam urged on Thursday morning, “or we’ll be late for breakfast.”

            Jamie looked up from his morning Bible reading.  “I’m not going.”

            “Why?” Adam asked.  “Aren’t you feeling well?”

            Jamie smiled and shook his head.  “The national day of fasting, remember?”

            “Oh.”  Adam looked nonplussed.  He’d read, of course, of the President’s request that all Americans join him in fasting and prayer on this day, but he hadn’t really planned to participate.

 “You needn’t join me,” his friend said, easily reading Adam’s thoughts, “but especially since we still haven’t heard from Father, I’d like to spend extra time in prayer today.”

            “He’s barely had time to receive our letters,” Adam said, sitting on the bed beside his friend, “so it’s too soon to worry.”

            “And I’m not,” Jamie assured him, “but I do want to pray that God keeps him safe on his journey to us—and for our soldiers, too, of course.”

            Adam nodded soberly.  “Well, I’ll stay with you, then.”

            “You shouldn’t, if it isn’t your own conviction,” Jamie said.  “It’s hard enough to go hungry when you do feel strongly about it, Adam.”

            Adam gave him a wry smile.  “I feel strongly enough to miss one meal, at least.  After that, the strength of my convictions may depend on how belligerently my stomach makes its demands known.”

            “You want to pray here or in chapel?” Jamie asked.  “It’s open early today.”

            “I prefer here, in private,” Adam said, “unless you’d rather . . .”

            “God’s everywhere, Adam,” Jamie said with a chuckle as he closed his Bible and slipped to his knees.

            Adam started to join him, but since he’d never felt especially comfortable in that religious posture, he walked to the window and perched on the ledge, instead.  Closing his eyes, he thought first of Josiah and made a simple request that he’d be kept safe as he traveled through the contentious country between here and Missouri.  Having come that way himself not long ago, Adam had a clear idea of the dangers the man might meet, and he had to admit that he felt better after committing his friend’s father into the care of Almighty God.

            He had a harder time praying, though, once his thoughts turned to the Union soldiers in the field.  They weren’t people he knew personally, and his father had so strongly urged him to stay out of the sectional divisiveness that he found it hard to ask God to intervene on one side or the other.  Then, as his mind drifted back to the battle he’d fought against the Paiutes back home, he decided he didn’t have to pick sides.  There’d been good men and bad on both sides of that conflict, and the same was probably true of this one here in the East.  Keep the good men alive and only let the bad ones die—too simplistic a prayer, of course, but that was what was in Adam’s heart as he gazed through the frosty windowpane.  Good men sometimes went bad, and bad ones sometimes reformed, and only God knew how a man’s life would end, for good or ill.  Do what You think is right for each of them seemed like a weak prayer, too, but it was the only way he could pray that morning.

 

* * * * *

 

            Just as the Latin tutor approached the lectern, Lucas slid onto the bench beside Adam in the recitation room.  “Why weren’t you at breakfast?” he hissed.

            Adam responded with a cautioning elbow to his friend’s side.  Tutor Smith had a reputation for passing out demerits with a free hand, and although it was only two weeks into the term, Lucas had already managed to pick up a couple.  By missing chapel he had added two more to his tally, placing him a quarter of the way to the sixteen that would put him on report to the faculty, who would then send notice to his parents.  So far, Adam, like Jamie, had a clean slate and planned to keep it that way.  His father had sacrificed too much to give him this opportunity, and Adam never wanted Pa to feel that he’d made a mistake.  He’d probably pick up a few demerits along the way—everyone seemed to think that was inevitable—but since a clean slate required only class attendance, punctuality and reasonable behavior during recitation, he fully expected to stay well below sixteen . . . and certainly below the fatal forty-eight that would lead to suspension for six weeks or an entire term.

            As soon as class ended, Lucas snared Adam by the elbow and propelled him down the steps.  “So, why’d you skip breakfast?” he demanded.

            “They don’t give demerits for that,” Adam countered.  “Why’d you skip chapel?”

            “Your fault,” Lucas alleged as he tossed his books to the ground and dropped beneath the elm where the four friends generally met after recitations.

            Adam joined him.  “My fault?  How on earth do you figure that?”

            “Easy,” Lucas said.  “I couldn’t bear to see good food go to waste, so I was delayed, polishing off your share and Edwards’, and that made me late for chapel.  Now, you know as well as I, my good fellow, that tardiness racks up just as many demerits as absence, so I decided I might as well use the time to bone up for my Latin recitation.”

            Adam laughed.  “Well, it did seem to help.  You were more coherent than usual.”

            “That’s poppycock,” Marcus snorted, he and Jamie having come up in time to hear Lucas’s explanation.  “You were late to breakfast; that’s why you were late leaving the table.”

            Lucas chuckled.  “Well, there’s that, too.”

            “Adam,” Jamie said, “Marc wants some help with his Latin, so we’re going over to the library.”

            “Don’t be late for geometry,” Lucas cautioned with an impish grin.

            Adam gave him a playful shove.  “Follow your own advice, sir.  Jamie has probably never been late to class once in his life.”

            “Not once,” Jamie admitted with an almost embarrassed smile.  “My father was a teacher, remember?  He trained me in punctuality from my first day in grammar school.”  As he and Marcus headed toward the library, he called over his shoulder, “See you at eleven-thirty.”

            Adam waved back in acknowledgement.  “I probably should put in some extra study time myself, but I’m not in the mood.”

            “Weak from hunger, no doubt,” Lucas teased.  “You never did explain your absence from the table.”

            “Fasting,” Adam said.  “The President’s request, remember?”

            “Glory be!” Lucas exclaimed.  “I like the little preacher boy, honestly I do, but I think he’s having a bad influence on you, mate.”

            “He wanted to pray for his father’s safety,” Adam said, “and I hated to see him carry that burden alone.  You’re right about hunger, though.  The only Latin I wanted to concentrate on this morning was cibus!”

            Lucas laughed.  “Ah, yes . . . food . . . my favorite Latin word.  You’ll present yourself for dinner then, I presume?”

            “I think I’d better,” Adam agreed with a shrug.

            “Jamie?”

            “Still fasting, I’m sure.  More disciplined than the lot of us, you know.”

            Lucas shook his head.  “The boy has no sense.”  He stood up, brushing the back of his pants.  “Much as it pains me, I suppose I should pay some attention to our upcoming session with Euclid.”

            “Need help?” Adam asked.  “We could join the others in the library.”

            “I think I’m beyond help in that department,” Lucas confessed, “but as you’re a bona fide genius in math, maybe it’s worth a try.”

            “Let’s do it, then.”

            They started to walk toward the library, when suddenly Lucas snapped his fingers.  “I almost forgot the most important news of the day.  We’re forming a baseball club Saturday afternoon.  With those finely muscled arms of yours, you’d be a natural.”

            Stopping, Adam gave his friend a blank look.  “Baseball?”

            Lucas gawked back at him.  Then he grinned.  “Hasn’t made its way west yet, I presume.”

            Adam chuckled.  “I guess not.  Some sort of game?”

            “The grandest game ever, Adam!” Lucas declared enthusiastically.  “If you’ve never seen it before, you might have to start in the muffin nine, but you’d rise through the ranks rapidly.  Do come watch the exhibition match.”

            “You’re playing?”

            “Of course!”

            Adam nodded.  “Jamie and I were planning to walk up to West Rock after recitation on Saturday, but I’ll see if he’s willing to watch the game, instead.  It sounds interesting.  Now, interested or not, you are going to plug away at Euclid for the next hour.  Come on!”

 

* * * * *

 

            On Saturday afternoon Adam led the way to the middle rank of benches at the side of the playing field.  “We should have a good view from here,” he suggested.

            “Yes, I’d say so,” Jamie agreed.  He looked up at the almost clear sky, the vast expanse of blue dotted here and there with puffy white clouds.  “A beautiful day for a game.  It’s a shame Marc already had other plans.”

            “We did, too.  You’re not too disappointed at putting off our trip to West Rock, are you?” Adam queried.  “It’s beautiful weather for that, as well.”

            Jamie laughed.  “Now, why would I be disappointed at trading an afternoon of Dr. Cartwright’s rigorous exercise regime for one of sitting quietly and watching others labor for my enjoyment?”

            Adam clucked his tongue.  “You are a rebellious and lazy patient, but you will take some exercise after second service tomorrow, young man.”

            Jamie grinned.  “Yes, doctor, and gladly.  I’m looking forward to this, though, especially as it’s so important to Lucas.”

            “Oh, yes, he’s quite enthusiastic,” Adam agreed.  He gazed out over the playing field.  “I’d never heard of baseball, but this looks familiar.”

            Jamie nodded.  “Yes, a little.  You remember town ball?  We used to watch the bigger boys play that in St. Joseph.”

            “That’s it,” Adam said, snapping his fingers.  “That’s what’s been niggling at my brain.  The field’s shaped differently, though.”

            A team in white shirts ran onto the diamond-shaped field and began firing the soft round sphere from man to man.  “What strong arms they have!” cried Jamie.  “But where is Lucas?”

            “He must be on the opposing team,” Adam said.  The muscles in his arms tightened as he imagined himself out on the field, throwing fast balls to other teammates.  Much as he loved books and study, he sometimes missed opportunities to be outdoors and use his muscles.  This baseball club could provide him with that longed-for exercise . . . if only. . . .

            “There’s Lucas!” Jamie shouted, pointing to their friend as boys in blue shirts took the field to warm up for the game.

            The blue team’s ball flew around the field until their allotted time was up.  Lucas caught sight of his friends and waved as he trotted to the side and took his place beside his teammates.  The first striker for the blue team took his position, bat in hand.  He swung wildly at the first ball, but connected with the second and ran successfully to first base.  The second striker hit the ball on the first pitch, but a man in the far right field ably caught it.  “Wait a minute,” Adam said as he saw Lucas approach the striker’s point.  “Isn’t that an out?  Shouldn’t the teams switch places now?”

            “They did in town ball,” Jamie recalled, “but perhaps the rules for this are different.”

            “Apparently so,” Adam conceded, leaning forward to watch more intently.

            Lucas swung strongly, but missed the first ball and the second.  When he swung the third time, however, the air cracked with the force of his strike.  The ball flew like a bullet toward the far end of the diamond and beyond.  Spectators leaped to their feet.  “An ace!” one yelled.  “Go it, Cameron!”

            Adam and Jamie were on their feet, too.  “Run, Luke, run!” Adam screamed, and Jamie echoed the prevailing encouragement as Lucas rounded base after base and returned to the striking point.

            The next two men struck out under the concentrated pitching of the white team, and then the two teams switched sides.  “Three outs per side in baseball, I surmise,” Adam said, turning to Jamie.

            Jamie nodded.  “I like that better.”

            As the game proceeded, it became obvious that Lucas was one of the better players.  “Not that I’m surprised,” Adam told him when he and Jamie congratulated their friend after the match ended.  “You have the look of a true sportsman.”

            “I love the game,” Lucas admitted and then laughed.  “Far more than Euclid, to be sure.”

            “Who doesn’t?” Adam chuckled.

            “Even I,” Jamie said with a smile, “although I probably succeed better with Euclid than sports.”

            Lucas’s patronizing pat on the shoulder said that he agreed, but he politely didn’t voice his doubts about the other boy’s athletic abilities.  “What about you, Adam?” he asked eagerly.  “If you think you’d be interested in joining, I’ll be happy to put in a good word for you with the organizers.”

            Adam glanced down swiftly, to hide the wistful look in his eyes.  “Perhaps later, Luke.  College life is still so new to me that I think I should concentrate on basic studies for the time being.”

            “Oh, Adam!” Lucas chided.  “All work and no play is . . . well, practically un-American . . . not to mention un-Yalensian.”

            Adam gave him a shove.  “And all play and no work definitely is!”  He sobered.  “Seriously, Luke, let me get grounded with what I’ve already taken on before I add more.  If I feel I can manage it, I guarantee you I’ll join up.”

            “Oh, all right,” Lucas said.  His nose wrinkled.  “Whew!  Get a whiff of me!  I’d better get back to my rooms and scrub off some of this sweat.”

            Adam’s mouth twitched.  “Please do.  I don’t fancy sitting at table with you in this condition.”

            Lucas returned the shove he’d received moments before and after shaking both Adam’s hand and Jamie’s took off for his lodgings.

            As Adam and Jamie made their way back to their own room, Jamie asked soberly, “Is it because of me?”

            Adam turned toward him.  “Is what because of you?”

            Jamie flicked a nervous glance in his friend’s direction.  “The reason you won’t join the team.  Is it what you said or are you holding yourself back because you know it’s something I can’t participate in with any degree of success?”

            “Neither one, to be honest,” Adam admitted.

            “Because you needn’t,” Jamie continued as if he hadn’t heard Adam’s response.  “Much as I enjoy your company and all the time we spend together, Adam, I know you have other interests that I don’t share.  So, if you want this, don’t let me be a hindrance.  I’ll gladly cheer for you each Saturday, as well as for Lucas.”

            Adam took his friend by the shoulders and turned him until they were face to face.  “Jamie, it isn’t you,” he said bluntly.  “It’s money, pure and simple.  There are dues for this club, like any other, and apparently a uniform to buy and probably other expenses.  I hated to tell Luke that, but you know my situation.”

            “Indeed . . . and share it,” Jamie sighed.  “I’m sorry, Adam.”

            Adam shrugged.  “Well, maybe someday I’ll be able to swing it.  For now, it probably is best that I concentrate on my studies.”

            “And we’d better get to that right away,” Jamie agreed.  “With our first Sigma Ep meeting tonight, we haven’t much time left to study.”

            “That being the case . . . race you back to George Street,” Adam challenged and started out at a slow trot to give Jamie a chance to get his shorter legs pumping.

 

* * * * *

 

            It was ten of eight that evening when Adam and Jamie entered the society hall in the upper story of the Brewster Building.  “Look!  There’s Marc,” Jamie said, pointing, “but I don’t see Lucas.”

            Adam grinned.  “Our friend Lucas is scarcely the punctual type.  He’ll probably come skidding in at the last minute.”

            “Probably,” Jamie admitted.  He waved at Marcus, who was signaling that there were seats available beside him.  They crossed the room, and Jamie took the seat next to Marcus.

            “Hi, Marc,” Adam said, leaning around Jamie to greet their friend.  “Looking forward to the program?”

            “I can’t even imagine what it’ll be like,” Marcus admitted, “but I’m eager to find out.”

            “As are we,” Jamie assured him.

            They hadn’t long to wait.  Promptly at eight o’clock (with still no sign of Lucas) the program began with a debate between two other freshmen, comparing the literary genius of William Cowper with that of William Wordsworth.

            Adam smiled.  He enjoyed the works of both authors, but Cowper recalled pleasant memories of the days when he and Ross Marquette had first gotten acquainted while cutting timber for the new schoolhouse.  He’d quoted a bit of Cowper to the other boy that first day and later had loaned him a book of Cowper’s poems.  They’d discussed them on other occasions and in letters to and from Sacramento.  I haven’t written Ross a word since I got here, Adam chided himself, or Billy, either.  I need to work that in sometime tomorrow, if I can, now that I know the mail will go through.

            Polite applause interrupted Adam’s train of thought, and he realized with a start that the debate had ended.

            “Well done, well done,” said the president of the society.  “It’s never easy to go first in any new undertaking, and I commend both of you for taking on the challenge and fulfilling it commendably.  Now, there will be critique from the members at our next meeting, but I’m sure the response will be favorable.  Next, our oration of the evening will be presented by Mr. Baker.”

            Baker made his way to the front, swallowed hard and announced his topic, The Importance of Geography to the Development of Nations.  Adam listened intently this time and joined in the applause with sincerity.  Baker had, in his opinion, done a fine job of proving his points.

            The president again faced the group.  “This, as I understand procedure, is when we would normally critique the debate and oration of the previous week, but as this is our first meeting, I suppose we must logically forego that pleasure—or pain—tonight.”  After the laughter that met these words died down, he continued, “We will, instead, proceed to the announcement of next week’s appointments.”

            Adam barely paid attention as the topic of debate and the two men taking opposing sides were announced, but he abruptly sat upright as he heard his own name mentioned next.  “We appoint Mr. Adam Cartwright to give our next oration,” the president announced.  “Since Mr. Cartwright comes from a new territory, unknown to the majority of us, we ask him to give us a thorough description of Nevada, tracing its development from early settlement to the present.”

            As had the newly assigned debaters before him, Adam rose to his feet and said, “I am pleased to accept, sir, and thank you for the honor.”

            “It really is an honor, Adam,” Jamie enthused as they walked back to their lodging house.  “To be selected so early in the year, when there are so many better known to the majority . . . why, I never expected it.”

            “Nor did I,” Adam replied.  “I suspect the novelty of someone from the far West influenced the decision, that and the allure of a mountain of silver.  They’re probably hoping to hear stories of wild shooting sprees and lavish riches.”

            “Both of which you can supply,” Jamie pointed out.

            “I suppose,” Adam agreed with a shrug, “but I don’t want to leave our new friends with the impression that that’s all there is to Nevada.  We have more solid citizens than ruffians and more men of moderate means than millionaires.”

            “And you’re just the man to show them the real Nevada,” Jamie declared.  “I can’t wait to hear you next week!”

 

* * * * *

 

            Late that night, after Jamie was soundly asleep, Adam slipped out of bed and walked across the room to the open window.  As he perched on the windowsill, the air was chilly on his bare legs, but the crispness kept him alert and helped him think.  Though Jamie seemed to have complete confidence in him, Adam himself wondered how he’d fare next Saturday night.  He’d given little talks in his Sacramento classes, of course, but his classmates there had been no better educated than he.  Their acceptance had been easy to earn.  Here he’d be speaking before men who’d been trained in classical rhetoric in the great preparatory schools of the East—and they’d be offering critiques on his work, too!  He’d never experienced that before, and he definitely wanted to make a good first impression.  Survive the first assignment, and he would, of necessity, find the next less daunting.  Fail it and—no!  He wouldn’t let himself think of failure.  When a fellow did that, he charted a path all too easy to follow.

            What would he speak about?  Should he give them the wild and woolly antics sure to hold their attention—the time he and Billy Thomas had trailed Sam Brown on his last shooting spree, for instance—or should he hold up to their eyes a truer picture of home?  Was there a way to blend the two?  To ease the tension in his neck, Adam rolled his head back on his shoulders.  Why, oh why, had he ever thought that he’d drawn a simple topic for his first oration?  He had a feeling he’d be spending every night this week on this windowsill, pondering what to say.

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

Baseball, in the form we know, developed around 1840 and became a national craze after the Civil War.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Anxiety and Relief

 

 

            Adam was leaning against what he and his college comrades had come to call the Elm of Assembly on Monday morning when Lucas, who had been talking to another of his many friends, ran over to him.  As he dropped his books, a few leaves, just turning amber, fluttered to the ground.  “Where’s the preacher boy and Marc?” he asked casually.  “You’ll never convince me one of them is being kept after class.”

            “Not a chance,” Adam chuckled, “but they won’t be meeting us here, either.  They’re off to the library—and I think it’s going to be a daily arrangement.”

            Lucas gave a mock shiver.  “Ghastly.  They’ll probably stand first and second in the class, those two.”

            Adam arched an eyebrow.  “Really?  Thanks for your high opinion of me, Master Cameron!”

            Lucas laughed.  “Ambitious, are you?  Well, you’ve the wit for it, I grant you that—more than Marcus, I’ll wager—so it’ll be you and Jamie vying for top honors, then.”

            “Nothing would make me happier,” Adam said, feeling he’d even be content with second place, so long as it was Jamie ahead of him.  “As for you, sir, a bit more time with the books would not be out of place.”  He gave Lucas’s shoulder a rough shake, for his friend had given another deplorable recitation in the Latin class they’d just completed.

            Lucas shrugged nonchalantly.  “I’ll get by; I always do.”  He bent to pick up his books.  “I’m headed over to the gymnasium.  Care to join me?”

            Adam’s eyes lighted with interest.  “Well, I had planned to write a friend back home . . . but I guess that could wait.  I would like to see what the gymnasium is like.”

            “Oh, it’s grand, Adam!” Lucas enthused.  “Just the thing to clear your head of all those vile Romans.”

            “I’d rather they stayed in there, thank you,” Adam laughed, “after working so hard to stuff them in!  I do, however, think a little physical activity can stimulate clear thinking, and that’s all to the good when tackling Euclid.”

            “That’s the spirit!” Lucas cried.  “Still say you should go out for baseball, but if you just won’t, you should, at least, dust off the cobwebs at the gym.”

            Adam bent to pick up his own text.  “I agree.  Show me around?”

            “My pleasure!”

            They had to leave the college yard proper to get to the gymnasium, but it was located just beyond those bounds, on Library Street, near the corner of High Street.  The plain brick building was one hundred feet long and only half that wide, but by comparison with other college buildings, this one looked new.  “Just opened last year,” Lucas replied when Adam stated that observation, “and the equipment inside is up-to-date, too.”

            They entered the large main room, already occupied by a good number of students, many of them recognizable to Adam as members of his own class.  Some were swinging Indian clubs to strengthen their arms, while others jumped from springboards onto a wooden horse, where they performed intricate maneuvers.  Still others climbed ropes or moved hand-over-hand across horizontal ladders, while a couple were vaulting over bars around the periphery of the room.  One was walking on his hands down a set of parallel bars as agilely as if he’d been strolling down the street.

            “Amazing,” Adam murmured enviously.

            Lucas pointed up to a gallery at the southern end.  “Dressing rooms up there, if you wish to change,” he said.

            “I didn’t come prepared,” Adam pointed out.

            “No, but just so you’ll know.”

            Adam nodded.  “So, what sort of exercise do you fancy today?”

            Lucas grinned.  “You’ve got to see downstairs first, and then we’ll decide.”

            “All right,” Adam said agreeably.

            As they went down into the basement, Lucas said, “There’s about a dozen bathing rooms down here, but you have to pay to use those.” Reaching the foot of the stairs, he swept an arm across the room.  “That’s what I wanted you to see, though.”

            Only two of the six lanes set up for bowling were in use.  Adam applauded as fellow freshman James Brand rolled a ball down one, knocking over seven pins.  Brand turned and grinned in acknowledgement as Henry Butler took his turn with the ball.

            “My favorite activity,” Lucas said.  “I always prefer an actual game to just plain exercising.”

            Adam hooted.  “Proving you’re as lazy an athlete as you are a student!”

            Lucas gave him a playful shove.  “All work and no play make Adam a dull boy,” he said, echoing a charge he had made more than once.

            “And all play and no work make Luke one with a very short career at Yale,” Adam teased, returning the shove.

            “Truce,” Lucas declared, throwing up his hands.  “Care for a game?”

            “I’ve never played,” Adam admitted.  “You’d have to teach me.”

            “Ah!  A chance to pay you back for your instruction in geometry last week!” Lucas exulted.  “And I assure you, I shall be every bit as hard a taskmaster as you were.”

            “Fair enough,” Adam agreed.  “Show me how it’s done.”

 

* * * * *

 

 

            Adam couldn’t believe how fast the week had gone.  Here at Yale every day was packed with studies, society meetings and extracurricular activities.  He hadn’t indulged in any of those this week, however, with the single exception of a trip to the gymnasium with Lucas between first and second recitation each day.  He’d come to relish that break from academic pursuits, when he could send a ball barreling down a bowling lane, swing an Indian club or climb a rope and feel his muscles work.  He always felt invigorated and sharper in his wits afterwards.

            He’d skipped Wednesday’s meeting of the Brothers in Unity.  Attendance there was voluntary, so it was an easy choice to omit when he needed extra time.  He had definitely needed extra time this week, to prepare his oration on the development of Nevada.  He’d urged Jamie to attend, though, insisting that he needed to be alone in their room so that he could hammer out some idea of what he wanted to say.  The solitude had helped, too.  An approach had begun to solidify during those few hours to himself, and he now knew what he’d be saying at tonight’s Sigma Ep meeting . . . if only he could silence the cacophonous beating of butterfly wings in his stomach, to borrow a description from his best friend.

            Sprawled on their shared bed, Jamie glanced up from the latest copy of the New York Times, slipped to him at dinner by one of the senior Vultures, and noticed Adam’s distant stare out the window.  “Do you want me to clear out, so you can rehearse your oration again?” he offered.  “Or would you like to speak it to me, for practice?”

            “No to both,” Adam laughed.  “I’m afraid I’ll lose all freshness in my presentation if I go over it another time!  Just give me something else to think about.  Anything of interest in the paper?”

            Jamie winced ruefully.  “I can’t seem to tear my eyes off the map of Missouri on the front page.”

            Adam sobered immediately.  “Does it show what territory the rebels still hold?”

            “The accompanying article gives the boundaries.”  Jamie rolled to a sitting position, making room for Adam beside him, and turned worried eyes to his friend as he sat down.  “Half the state, Adam, and the unrest is hindering repairs on the burned bridges, too.”  He smiled bravely.  “At least, the northern half is still Union-held, and this other article reports that a Mr. Olmstead made it through to Quincy from St. Joe and on to Chicago.  That’s the way Father would be coming.”

            “But . . . ?”  Adam drew out the word.

            “Hmm?”

            “You seem troubled,” Adam said plainly.

            Jamie nodded.  “It also says that the rebels confiscated everything of value in St. Joe and that Mr. Olmstead was virtually destitute when he reached Chicago.”

            Adam sighed and placed an arm about his friend’s shoulders.  “What soldiers value and what your father values aren’t necessarily the same things, of course, but even if he gets here with only the shirt on his back . . . well, his safety is what matters.”

            “Yes, of course,” Jamie quickly agreed.  Then his stalwart façade crumpled.  “Oh, Adam, we should have heard something by now.”

            “I would have thought so,” Adam admitted.  “I can certainly understand your concern.  I know I’d be frantic if it were Pa.”

            “Or Hoss or Little Joe,” Jamie added.

            Adam stroked his smooth chin.  “Hoss, yes, but if the rebels capture Little Joe . . . well, heaven help the rebels!”

            Despite his concern Jamie couldn’t help laughing.  “You’re incorrigible.”

            “No, he is,” Adam chuckled.

            Jamie gave his friend a quick, one-armed embrace.  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Adam, to bolster my spirits in anxious times like these.”

            Adam stood and motioned toward their desks.  “Why don’t we have a pull at The Odyssey?” he suggested.  “A good subject to keep both our minds off our worries.”

            Jamie smiled as he, too, moved to his desk.  “Redeem the time, as the Scripture advises?” he asked.  “Yes, I’m sure Old Had would approve—and Father, too.”  Before opening his book, though, he unwrapped the single piece of divinity that Adam had presented to him that morning.  “Sure you won’t share this?” he asked.

            “It’s too small a gift as it is,” Adam snorted.  “I wish I could have given you a better birthday gift, Jamie, but you know how it is.”

            “You’re likely to get even less on yours,” Jamie predicted as he took a small bite, letting it slowly melt in his mouth.  “It’s the thought that counts, after all.”

            “In that case you hold in your hand—er, mouth—a fortune beyond that of the greatest silver baron on the Comstock Lode,” Adam chuckled.

 

* * * * *

 

            “Would you help me with this cravat?” Adam asked later that evening.  “I’m all thumbs.”

            Jamie walked across the room and began to expertly loop the maroon silk around his friend’s neck.  “I don’t know why you’re so nervous,” he said.  “I haven’t the slightest doubt that you’ll receive a standing ovation for your august oration.”

            Adam groaned.  “This is scarcely the time for bad poetry, my dear chum.”

            Jamie grinned.  “It got your mind off the nerves, didn’t it?”

            Adam uttered a short, sharp laugh.  “For about three seconds, yes.”

            “Then I guess I’ll have to come up with more bad poetry,” Jamie announced.  “Let’s see . . . thirty minutes until the meeting starts . . . at three seconds per poem . . . I’ll need to compose about—”

            Adam put up a restraining hand.  “Spare me any obtuse algebraic equations . . . please.”

            Three knocks sounded on the door.  “I’ll get it,” a laughing Jamie offered.  He walked to the door and opened it.

            Adam was checking his cravat in the mirror when he heard his roommate cry out.  Concerned lest they were being paid another call by the pesky sophomores—tonight of all nights!—he spun around quickly, and his face instantly brightened.  “Mr. Edwards!  You made it through!”

            “We’ve been so concerned, Father,” Jamie murmured as he fell into his father’s embrace.

            “There, there, boy, I know,” Josiah said, stroking his son’s smooth, honey-hued hair.  “A risky business, traveling through Missouri these days, but I made it through at the best possible time.  Happy birthday, son!”

            “The happiest ever,” Jamie murmured, face buried in his father’s vest.  Then he asked,       “Did you get our letters, Father?”

            “I received yours,” Josiah said, “and found it most persuasive.”  He looked questioningly at Adam.

            “Mine went to Elwood, just in case you were forced that way,” Adam explained.  “I always knew there was a chance—quite a strong one, I thought—that you’d never see it.”

            “Ah . . . no,” Josiah admitted, “but I assume it was of much the same tenor as Jamie’s.”  As Adam nodded, he took an appraising look at his former student.  “My, aren’t you spruced up for a Saturday evening!  Some fair maiden expecting you, Adam?”

            Adam laughed.  “Don’t I wish!  I haven’t had opportunity to meet a single one since I’ve been back East.”

            “Adam’s giving an oration for our freshman society tonight, Father,” Jamie explained.

            “I wish I weren’t obligated to that, sir,” Adam said earnestly.  “I would rather stay here with you and Jamie and hear all your news.”

            “What’s this?” Josiah asked.  “Stay here with Jamie?  Son, surely you intended to be there to hear your friend speak.”

            “I did, of course,” Jamie said, “but—oh, Father, I have a hundred questions!”

            Josiah chuckled.  “And I have a hundred more for you and Adam, but they’ll keep.  Your friend needs your support, son, and I wouldn’t dream of changing your plans.”

            “Perhaps you could come, too,” Adam suggested.

            Jamie looked doubtful.  “I think it’s members only, Adam.”

            “Much as I’d like to hear Adam speak,” Josiah said quickly, “I’m rather tired from the trip.  I fear I might punctuate his fine oratory with yawns and snores!”

            “I know just what you mean,” Adam said with a reminiscent grin.  “Have you arranged lodgings?”

            Josiah shook his head.  “Not exactly.  I came straight here, but I did prevail upon your Mrs. Wiggins—for a mere pittance—to let me stay the night here with you . . . if you don’t object.”

            “We’d be delighted,” Adam assured him.  “You take the bed.”

            Josiah chuckled again.  “I may for a while, but Mrs. Wiggins is rounding me up a cot.  How long do you boys think you’ll be?”

            “Two or three hours,” Jamie moaned.  “We won’t get to talk at all tonight, Father.”

            Josiah again pulled the boy into his arms.  “It doesn’t matter, son.  We have tomorrow—a whole host of tomorrows.”

            Too overcome with emotion to speak, Jamie pressed his cheek against his father’s vest again, while Adam discreetly averted his eyes.

 

* * * * *

 

            “Thanks for being here with me,” Adam said to Jamie as the meeting of Sigma Ep began.  “I know what a sacrifice it is for you, but it does help to have one friendly face in the audience.

            “Two,” Marcus, who was seated next to Jamie, declared.

            “Three, at least,” Lucas added decidedly, “and once you start speaking, it’ll be a roomful, Adam.”

            Adam smiled his appreciation for the encouragement of his friends.  “All of you will have to take notes on the debate for me.  I doubt a word of it will sink in, when I know I’m next up.”

            “That’s a job for this fellow,” Lucas said, reaching around Adam to clap Jamie on the back.  “Best note taker in the class.  Make a copy for me, too, preacher boy, ‘cause you know how much of any speech-making sinks in with me.”

            “Take your own notes,” Jamie chuckled.  “Goodness knows, you need the practice.”

            Lucas clucked his tongue.  “I do believe our star speaker has been telling tales out of school.”

            “Shh,” Adam warned.  “The debate’s beginning now.”

            Adam sincerely tried to pay attention to the debate, but found it difficult when lines from his own oration kept winding through his head.  To his chagrin, by the time the two opposing speakers sat down, he’d completely lost track of what their topic had been.  So long as I don’t lose track of my own! he thought as he made his way to the front when his name was announced.

            He planted his feet comfortably apart and took a deep breath before beginning, a device for calming nerves that he had developed at school in Sacramento.  “Last week Mr. Baker, in his excellent oration on the subject of the Importance of Geography to the Development of Nations, admirably laid the groundwork for what I will share with you this evening.  If ever the development of a land was influenced by geography, that land would be Nevada.  Geography—and the human choices dictated by geography—tell the story of its settlement.”

            Feeling his voice start to quaver, he paused and glanced toward the row where his friends were sitting.  Jamie’s bright smile of support encouraged him, and his voice grew stronger as he continued.  “Geography first led to the territory being bypassed as unworthy of settlement.  As one enters Nevada, he encounters a succession of mountain ranges, running north and south.  Between them lie valleys, but the majority of the terrain is so dry as to discourage agriculture.  Indeed, it played no part in the culture of the Paiute and Washo Indians, who preceded the white man in settling there.  They became hunters and gatherers of Nature’s resources: rabbit, antelope, fish from the lakes near which they lived, marsh bird eggs, pine nuts, grass seeds and berries, tule shoots for those with a sweet tooth, a condition not unique to freshmen at Yale.”

            The chuckles from the audience heartened him still more.  Adam warmed to his subject as he began to add his personal experience to the lecture.  “My family, like most others, saw Nevada, then known as western Utah, merely as barren land to be crossed in order to reach the golden promise of California.  Circumstances having delayed our journey, however, we faced the geographical barrier of the Sierra Nevada Mountains late enough in the year for snow to present a danger.  For that reason—and since we had adequate supplies—we, along with one other family, chose not to cross the mountains, but to winter on their eastern side.”

            Pleasant memories of that winter spent with the Thomases spurred him on.  “We constructed a shared cabin along the Carson River, geography again influencing our choice of location.  Our intention was to remain until spring and then continue on to California, but those months in what would become Nevada made us realize that everything we needed for the unalienable rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness could be found right where we were.  The land was fertile, needing only the river’s water to grow garden produce in abundance.  This we would sell to the emigrant trains passing through to California and to the few miners who searched for gold in the nearby hills.  In time, other emigrants made the same choice, and they, too, were influenced by geography as they built their homes along the few waterways that traverse the territory.

            “My own family eventually relocated, but again we were influenced by geography, as well as by human emotion.  We fell in love with the immense lake the Indians call Tahoe and the white men Lake Bigler.” His heart filled with warm memories of Inger, as if even now she were surrounding him with her love.  “It reminded us of the way my Swedish stepmother, who had died along the journey, had described her homeland, so although others discouraged us from moving to so isolated an area, we kept faith with her and built a new home in the foothills near the lake.”

            Now feeling bold enough to make eye contact with the unfamiliar faces in the audience, Adam continued.  “In time, others settled nearer to us, along Franktown Creek and Washoe Lake.  However, permanent settlers remained few until another science—geology—became the next influence on the development of Nevada.  All of you have heard of the discovery of the great Comstock Lode, I imagine, but I was there.  I saw what a profound influence—both for good and for ill—the discovery of silver had.  Overnight, a slow-moving, simple agrarian society exploded into a rough-and-tumble boomtown community.

            “The new residents of the future Nevada did not share the understanding of the land that the earlier settlers, both white and Indian, had possessed,” he declared earnestly.  “Perhaps that was because geology, rather than geography, had influenced their decision; perhaps it was because they never intended to stay and build a society, but merely to reap a rich harvest from the bowels of the earth and then abandon it to the elements they never came to respect.”  His pace quickened and his voice grew stronger still as he used its intensity to convey the seriousness of what he was saying.  “Still, even temporary residents must eat, so they killed the antelope; even temporary residents must keep warm, so they cut down the piñon trees, destroying with them a staple of the Indians’ diet.  The Indians, too, still needed to eat, to keep warm, and because many now competed for what nature and geography only meant to sustain a few, tragedy loomed on the horizon.”

            Adam paused for dramatic emphasis and was pleased to see many of his fellow students leaning forward, hanging on his every word.  “There had been isolated incidents of conflict before, but when two young Paiute girls were taken captive by a set of white men, the Indians not only rescued them and burned that station, but retaliated against settlers who had nothing to do with the misconduct.  In retaliation for that retaliation, men from the new Virginia City led an assault against a well coordinated Paiute defense and were slaughtered.  I was at school in California at that time, but concerned for my family, I returned and participated in the next battle.  This time the United States Army led the assault, with predictable results.  The Indians were defeated and a wary peace restored, though at tremendous cost.”

            Adopting a more conversational tone, Adam smiled at his listeners.  “By comparison with the states most of you come from, Nevada is an infant, just beginning to take her first tottering steps toward her place in this Union.  She has her rowdy, juvenile element, men such as the Virginia City chiefs, who want their ‘man for breakfast,’ but she also boasts such stalwart men as William Stewart, once a student at this very institution, who work to bring civilization to a populace eager to embrace it.  My father, among many others in Nevada, is such a man, and it is my earnest hope that what I gain here at Yale will enable me to further his dream, which is also my own: to help build a society in Nevada of which the United States may be justly proud.”

            Thunderous applause broke out, so loud that Adam’s attempt to again thank the society for the honor of addressing them was drowned out.  With a bow to the president of Sigma Ep, he walked back to his seat and collapsed into it.  “Was it all right?” he whispered to Jamie.

            “All right?” crowed Lucas, who had overheard the question.  “Listen to that applause, you idiot!”

            “It was wonderful, Adam,” Jamie whispered, for the president was trying to quiet the room, so the meeting could proceed.  “If only Father could have heard it!”

            Adam nodded.  He, too, would have relished having his first teacher witness this night’s triumph, but he couldn’t help wishing even more that his own father could have been there.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam and Jamie entered their room at Mrs. Wiggins’ as quietly as possible, intending to undress in the dark and slip into bed without disturbing Josiah.  Despite their best efforts, however, he roused with their first step into the room and greeted them.  “I’m sorry we woke you, sir,” Adam said, turning the low-burning lamp slightly higher.

            There was a definite tsk-tsk in Josiah’s tone when he said, “Adam, Adam.  You should know that a father never fully rests until his son is safely home.”

            Jamie came to perch at his father’s side on the bed he normally shared with Adam.  “Is your father as big a mother hen as mine, Adam?” he asked with humorous acceptance and obvious appreciation of the “mothering.”

            Keeping his voice low in respect of other roomers at this late hour, Adam chuckled, settling himself on the cot that Mrs. Wiggins had provided.  “Jamie, I do believe we’ve got ourselves a matched pair.”

            Josiah wagged a playful finger at Adam.  “Yes, I’m sure Ben and I are in harness together when it comes to keeping a couple of young colts like you two in line.  Now, tell me all about the oration, and then this mother hen prescribes bedtime for all, with more conversation on the morrow.”

            “Adam was wonderful, Father!” Jamie declared.  “If only you could have heard him—and the applause!”

            “You may read my oration tomorrow, if you like, sir,” Adam offered, flushing under the proud gaze of his former teacher.  “There is no one whose opinion I would value more.”

            “I’ll be pleased to read it,” Josiah said.  “Now . . . to bed, one and all.”

            “Oh, but, Father, we haven’t heard a word about your journey and how you managed to avoid the rebels and—”

            Josiah silenced his son’s protest with a squeeze about the shoulders.  “Tomorrow, my boy, tomorrow.  It’s a lengthy story.”  He started to rise from the bed.

            “Oh, no, sir,” Adam protested at once.  “You sleep with Jamie tonight; I’ll take the cot.”

            Josiah scratched his head.  “Your Mrs. Wiggins must be a paragon of silence.  I never heard her come in to set up that cot.”

            Adam grinned.  “Or, more likely, you were so exhausted that nothing short of a black powder explosion would have stirred you.”

            “Except a son’s lightest step into the room,” Jamie teased.  “Don’t forget that.”

            Laughing, Adam nodded.  “Oh, yes, a true mother hen never gets too tired to hear that.”

            Josiah shook his head and admitted himself bested.  “I see that college has at least sharpened your wit, if nothing else.”

            “Oh, so much else, Father!” Jamie protested intensely, looking as if he were about to launch into a full discourse on the topic.

            His father ruffled the young man’s honey-wheat hair.  “Tomorrow, Jamie, tomorrow!  So help me, if you don’t stop chattering and Adam doesn’t relinquish that cot immediately, I’m likely to fall over and sleep the clock around.”

            “Take the bed,” Adam insisted.

            “That cot can’t possibly be as comfortable as this,” Josiah argued.

            “No,” Adam agreed, “but I’m more convinced than ever that you have greater need of a comfortable bed tonight than I, and I do speak from experience, as you well know.”

            Josiah’s blue eyes twinkled in recognition of their mutual travel miseries and gratefully accepted the offer.  After the lamp was lowered, only a few whispers fluttered through the darkness and soon no sound at all except an occasional soft snore.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam woke early the next morning, for even to his young bones the thin mattress of the cot afforded little better rest than a bedroll on the ground.  All the more reason to have insisted that Josiah take the more comfortable bed, he concluded as he sat up, yawning and stretching.

            “Morning, Adam,” Jamie whispered.

            “Good morning,” Adam whispered back.  “Looks like we’re both up early.”

            “Hard to sleep when I’m so excited,” Jamie said, eyes bright with joy.  “Think there’s any chance I can slide out of this bed without waking Father?”

            “No,” came the good-natured reply from beyond Jamie in the bed.  Josiah raised himself up on one elbow and grinned at the apologetic faces that met his gaze.  “I’m excited, too,” he offered in conciliatory explanation.

            Jamie laughed as he sat up in bed, hugging his knees.  “Just as well.  We have so much to talk about that an early start is just what’s needed.”

            Josiah tousled his son’s hair.  “A one-track mind, that’s what this one has.  I’m in favor of breakfast first.  Do you take that here?”

            Adam answered.  “No, this is just a rooming house, no board included.  We take our meals with the Vultures.”  He laughed at the quizzical cock of Josiah’s head.  “That’s our eating club.  If we’re going to eat together, we’ll need to find some restaurant that’s open on the Sabbath.”

            Josiah shook his head.  “No, I think it would be best if you and Jamie maintained your usual routine.  I’ll find something . . . somewhere.”

            Jamie reached out to stroke his father’s auburn goatee.  “Are you terribly short of funds, Father?” he asked, concern clouding his hazel eyes.

            “Terribly,” Josiah chuckled, “but don’t worry, my boy.  God’s kept His hand on me so far; I doubt He’ll let me starve.  Don’t you boys have other obligations today, as well?”

            “Just chapel,” Adam said.  “Twice, though.”

            “But you can attend with us,” Jamie urged.

            Josiah rubbed his son’s neck.  “I will, son; I will.”

 

* * * * *

 

            “I feel terrible,” Jamie sighed as they walked along George Street, “going off cheerily to breakfast, while Father does without.”

            “You’re not that cheery,” Adam scoffed, but then he sobered.  “I know.  I feel the same, but what could we do?  Insist on a restaurant, instead of eating food we’re already obliged to pay for, whether we eat it or not?  That isn’t even good common sense, especially for people on a budget as tight as ours.”

            Jamie nodded glumly.  “I agree, but I fear Father’s budget is tighter than ours, Adam.  You saw that single carpetbag—is that all he managed to get out of St. Joseph?  And you know the Confederates robbed the bank at Lexington.  Would they treat St. Joe more kindly?”

            “Not from what I saw,” Adam grunted, remembering the broken windows of store fronts when he’d passed through.  “Did your father keep his money in the bank or would he have had sense to take it out as he saw danger approaching?”

            “Oh, I hope so,” Jamie murmured.  “I don’t see how I could remain here at Yale if Father were . . . destitute.”

            “Oh, ye of little faith,” Adam chided in an attempt to lighten his friend’s mood.  “Your father has faith in God’s provision; where’s yours?”

            Jamie laughed suddenly.  “Now who’s the pastor?”

            Adam gave a mock shudder.  “Not I—never!  But you must start to fulfill your own obligations or I fear the role shall be thrust upon me.”

            “Oh, well, if that’s the way to recruit more ministers of the gospel . . .”  Ducking away from Adam’s insinuated cuff of his head, Jamie took off at a run.  With a grin, Adam gave chase.

 

* * * * *

 

            “Father!” Jamie called when he spotted the man standing before the State House on the Green, where they had agreed to meet.  With Adam at his heels, he loped across the lawn and beamed as he held out a napkin-wrapped offering.  “There were biscuits left after we’d eaten our fill,” he declared.  “The others said I was welcome to take them.”

            Josiah laughed as he accepted them.  “They might make us a snack later on, my boy, but I, too, have eaten my fill this morning.”

            “You found a restaurant open?” Adam asked.

            “I didn’t look,” Josiah responded with a chuckle.  “When I asked Mrs. Wiggins to recommend one, she offered me breakfast at her table, free of charge.  She said that if ever there were a time to show Christian charity, it must surely be on the Sabbath.”  With a mischievous grin, he added, “I think her charity was somewhat influenced by the opportunity to hear a first-hand report from the battle zone.”

            “The Vultures were more open about their curiosity,” Adam put in.  “They’ve invited you to dine with us in return for sharing your personal acquaintance with the situations filling the newspapers.”

            “Wonderful!” Josiah declared.  “I’ll relish seeing the type of fare my boy is enjoying.”  He clapped his son on the shoulder.  “Didn’t I tell you God would provide?”

            Smiling happily, Jamie nodded.  “A lesson I seem to be repeating often of late.”

            “Well, if you just wouldn’t fizzle on your recitations . . .” Adam teased, employing college idiom for a partial failure.  They all laughed, knowing that Jamie had never “fizzled” a recitation in his entire life.

            “Do we have time before chapel for you to show me around campus?” Josiah requested.

            “Definitely,” Adam replied.  “Chapel isn’t until 10:30.”

            Linking arms, with Josiah in the middle, the three marched across College St. toward the Yale campus.

 

* * * * *

 

            “Normally we abstain from politics at the table,” Alexander White stated as soon as the tureen of split-pea soup had made its way around the Vultures’ table, “but it is a rare occasion for us to welcome a guest who can give us first-hand information about the state of things in the West.”

            “Why, we had Cartwright here all along,” Lucas jibed.  “You can’t get a report from much further west than he hails!”

            “Honestly, Cameron,” James Goodman scolded.  “Have you no manners whatsoever?”

            “What do you expect?  He is a freshman, after all,” Edgar Warington observed loftily.

            “That’s quite enough, Warington,” White said sternly.  “Do you wish our guest to feel that his son’s college companions are barbarians incapable of courteous conversation?”  He turned toward Josiah, who was seated between Jamie and Adam.  “I apologize, sir.”

            “No apology necessary,” Josiah assured the young steward.  “I am, after all, a guest in your home, so to speak, so I certainly do not wish you to stand on form.  Please, all of you, be yourselves, and simply treat me as you would your own fathers.”

            Warington’s cheeks flushed, as he apparently considered how his own father might respond to his deportment.  “We look forward to your report on the situation in Missouri, sir,” he said in an awkward attempt to adjust his attitude.

            “Rather than a report,” Josiah offered, “may I suggest that you all simply ask me whatever questions you may have?  Perhaps you would like to start, young man.”

            The crimson cast of Warington’s countenance deepened, with pleasure this time, as he was once again the focus of all eyes in the room.  “Thank you, sir.  I—uh—well, not meaning to be impertinent, but why is Missouri still in the Union?  It is a slave state, after all.”

            “No honest question is ever impertinent,” Josiah, ever the teacher, assured him, “and your question—Mr. Warington, is it?—is one that has been much debated in our state.  In the end, Missouri chose to remain in the Union precisely because she wished to keep her slaves.”

            “I don’t follow that, sir,” Goodman, seated across the table from the Missouri teacher, said.

            Josiah smiled at him.  “Consider the geography of the region, young man.  Missouri is surrounded on three sides by Union states.  The members of the convention called to consider secession eventually decided that if they joined the Confederacy, their slaves would be more likely to escape to one of those states, and recovering them from a ‘foreign’ country would prove impossible.”

            “Purely economic motives, then,” Robert Raines observed from the foot of the table.

            “Frankly, yes,” Josiah agreed, “although there are many, even in Missouri, who decry the institution of slavery.”

            “And your personal feelings, sir?” Milton Bradford asked, adding hesitantly, “if it isn’t impertinent to ask.”

            “See here now, Vultures,” White remonstrated.  “We’re not allowing our guest to enjoy this fine soup.”

            “Oh, I’m managing a spoonful now and then,” Josiah chuckled.  In demonstration, he dipped into the hearty green broth and smiled his appreciation to Mrs. Swanson, who was hovering in the doorway to the kitchen, both to listen and to determine when the main course should be served.  “My own feelings about slavery, sir?  I abhor it!”

            “A difficult position in a slave state, is it not, sir?” White asked soberly.  “Have you suffered any reprisals?”

            “Oh, some,” Josiah said with a casual shrug of his shoulder.  After taking another mouthful of soup, he said, “My feelings were known by many, but I avoided public statements until after the schools were shut down in May.  As teacher to all the town’s students—Northern and Southern sympathizers alike—I considered their welfare my first duty, and contributing to the turmoil of divided loyalties was not, I felt, in their best interest.”

            “Commendable, I suppose, given your position,” sniffed George Miller, “but to stand by while others suffer the indignity of bondage—”

            “Father didn’t just ‘stand by,’” Jamie declared with more vehemence than any of the Vultures had ever seen the mild-mannered freshman exhibit before.  “He’s done more to combat slavery than anyone here!”

            Josiah patted his son’s arm.  “Jamie, Jamie,” he said.  “No need to speak of that, no need at all.”

            “There is!” his son insisted.

            “I’d like to know,” Adam put in.

            “And I,” added Marcus shyly, and the words were echoed around the table.

            Josiah shrugged.  “Not much to tell, really.  On two occasions the opportunity to help slaves trying to escape into Kansas fell into my lap.  I did no more than provide a place to hide until safe transport could be provided.”

            “Scarcely a small thing, sir, considering the possible consequences had your assistance become known,” Raines stated, admiration in his eyes.

            Uncomfortable with the hero worship so evident around the table, Josiah shrugged again.  “There was little chance of its becoming known.”  He nodded at Miller.  “That, young man, is the benefit of keeping one’s private opinions private; it keeps one’s options open.”

            “Yes . . . I see,” the subdued sophomore responded.

            “There’s also a time and place for voicing them,” Josiah added.  “Wisdom lies in knowing which is which.”  He chuckled.  “I don’t claim to always exhibit that wisdom, but I try—and I try to learn from my mistakes.”

            “All any man can do,” Adam put in.

            Josiah cupped the young man’s neck affectionately.

            “You must have been wildly pleased when Frémont issued his emancipation proclamation,” Lucas declared.

            Josiah shook his head.  “Not really.”  He took another quick dip into his soup bowl.

            “But if you are so opposed to slavery . . .”

            “Frémont overstepped his authority, in my opinion,” Josiah stated, “and helped destabilize an already unstable situation.  When, where and how to free the slaves are decisions best left to the President and Congress, not a single general.”

            “I’m interested in the current situation,” Milton Bradford declared.  “The papers are full of stories of the rebel depredations—burning bridges, looting, etc.  Is it as severe as we’ve heard?”

            Josiah glanced to his left.  “Adam hasn’t told you?  He was almost prevented from reaching Yale by those circumstances.”

            “Never said a word,” Bradford replied with a chiding look at Adam.

            “You never asked,” Adam returned with a grin.

            “See?  I told you!” Lucas declared.  “We already had a resident expert on the western front.”

            Adam laughed.  “Scarcely that.  I can tell you that the town looked ravaged when I passed through.  Did things get worse later, Mr. Edwards?  When we heard that the Confederate Army had fully occupied St. Joe, Jamie and I were both deeply concerned.”

            Josiah nodded soberly as he pushed aside his empty soup bowl.  “Things got worse.  But you mustn’t lay all the blame at the Confederates’ doorstep, gentlemen.  Our own Union soldiers were no better when they retook St. Joseph.  They called it foraging, but it was the same looting we’d seen far too much of already.”

            “I can’t believe that of Union men!” remonstrated the fiercely patriotic Bradford.

            “There was a report in yesterday’s paper,” Raines confirmed, “accusing Illinois troops of plundering St. Joseph and the surrounding area to a shameful extent.”

            “There are generally both honorable and dishonorable men on either side of any question,” Josiah observed.  “Most of my personal loss came at the hands of Union soldiers, I’m sorry to say, while I owe my safety during the Confederate occupation to an honorable man of the Southern persuasion.  He provided shelter for me and what few possessions I could safely transport to his place without attracting undue attention.”

            “Mr. Whitcomb?” Adam guessed.

            Josiah nodded.

            “I certainly found what you’re saying to be true in the conflict with the Paiutes back in Nevada,” Adam commented.  “Brave men and reckless ones on both sides.”

            “A valid point,” White stated, motioning for Mrs. Swanson to serve the main course.  As she brought forward a platter of roast beef surrounded by quartered potatoes and carrots, he smiled.  “I had no idea our young Mr. Cartwright had been concealing so many interesting experiences.  Another time perhaps he’ll condescend to share them with us, but let’s keep the focus on Missouri today—after we’ve given Mr. Edwards a chance to eat, that is.”

            The young men restrained themselves for a few minutes, but soon the questions began to fly again, many of them centering on whether General Frémont actually would attack the Confederate forces before President Lincoln stripped him of his command.

            Finally, nothing edible remained on the table, and Alexander White, on behalf of all the Vultures, thanked Mr. Edwards for his informative contributions to the conversation.  “Please join us for supper this evening, as a true guest this time,” he urged, adding with a smile, “and we promise not to pepper you with questions, but simply to allow you to enjoy the meal.”

            “Innumerable questions couldn’t impede that!” Josiah assured him.  “The food has been excellent, and I would be pleased to enjoy your company again this evening.”

            “Would you care to join us for a short walk?” Adam asked his friend’s father as they left the building.

            “You needn’t change your regular routine for me,” Josiah said.

            “That is our regular routine,” Adam laughed.  “You asked me to look after Jamie’s health, remember?  Regular exercise is what I have prescribed.”

            “Oh, Father, you didn’t,” Jamie protested.  “I am quite capable of looking after myself.”

            Josiah wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulder.  “Now, now, my boy; we all need looking after from time to time.”  He turned toward Adam.  “I would certainly welcome the opportunity to stretch my legs.”

            “Too many cramped train seats in your recent past?” Adam teasingly inquired.

            “Precisely, my boy, precisely!”

            “We stayed longer at table than usual,” Adam observed, “so I suppose we’ll have to settle for the cemetery again.”

            “I think that’s best,” Jamie agreed, “since we have to be back for chapel at 2:30.”

            They kept a fast pace along the streets, but slowed down once they reached the quiet, shaded pathways of the cemetery.  “A most pleasant place,” Josiah commented.  “Very relaxing.”

            “Perhaps too relaxing,” Adam chuckled.  “We keep planning an excursion to West Rock, but something always seems to interfere to keep us closer to home.”

            “Sorry to be this week’s interference,” Josiah said with a smile that said he wasn’t at all sorry to be exactly where he was.

            Grinning, Adam shook his head.  “No, we wouldn’t go further on a Sunday afternoon, anyway.  Some Saturday, though, we do hope to see the sights.”

            “Perhaps you’ll accompany us this Saturday, Father,” Jamie suggested.

            “Perhaps,” Josiah said, though his tone was noncommittal.  “Best see what the week holds first.”

            “What are your plans, sir?” Adam asked.

            “To move out of your room, first thing tomorrow,” Josiah said.

            “We don’t mind,” Jamie assured him.

            “I mind!” Josiah declared.  “And as kind as your Mrs. Wiggins has been, I dare say she would, too.  Besides, Jamie, I think it’s important for you to enjoy your college experience free from the attentions of a hovering mother hen.”

            “Will you be leaving New Haven then?” Adam asked.

            “Not yet,” Josiah explained.  “I need to find work—any kind of work—and build up my resources for locating elsewhere.”

            Jamie’s lips were trembling as he asked, “Are you destitute, Father?”

            Josiah took his son in his arms.  “You are not to worry,” he said gently.  “Yes, I suffered considerable loss from the looters, but I have some funds, and thanks to Mr. Whitcomb, I was able to save some valued articles, as well—your mother’s picture, for instance.  I brought that with me, as well as Adam’s journals for you.”

            “Oh, Father!” Jamie cried.  Adam, too, was overcome that those scribblings of his were among the few possessions Mr. Edwards had brought out of St. Joseph.

            “The rest will stay in Mr. Whitcomb’s cellar until I tell him where to ship them,” Josiah continued.  “At the moment I can’t say where I’ll be locating.  I have some old friends inquiring about teaching positions for me, but I expect that to take some time.”

            “Perhaps if I—” Jamie started.

            His father squeezed his shoulders before he could finish the thought.  “No, you will not consider leaving school, young man.  I know you; that’s exactly what you were about to suggest, and I won’t have it.  It wouldn’t help in any case.  Those expenses are already paid.”

            “I could probably get the bond back,” Jamie insisted.  “Think what two hundred dollars could mean, Father!”

            Josiah set the boy squarely before him.  “Now, you are not to concern yourself with my welfare—either of you,” he added with a glance toward Adam, who looked almost as anxious as Jamie himself.  “In wartime there are jobs to be had, and I am well able to support myself by my hands, as well as my brains.  My personal needs are few: a bed, bread and something to be read.”

            “I see that Jamie comes by his propensity for bad poetry honestly,” Adam teased, and shared laughter lightened all their hearts as they continued their walk through the cemetery.

 

* * * * *

 

            Between afternoon chapel and the evening meal Adam wrote to his father.  He reported exultantly that Josiah Edwards had arrived safely and would be seeking employment in the East.  He could not refrain from expressing his concern for his former teacher’s financial condition, however:

 

He says he’ll manage, Pa, but jobs may not be as easy to find as he hopes, and Jamie and I are both deeply concerned.  I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for him, and though it would be like tearing my heart out, I would give up my place here to help him.  I owe him that much.  Jamie’s already offered and been turned down, though, so I know I would be, too—even quicker, since I’m not kin.  With luck—or Providence, Jamie would say—by the next time I write, I’ll be able to report that he has found, at least, temporary work, and has prospects of a teaching position.  I’d thought about asking if you could make him a loan, but it would take so long for that help to get here that it would either come too late or be unneeded—hopefully, the latter.

 

            For the boys’ benefit, he added a few paragraphs, describing the gymnasium and how much he was enjoying the physical activity between classes.  Then, signing and sealing the letter, he addressed it and placed it with his books so he would remember to post it on the way to class the next day.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Prospects and Provision

 

 

            “I see the trees are sprouting fresh foliage again,” Adam observed as he and Jamie came onto campus on Wednesday morning.

            “Bright new leaves every week,” Jamie tittered back.  His steps halted.  “I know what the red and blue sheets are, but there are white ones today, too.  Surely, there isn’t a third open society we haven’t heard of yet.”

            “One way to find out,” chuckled Adam as he trotted over to a tree covered with posters.  “It’s a table of contents,” he called back, “for something called Yale Literary Magazine.”

            “Oh, the Lit.!” Jamie cried.  “I’ve heard it’s wonderful.”

            “The titles sound informative,” Adam said.  “One’s about the prize system here at Yale, and another is called ‘College Favor—Rules for Winning It.’  There’s an article about Halleck’s poems, too.”

            “The whole magazine is student-written,” Jamie told him enthusiastically.  “I had hoped”—he bit his lip to silence his desire.

            “To write for it?” Adam guessed.

            Jamie smiled.  “Someday, perhaps.  For now, I’d be satisfied just to read it.”  He sighed.  “I can’t, though.”

            “Money worries?”

            Jamie nodded.  “Sounds ridiculous, I know, since it’s only two bits per issue, from what I’ve heard . . . but with Father’s finances so unstable . . .”

            “I understand,” Adam said sympathetically.  “I really can’t afford the price, either, after paying my bond.”  He laughed.  “Now, if we just hadn’t indulged in Candy Sam’s divinity that first day, we could, at least, have shared a copy.”

            “No more of that indulgence, either, I fear,” Jamie agreed with a playful pout, “at least not until Father finds employment.  In that event, I think we must squander our bankrolls in a wild celebration—one piece each for the three of us.”

            Adam laughed.  “At least, we face our pecuniary deficiencies with good humor.  Uh-oh, there’s the first chapel bell.  Hoof it, chum!”  Both boys took off at a run.

 

* * * * *

 

            Despite their mutual pecuniary deficiencies, the two Edwards and Adam indulged in a cup of coffee together late Thursday evening.  The Brothers in Unity, in their meeting the previous night, had been urged to attend tonight’s gathering in town to support the work of the Sanitary Commission.  Knowing of his interest in the war effort, Adam and Jamie had invited Josiah to accompany them; at the very least, it would be something for him to do besides spend the evening alone in his shabby room near the wharves.  Now, over coffee, the young men bemoaned their inability to provide the comforts for the soldiers that had been requested.  Jamie shook his head as he again perused the list of items needed.  “I don’t see what I can possibly donate,” he said.  “I only brought the things I’d actually need when I came East.”

            “Same here,” Adam commiserated.  “Mrs. Wiggins owns every stitch of bedding I use; I certainly can’t provide any delicacies for the sick and wounded, and the only books I have with me are my texts.”

            “Boys, boys,” Josiah chided.  “There’s always something to be shared with those in need.  We just need to put on our thinking caps and be inventive.”

            “Not you, Father,” Jamie protested.  “You, especially, haven’t anything to spare.”

            Josiah shrugged.  “Well, I have to admit all I can think of at the moment is my copy of Don Quixote.  Having just reread it on the train, I’m willing to pass it on to one of our brave soldiers.  It’s old, but I’ve kept it in good condition, and the story is timeless.”

            Propping his elbows on the table, Jamie cupped his chin in his hands.  “I guess I could spare a pair of woolen stockings,” he sighed, “but it doesn’t seem like much.”

            “To a man whose have worn out with marching, it will,” Josiah said, smiling proudly at his son.

            “And I’ll donate a second pair,” Adam said, grinning as he added, “though I may regret it, come winter.”

            “Hopefully, by that time I’ll have found work and be able to replenish your toe warmers,” Josiah chuckled.

            “Any prospects?” Adam asked, although he, of course, had no intention of allowing Jamie’s father to absorb the cost of his donation to the Sanitary Commission.

            Josiah shook his head.  “Nothing definite, but I heard today that the arms factory might be hiring, so I’ll check that out tomorrow.”

            For a few minutes the trio concentrated on finishing their coffee, for the boys had to rise early for chapel the next morning and Josiah wanted to get to the New Haven Arms Company as early as possible, too.  Just as he drained his last sip of brew, Adam brightened.  “I have it!” he cried.

            “What?” asked Jamie.

            “The perfect donation for the Sanitary Commission,” Adam announced.  “The Lit.!”  Seeing Josiah’s look of confusion, he amplified, “Yale Literary Magazine, a collection of essays by Yale students on various topics.”

            “Oh, Adam, make sense,” Jamie scolded.  “We can’t afford a copy for ourselves, so how can we buy one for the soldiers?”

            “We can’t,” Adam said, “but I doubt that any magazine ever sells every copy of an issue it prints.  Perhaps the editors would be willing to donate a few of their leftover copies, if we ask.”

            “Brilliant!” Josiah declared.  “Do you think scholarly essays are the sort of material a soldier would enjoy, though?  Some of them may be barely literate.”

            “Then they’d have equal difficulty with Cervantes,” Adam observed, and Josiah conceded the point with a nod.  “People would probably say the same about the miners in Virginia City,” Adam continued, “but they read anything they can get their hands on.  Those who can’t read themselves can listen to those who can, and the Lit. will certainly be better for them than some of the pap they’ll likely be sent—like those ghastly dime novels they sell on the trains.”

            Josiah laughed.  “Are you sure you’re not training for a schoolmaster, young man?”

            “Definitely not,” Adam insisted with a wry grin.  “Why, by the time I got home, Little Joe would be of school age, and that’s all the incentive I need to choose another profession!”

 

* * * * *

 

            When Adam and Jamie came out of the Vultures’ dining hall after lunch on Saturday, Josiah was waiting for them.  They’d made arrangements to meet here the night before when the two boys had returned from supper to find Jamie’s father perched on their doorstep, beaming from ear to ear.  They’d scarcely needed his vibrant “I start Monday” to tell them that he had found work at the arms factory, as he’d hoped.  To celebrate, particularly since this might be Josiah’s last opportunity, they’d decided to spend the afternoon together and make the long-planned excursion to East Rock.

            “We come bearing gifts,” Jamie announced, holding up a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

            “From the Vultures,” Adam explained.  “Bread and cheese left from lunch.”

            “Ah!  My heartiest thanks to the Vultures,” Josiah said.  “I have a feeling we’ll welcome some refreshment after this little hike you’ve set for us.”

            Adam laughed.  “You sound like a city man, and I know better.  It’s not as far as we walked to Mr. Whitcomb’s that morning.  A mile or so, Robert Raines said.”

            “Ah, but there’s a hill to climb at the end of that mile,” Josiah reminded him with an admonishing wag of his finger.

            “I’m concerned about that,” Jamie admitted.

            “It’s part of your health regime,” Adam said firmly, “and you will climb it.”

            Jamie popped a sassy salute at his friend.  “Yes, sir, Dr. Cartwright!”

            “I see you’re as good as your word,” Josiah observed as they headed north toward the edge of town.  When he saw Adam’s eyebrow arch quizzically, he added, “Looking after my boy for me, just as you promised.”

            Jamie drew himself upright.  “I’m quite capable of looking after myself, as I told you both before!”

            “We’ll see if you say the same at the summit of East Rock,” Adam offered with a provoking smile.

            They hadn’t gone far beyond the college when they entered the woods and walked for a time beneath the shade of lofty chestnut oaks, flaming with autumn color and interspersed with hemlock and cedar.  Adam breathed in deeply and murmured, “Not quite like the pines of home, but a worthy substitute.”

            “Adam insists that the aroma of pine is a cure-all for every ailment known to man,” Jamie told his father with a teasing smile.

            “I’m certainly feeling better today than I have in some time,” Josiah chuckled, “so perhaps there’s something to his theory.”

            “Either that or the assurance that you will be able to pay your room and board next week,” Adam returned with a grin.

            Josiah winked at Adam.  “I suppose that might have some liberating effect, as well.”

            Coming out of the woods, they crossed a salt marsh, above which rose the red basalt cliffs of East Rock and began their circuitous climb up the steep trail to the summit.  Jamie was huffing before they’d made half the ascent.  “I don’t think I can,” he panted.

            “You can and you will,” Adam insisted.  “The view is supposed to be spectacular, not to be missed.  Now, come on!”  He grabbed his friend by the elbow and began hauling him up the trail.

            Jamie pulled back.  “No, I’ll go up under my own steam or not at all.”

            “Do it, then,” Adam challenged.  Turning his back, he led the way up.

            “Come on, son,” his father encouraged.  “I’m winded, too, but if we persevere, I’m sure we can make it.”

            “Or never hear the last of it,” Jamie moaned.  He waved at Adam, who had stopped a few feet ahead to see if the others were following.  “I’m coming, hard-hearted doctor,” he called, waving.  “I’m coming.”

            Adam grinned and started up again.  He tried to hold his pace to that of his less stalwart companions, but still reached the summit well before either of them.  Then, cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted back down the hill, “It’s grand; you’ve got to see it!”

            That encouragement seemed to give fresh vigor to the two Edwards, and each urging the other on, they finally joined Adam at the top and gazed down on the spires of Yale College and the surrounding town of New Haven.  Beyond that, they saw the blue waters of the Sound bordered in the distance by the lavender hills of Long Island.  “Spectacular,” Josiah said.  “Well worth the climb.”

            Jamie dropped down to dangle his legs over the edge of the cliff.  “I agree.  In fact, I find it so spectacular that I think I’ll just sit and admire the view . . . for some time to come.”

            Adam sat beside his friend.  “You’ve earned it . . . as well as a cheese sandwich for your labors.”

            Jamie laughed.  “I can’t believe it: it isn’t long since dinner, but I’m famished.  I’ll take that sandwich right now.”

            Adam, who had taken the package as soon as they’d started to climb, opened it and passed sandwiches to Jamie and Josiah before taking one himself.

            Josiah took a bite, closed his eyes and sighed with contentment.  “Ah, food for the gods.”

            Adam shook his head in amusement.  “Wherever you’ve been eating lately must be a poor excuse for an eatery if a simple cheese sandwich produces such lavish praise.”

            “Must be the fresh air,” Josiah chuckled.

            “Or the exercise,” Adam suggested with a grin.

            “More than I’ve taken in a while,” Josiah admitted.  He glanced at his son’s wind-reddened cheeks and, tilting his head in Jamie’s direction, smiled meaningfully at Adam.  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

            So as not to embarrass his friend, Adam merely responded with a discreet nod.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam looked up from his reading as Jamie entered their room at Mrs. Wiggins’.  “Did you have to beg them at length to receive our much-too-humble offerings?” he asked, with a teasing twitch of his mouth.  After their jaunt to East Rock, Josiah and Jamie had offered to deliver their contributions to the Sanitary Commission, which was receiving items at a store on Church Street.

            “Of course not,” Jamie chuckled.  “If you’re referring to how long I’ve been gone, Father and I went back to his room and talked for a bit.  Between work and school, we won’t much opportunity hereafter.”

            “That’s true,” Adam said, “and I’ll miss seeing him . . . almost as much as you will.”

            Jamie nodded.  “He’ll meet us on the Green tomorrow morning and walk to chapel with us.  I suppose Sundays will be our only chance to see much of him.”  He removed his outer coat and hung it in the wardrobe.  “Did you get your letter to your friend—Ross, is it?—written and posted?”

            Adam flapped the sheets in his hand.  “I did, and though virtue is supposed to be its own reward, I found one more tangible waiting for me.”

            “A letter from home?” Jamie guessed, his face beaming with pleasure for his friend.

            “Letters,” Adam said, his voice lilting with cheer.  “One each from Pa, Hoss and Little Joe.”

            “Little Joe?” Jamie asked, surprised.  “You’ve told me he was bright, but I didn’t think he was capable of writing a letter yet.”

            “See for yourself,” Adam suggested, handing over a sheet of paper.

            Jamie laughed aloud when he saw what Little Joe’s “letter” consisted of.  Across the top of the page spread the alphabet in rather tipsy letters, while the remainder of the page was filled with a drawing.  “Do you have any idea what it’s supposed to be?” he asked.

            “Nary a one,” Adam chuckled.  “I doubt that even God could recognize that as one of His creations.”

            Jamie cocked his head and gazed appraisingly at the creature.  “Maybe it’s not,” he suggested.  “Maybe it’s something out of a fairy tale the child has heard.”

            Adam shrugged.  “Maybe, though I’m not sure who has time or inclination to read him fairy tales these days.”  With me gone, he added silently to his own guilty heart.  Then he continued, “Hoss’s letter was interesting, and you’re welcome to read it—all about some loon named Sam Clemens trying to set fire to the Ponderosa.”

            “Oh, Adam!” Jamie cried in instant alarm.

            “No, everything’s all right,” Adam assured him.  “Pa mentioned the incident, too, and the fire wasn’t really on the Ponderosa itself, just near enough to be a threat if our men hadn’t stopped it when they did.”

            Relief evident in his face, Jamie perched on his bed.  “Oh, I’m so glad.  Any more news you care to share?”

            “Pa wrote all the news from home,” Adam said with satisfaction.  “Most of it’s about people you wouldn’t know, but you’ve heard me mention Billy Thomas, I suppose?”

            “Yes, of course.  Your best friend.”

            “Along with you and Ross,” Adam amended.  “Anyway, Billy won’t be riding for the Pony Express much longer, because the telegraph is almost linked together, but Pa isn’t sure what he’ll be doing next.  He said he hoped that Billy would come to work on the Ponderosa, but he hasn’t had a chance to talk with him yet.  I know Billy would prefer working outdoors to helping Uncle Clyde in the smithy, but ranch work may seem mighty tame after riding for the Pony.  Maybe the next letter will tell me what he’s decided.  Knowing Billy, I wouldn’t be surprised if he came up with something totally unexpected!”

            Jamie grinned.  “From what you’ve told me about him, I’m sure of that.”

            Adam lifted a small sheet of paper and waved it back and forth.  “And this, my dear friend, is the most exciting item that arrived today.”

            “Indeed?  It looks like—can it possibly be—a letter of credit?” Jamie asked with rising expectancy.

            “A most astute deduction,” Adam replied enthusiastically.  “Pa sent a draft for $50, in case expenses here had been greater than we estimated.”

            “Wonderful!” Jamie cried.  “And on what shall you spend these sudden riches?”

            Adam stroked his chin in apparent thought, although he knew exactly what to do with the money.  “First, we’ll have to leave early for tonight’s Sigma Ep meeting, so that we have time to find Candy Sam and purchase that divinity we promised ourselves.”

            “Of course,” Jamie agreed readily.  “One piece each and one for Father.”

            “We’re rich now,” Adam stated with the most profligate air he could adopt.  “We’ll have two apiece, and on Monday I will buy my own copy of each textbook.  Next, I think we must treat ourselves to a subscription to the Lit.”

            “I hope you’ll let me read yours,” Jamie hinted.

            “Ours,” Adam corrected.  “You, being the more literary half of the partnership, will have the right and the responsibility to keep the collection.  If I want a copy for myself of some particular issue—anything with an article authored by you, for instance—we’ll pool our funds to buy an extra.”

            “You are more than generous,” Jamie said, “but I insist that you let me repay you for half the subscription cost . . . when I can.”

            Adam extended his hand, which Jamie clasped.  “Agreed—and the rest I’ll bank against future need.”

            “Hasn’t God been good to us this week?” Jamie stated with shining eyes.

            “With Pa and the New Haven Arms Company as His agents,” Adam replied with a smile.

           

* * * * *

 

            At the close of the midday recitation on Wednesday, a representative from the Yale Literary Magazine appeared to outline for the new freshmen the benefits of a subscription.  Adam and Jamie, having already made their decision, promptly entered their subscription in Jamie’s name, and Adam took the opportunity to express his thanks for the copies of the magazine which had been promised to the Sanitary Commission.

            “Ah, you’re the young man who made that beneficent suggestion, then,” the representative said, smiling pleasantly as he shook Adam’s hand.  “Excellent idea, my boy, simply hunky.  No better way for our soldiers to occupy their leisure than with a copy of the Lit., eh?”

            “We thought so,” Adam returned.  “Would you like us to deliver your contribution to the Commission, sir?”

            The young man shook his head.  “Not necessary.  We’ll have to wait until sales close, of course, but I would expect we’ll be able to donate about thirty copies to the cause.”

            “Wonderful,” Jamie chimed in.  “Amazing, isn’t it, Adam?” he asked as they were walking toward the Vultures’ dining hall together with Lucas and Marc.  “We thought we had nothing whatever to share, but we’ve ended up inspiring quite a large contribution.”

            “I thought it was the job of preachers to inspire,” Lucas teased, tweaking Jamie’s hat over his nose, and then had the prudence to take off running.

            “You scoundrel!” Adam yelled, giving chase to defend Jamie’s honor and, by extension, his own.  “I’ll teach you to mock our powers of inspiration!”

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

The articles mentioned by Adam were published in the October, 1861, issue of The Yale Literary Magazine.  It is available online through Google Books.

 

A meeting of the Sanitary Commission took place in New Haven on October 10, 1861.  The Commission, a civilian organization, actively contributed to the needs and comfort of the Union soldiers through donations of food, clothing, reading material and funds raised through fairs.

 

The fire that Samuel Clemens foolishly set near the Ponderosa is described in his book, Roughing It.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Beethoven and Boating

 

 

The wind had been so brisk on Saturday that Adam and Jamie had elected to forego outdoor exercise and spend the afternoon digging into Euclid.  When a rap came at the door, Jamie’s head jerked up and his hazel eyes clouded with concern.

            Adam, who had been leaning over Jamie’s chair to explain a difficult proposition, squeezed his friend’s shoulder as he straightened up.  “Relax,” he chuckled.  “Too light a tap for sophomores.”  He crossed the room and opened the door.  “Oh, Mrs. Wiggins,” he said with a smile.  “Not making too much noise with our studies, I hope.”

            “Now, you know you’re not,” the amiable woman chided.  “You two are both quiet and considerate tenants.  I just came up to tell you, Mr. Cartwright, that there’s two packages come for you, too much for me to fetch up for you.”

            “I wouldn’t dream of your carrying anything for me,” Adam said.  “I’ll come down for it right now.”

            “It might take the two of you,” she warned him.  “One looked heavy, from the way the express men handled it.”

            Jamie stood at once and followed Adam down the stairs.  “Mercy, what can it be?” he asked, mouth gaping at the size of one of the crates.

            “My things from home, of course,” Adam replied.  “Pa wrote that he was sending them.”

            Jamie lifted the smaller crate.  “Oof,” he grunted.

            “That’s the heavy one,” Mrs. Wiggins belatedly informed them.

            “I’ll take that one,” Adam said.

            “I can manage,” Jamie insisted.  “I’m not the weakling you so often make me out, Adam.”

            “Set it down, Jamie,” Adam ordered sharply.

            “Oh, all right,” Jamie muttered, doing as he was told, “if you’re afraid I’ll damage your precious goods.”

            “I’m afraid you’ll damage my precious friend,” Adam said bluntly.  “The larger crate is actually much lighter.  If it’s not too bulky for you to manage alone, take that.  If it is, we’ll carry it up together after I tote this one up.”

            Jamie tested the long crate and declared it light as a feather.

            Adam grinned.  “Just don’t trip over your own two feet.  That one, my boy, is rather fragile—and personally valuable, I might add.”

            “Now he tells me,” Jamie said with a shake of his head toward Mrs. Wiggins.

            The good woman clucked her tongue.  “That’s the closest thing to a quarrel I’ve heard between the two of you, and I’ll have no more of it.”

            “Yes, ma’am; we’ll be peaceable at your command.”  Adam winked at his friend as he hefted the heavier crate and started for the stairs.

            Jamie took a good grip on the long, rectangular crate and mounted cautiously after Adam.

            “Let’s see what’s in them,” Jamie said as soon as he gently set his load down in the middle of the floor of their room.

            Adam laughed.  “I know what’s in them; I laid out everything that I wanted sent if I passed the entrance exam.”

            Jamie pounded a fist into his friend’s shoulder.  “Well, I don’t!  And I’ve earned the satisfaction of my curiosity, sir.”

            “That you have,” Adam chuckled as he pried the lid off the long crate.

            Jamie leaned over eagerly, but at first all he could see was a mass of sawdust and wood shavings.  “To remind you of home?” he asked wryly.

            “I’m not that homesick for the fragrance of pine,” Adam snorted.  “That’s just packing material.”

            “I guessed as much,” Jamie snickered.  “You did say it was fragile.”

            Adam brushed the material aside to reveal an oblong, muslin-encased article.  “Hop Sing must have fashioned this,” he said, loosening the drawstring.  “Good thinking.  I’d hate to see what sawdust would do to the instrument.”  He drew out a guitar and showed it to Jamie.  “Music to soothe the geometry-ravaged soul . . . if Mrs. Wiggins doesn’t object.”

            “Oh, wonderful!” Jamie said enthusiastically.  “I can’t wait to hear you play, Adam.”

            “Not tonight,” Adam said firmly.  “Supper is upon us and then the Sigma Ep meeting.”

            “Tomorrow then,” Jamie insisted, “after chapel.  That’s as long as my geometry-ravaged soul can wait.  What’s in the other crate?”

            “Books,” Adam said.  “Some of my favorites.  Those I really have been homesick for!”

            “Ah, true riches,” his friend sighed.

            “Wealth I’ll gladly share,” Adam offered as he began to unpack the second crate.

 

* * * * *

 

            The October air was cool, but still, as Jamie practically pulled a reluctant Adam down the street.

            “I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” Adam protested weakly, for he’d tried that tack before with no success.

            “Of course it is,” Jamie insisted as they rounded the corner onto Chapel Street.  “How else will Father hear you play without disturbing the Sabbath quiet at Mrs. Wiggins?”

            “How about the Sabbath quiet of those folks?”  Adam asked, pointing to the three churches on the Green.

            Jamie laughed.  “All gone by now.  That was your weakest argument yet, Adam, and if that’s the best you can do, I fear for your success in the Sigma Ep debate, when it comes your turn.  There he is!”  He loosened his grip on Adam’s arm to wave at his father, who was waiting for them beneath an elm in process of shedding its autumn splendor.

            Josiah waved back at them.  “Well, Adam,” he said when the boys came up to greet him, “I’m looking forward to this.”

            Catching sight of men and women strolling across the Green, arm in arm, Adam flushed.  “I wasn’t intending to give a public concert, sir.  Perhaps another time would be better.”

            Josiah laughed.  “Now, Adam, there’s nothing like a sweet song as backdrop for a lover’s stroll.”  He laughed louder as the young man’s face reddened still more.

            Resigning himself to the embarrassment, Adam sat beneath the elm and began to softly strum the guitar.  “What would you like to hear?” he asked.

            Josiah and Jamie settled on the ground before him.  “Why not start with a hymn?” Josiah suggested.

            Adam smiled and relaxed a bit.  Surely no one passing by could object to that.  His fingers sought the opening chord and he began to sing:

 

            I sing the mighty power of God

            That made the mountains rise,

            That spread the flowing seas abroad

            And built the lofty skies.

            I sing the wisdom that ordained

            The sun to rule the day;

            The moon shines full at His command,

            And all the stars obey.

 

            “Why, Adam, what a fine voice you have,” Josiah enthused when Adam had sung three verses.  “Marvelous tone and texture.”

            “Thank you,” Adam said, “but I’d feel more comfortable if you’d both sing along with me.”

            “Gladly,” Jamie replied, “though I haven’t your gift.”

            “It will be a privilege,” Josiah added.

            Time slipped by unnoticed, as the three men sang song after song, first hymns and then soft ballads.  Unnoticed, too, was the gathering audience that gradually drifted over to encircle the singers.  Only when the listeners broke into applause did Adam, intent on the music, look up to find himself the center of attention.

            “Bravo!” called a familiar voice.

            Turning in direction of the sound, Adam recognized several of the Vultures in the crowd.  “You told!” he castigated Jamie.

            “I only told Marc,” Jamie protested.

            “And I only told Lucas,” Marcus insisted.

            Lucas stepped forward with an impish grin.  “And I only told everyone!”  He laughed at Adam’s obvious embarrassment.

            “Let’s have another song, young fellow,” a total stranger suggested.

            Josiah chuckled.  “I think we’d best oblige them, son.”

            Not seeing any polite alternative, Adam began to strum the guitar, and the impromptu concert continued.  After a few more songs he pleaded the imminent start of the second service at the chapel.  As he stood and prepared to leave the Green, Robert Raines came up to him, shook his hand and complimented his musical skill.  “I’ll hope to hear more from you soon,” he said.

            Adam laughed.  “I don’t think I’ll be entertaining on the Green again anytime soon.”

            Raines tipped his silk hat and with an enigmatic smile said, “We’ll see.”

 

* * * * *

 

            When the mathematics tutor dismissed the midday recitation on Wednesday, he requested, “Mr. Cartwright, please see me after class.”

            “Uh-oh,” Lucas intoned, wagging his finger under the nose of the man seated next to him.  “What malfeasance have you committed, my boy?”

            “Malfeasance is your department,” Adam quipped, but he felt some apprehension as he approached the tutor’s lectern.  He couldn’t imagine why the instructor wanted to see him.  His recitation in Euclid, as always, had been flawless, and since Lucas hadn’t been passing notes today, his deportment had been exemplary, too.  “You wanted to see me, Mr. Nolen?” he inquired.

            Sensing the young man’s nervousness, the tutor smiled.  “Only to hand you this message from a fellow instructor, Mr. Cartwright.  Please read it at your earliest convenience.”

            “Yes, sir, of course.”  Adam waited until he was in the hall before breaking the wax seal on the envelope.  His brow furrowed as he read the message, and the frown lines were still prominent as he came down the steps and met his friends at the Elm of Assembly.

            “Trouble, Adam?” Jamie asked with concern.

            “He looks it,” Lucas opined, “though I don’t see how it could be.  He doesn’t approach your sainthood, of course, Preacher Boy, but—”

            “Oh, hush,” Jamie remonstrated.  “What is it, Adam?”

            Adam shrugged.  “I honestly don’t know.  It’s a request to meet with a Mr. Stoeckel at his home this afternoon between the hours of two and four.”

            “Oh, bother!” Lucas exclaimed.  “You’ll miss the regatta.”

            “I suppose,” Adam muttered.  The last thing on his mind right now was some boat race, although he had been looking forward to it.

            “That’s all it says, just to come to his home?” Jamie asked.

            Adam nodded as he handed over the note.  “Except for the address.  I don’t even recognize the name.”

            “Oh, Adam,” Marcus chided.  “How can you not know?”

            “I haven’t met all the professors here,” Adam reminded him.

            Marcus laughed.  “You’ve seen this one every morning.  He leads the music at chapel.”

            “Is that his name?” Adam asked, shaking his head at his own dimwittedness.  “I’ve had so many to absorb that I’d forgotten his.  I can’t imagine what he wants with me, though.”

            Lucas sported a knowing grin.  “Can’t you?”

            “No, I can’t,” Adam spouted irritably, “and if you know, I’d advise you to cough up the information, sir.”

            Lucas waved his hands before his face in protest.  “No, no, I don’t know, but I can guess.”  He paused to give his words greater impact and announced, “He’s obviously heard of your musical prowess.”

            “From whom?” Adam demanded, coming nose-to-nose with his friend.

            Lucas took a step back.  “Well, not from me.  I’m only guessing again, mind you, but Robert Raines is in the chapel choir.  He might be the culprit.”

            Remembering the senior’s cunning expression when he’d said, “We’ll see” on the Green the previous Sunday, Adam knew instantly that Lucas had guessed correctly.  “Let’s get over to the dining hall and ask that meddling Vulture what he’s gotten me into,” he suggested.

            “My stomach heartily seconds that motion,” Lucas declared and led the way down College Street.

            Unfortunately, Adam was not able to satisfy his curiosity at dinner, for Robert Raines was absent on some personal business.  “Perhaps he’s recommended you for the Beethoven Society,” Milton Bradford suggested.  It was the Beethoven Society that provided the music for chapel services.

            “But I’m a freshman,” Adam argued.  “They won’t even let me sing on the fence!”

            “Precisely,” Edgar Warington said dryly.

            “Now, it isn’t unheard of,” Bradford chided, “just . . . rare.”

            “More likely, Stoeckel has heard you have a measure of talent and hopes to supplement his income with private lessons,” Warington scoffed.  “He does give them.”

            It would have irreparably damaged Adam’s reputation with his own class to agree with a scurrilous sophomore, but he secretly thought that Warington had probably hit the nail on the head.  If that were Stoeckel’s aim, he was destined for disappointment, for Adam had no extra funds for private music lessons, much as he would have enjoyed them.

 

* * * * *

 

            After changing into a fresh shirt and crisp cravat, Adam made his way to York Street, one block north of the college yard, and rapped on the door of number 137 at about 2:30 that afternoon.  A woman with flaxen braids encircling her head like a coronet answered the door and, smiling, invited Adam in when he stated that he was here at Professor Stoeckel’s request.  “My husband is in his study,” she said.  She led the way to a room at the back of the house.  “Gustave, a student has come.”

            Gustave Stoeckel bounced up from his seat.  “Ah!  Mr. Cartwright, yes?” he asked, his German accent even thicker than his wife’s.  “Come in; come in!”  He came around the desk to usher Adam in.

            Feeling awkward, Adam stood, turning his hat in his hand.  “You asked to see me, Professor Stoeckel?”

            Bright eyes twinkled at him.  “I’m not a professor yet,” he said.  “Maybe someday, if God wills, someone will endow a chair for music here at Yale.  Until that happy day, you call me just Herr Stoeckel or, in the American way, Mister.”

            “Yes, sir,” Adam said, flushing at his mistake.  “Why did you want to see me, Herr Stoeckel?”

            “You come straight to the point,” Stoeckel said.  “I like that!  I was told that you have a fine singing voice.”

            Adam cast his eyes downward.  “That’s not for me to judge, sir.”

            Stoeckel laughed.  “No, you are right; that is for me to judge.  Will you sing for me, Mr. Cartwright?  Anything you like.”

            Adam raised his head.  He supposed he should tell the music instructor right away that he had no money for private lessons, but he wanted to hear the man’s opinion of his singing.  If the instructor thought his talent merited development, perhaps he could afford them down the road.  He particularly liked the references to nature in the song he had sung on Sunday, so he again began “I Sing the Mighty Power of God.”

            Stoeckel stood before him, eyes closed, obviously attentive to the notes.  “Good,” he said when Adam finished.  “Good.  You have some gift for music.”

            “Thank you, sir,” Adam said with relief and satisfaction.

            “Do you read music?”

            Adam shrugged one shoulder.  “I know musical notation and can pick out notes on my guitar,” he said, “but I haven’t learned sight singing.”

            “It can be learned,” Stoeckel said warmly.  “You do well with your other studies?”

            “Yes,” Adam assured him.  He took a breath and said with hurried regret, “I don’t want to waste your time, Herr Stoeckel.  Much as I’d enjoy taking lessons from you, I don’t have sufficient funds for private lessons at this time.”

            Stoeckel threw back his large head, his goatee pointing toward the ceiling, and guffawed loudly.  “That is why you think I asked you here, to offer you lessons for a fee?”

            “Well, yes,” Adam admitted.  “I couldn’t imagine any other reason.”

            Stoeckel clapped a supportive hand to the young man’s shoulder.  “You have seen the choir in chapel?”

            “Yes, of course, every morning,” Adam said with a smile.  “The music is inspiring . . . like nothing I’ve heard before, sir.”

            “Good, good,” Stoeckel said again, clearly pleased.  “Would you like to make such music, then—to join the choir, I mean?”

            Adam’s head reeled at the thought.  “But I’m a freshman, Herr Stoeckel,” he said hesitantly.  “Were you not told?”

            “Yes, yes, I know that,” Stoeckel said.  “There is no restriction against freshmen in the Beethoven Society.  Would you like to join?”

            Adam felt his heart streak toward the ceiling.  To make such music!  Of course, he wanted that!  “Yes, sir, I’d like that very much.”

            “Good,” Stoeckel said.  “You will have to pass an examination, but if you do, we will happily welcome you to the Beethoven Society.”

            “When can I take it?” Adam asked, hoping he didn’t sound too eager.

            Stoeckel laughed again.  “You’ve already started.  Let us continue.”  He took a sheet of music from his desk and handed it to Adam.    He asked a number of questions about note values, key signatures, meter and other technicalities of the score and then directed, “Now, sing it, please.”

            Adam stared at the printed notes.  He’d already told the choir master that he didn’t sight read, so how was he supposed to sing this correctly?

            Stoeckel smiled at the bewildered face before him.  “Follow the melodic line as best you can,” he suggested.  “You won’t recognize the tune, as it is of my own composing.”  He intoned the opening pitch and motioned for Adam to continue.

            Voice shaking, Adam followed the notes up and down the staff and hoped he hadn’t strayed too far from the melody.

            Stoeckel nodded thoughtfully.  “Some errors, but you have potential, if you are willing to work.”

            “I’m willing to work!” Adam declared with enthusiasm.

            “Good.  Can you sing harmony?”

            “I never have,” Adam admitted.  “Mostly, I sing by myself, sir, for my own pleasure—occasionally with my father or with friends, but we all tend to sing the melody.”

            “Come with me,” Stoeckel ordered and breezed past Adam.  He led the way into the parlor, where a small organ sat centered on one wall.  He played a line from “I Sing the Mighty Power of God.”  Then with one finger he played a harmony part.  “Sing that,” he said.

            Adam repeated the line, as the instructor sang with him.

            “And now alone,” Stoeckel said.  When Adam did, the teacher said, “Once more.”  When Adam successfully completely the line by himself, Stoeckel said, “Now, you sing that part as I sing the melody above it.”

            Adam took a deep breath and repeated the part he had just learned, smiling broadly when they finished.  The notes had blended into as beautiful a duet as he could imagine.

            “You have a good ear,” Stoeckel said.  “I think I will start you at first bass.  That is a good range for you.  Rehearsals are every Wednesday at five.  You have no other commitments?”

            “No, sir.”  Since the third recitation was always suspended on Wednesdays, he had that hour free.

            “I will see you in the chapel at five, then,” Herr Stoeckel said.  He stroked his short beard.  “After today, if you come half an hour earlier, I will give you some basic instruction—no charge,” he said with a smile.  “A few weeks of extra work will improve your sight-reading skill.”

            “Herr Stoeckel, I would be very grateful,” Adam said eagerly.  “I will see you this afternoon at the chapel.”  He managed to hold his enthusiasm for about a block; then he began to run down York Street, too full of the wondrous news for the restrained response of walking home.  He had to tell Jamie as soon as possible or he’d burst!  As he rounded the corner onto George Street, he laughed aloud.  What was he thinking?  Jamie wasn’t in their shared room; he’d gone down to the harbor with Lucas and Marcus to see the regatta.  So much the better! Adam thought as he raced down the street, wind rushing about his ears.  He would tell them all.  He’d tell the world!  Especially that snooty Warington, who thought no freshman could possibly meet the stringent standards for the choir.  His schedule had seemed full already, but now he felt such a surge of energy that he was ready to take on extra studies, society meetings, baseball, boating, music—just everything!  Oh, life at Yale was all that he’d dreamed—and more!

            Adam came to an abrupt halt as he saw Jamie, holding tightly to his bowler in the brisk wind, making his way up the street.  “Did I miss it all,” he asked, “or did the cold air become too much for you?”  He turned to walk beside his friend.

            “You missed all there was,” Jamie chuckled, “but that wasn’t much.  Everything was cancelled, due to rough water, except the barge race.  The Nixie won; the other two fouled out within a hundred feet of finishing.”

            “That’s a shame,” Adam said.

            “The shells will try again on Saturday,” Jamie told him, “a good thing, since you had to miss today.”  He looked up into his friend’s wind-reddened face.  “What I really want to hear about, of course, is how your interview with Mr. Stoeckel went.”

            Adam’s grin spread ear to ear.  “You’re looking at the latest addition to the Beethoven Society, my friend.”

            “I knew it!”  Jamie stopped to pump his friend’s hand in the middle of the street.  “I knew that nonsense about his looking for a new pupil was . . . well, nonsense.”

            “Typical sophomore sophistry,” Adam alleged with an arch of his eyebrow.

            “Indubitably!” Jamie declared.  “I can’t wait to see Warington’s face when you tell the Vultures tonight.”

            Adam laughed.  “And I can’t wait to get my hands on Robert Raines . . . and thank him heartily.”

 

* * * * *

 

            The weather on Saturday was practically balmy, especially for a day in late October.  The sky above was clear, but for a few fluffy cumulus clouds, and the wind moderate—a perfect day for boating.  The shore in front of the judges’ pavilion was crowded with students and townspeople, among them the quartet of freshmen who so often spent time together.  “Good tide,” Lucas commented, gazing out over the waters of New Haven Harbor.

            “Ideal,” Adam agreed.

            “Done much boating out there in dry Nevada, have you?” Lucas snickered.

            Adam smiled condescendingly.  “You’re forgetting Lake Tahoe.”

            Lucas laughed at himself this time.  “I guess I was!  Ever sailed her?”

            “Mostly rowed,” Adam said.  “Only a two-man rig, home-built.  Nothing like we’ll see today.”  Maybe salt water flowed in his veins, passed down to him from his father and from Grandfather Stoddard, Adam mused, for he could feel excitement rising at the expectation of seeing some finely crafted vessels in the races this morning.

            He wasn’t disappointed as the sleek shells of Spanish cedar and larger barges passed in grand review before the shells took their positions for the race.  Two of Yale’s three boating clubs were racing this afternoon.  The Glyuna drew the inside position, with the Nixie next to her.

            “Varuna won’t be racing,” Lucas commented sagely.  “They’re down a man.”

            “A decided disadvantage,” Adam agreed.  He leaned forward when the starting gun was fired and watched with open-faced admiration the rhythmic coordination of the men pulling the oars.  The Nixie and Glyuna were almost side by side for the first half mile, but then Nixie began to pull away.  It was at least a length ahead by the time it turned around the buoy and headed toward the finishing point, and it continued to put more distance between it and Glyuna’s shell until the crew gave a whoop of victory as they finished the 2.9-mile course in just over nineteen minutes.  The Glyuna, one of whose crew had sprained an arm during the race, came in more than a minute later.

            “Oh, that was beautiful,” Adam said with a sigh of contentment.

            “You look as though you’d like to be out there,” Jamie teased.

            “I would,” Adam admitted.  “It would be marvelous exercise and a pure pleasure to skim over the water like that.”

            “I’d better not hear of your going out for the Navy when you wouldn’t make time for baseball,” Lucas grunted.

            “Don’t worry,” Adam chuckled.  “I don’t have time for either.”  Or money, he might have added.

            “Especially not now with your extra duties in the choir,” Marcus said with pride, something they all felt in the accomplishment of their friend.

            “Especially not now,” Adam agreed.  Until he settled in with the choir and caught up on all the new music being thrown at him, it was the unvarnished truth.

            Varuna did participate in and, in fact, won the drill that followed the shell race.  Orders were signaled by color from the Commodore’s boat, which had to be interpreted by the coxswain of each boat and carried out by the crew.  “That’s something you could do,” Adam said to Jamie.  “They seem to want lightweight fellows at that position, and learning the signals would come to you as easily as any other language.”

            “Perhaps someday,” Jamie said with a significant smile, knowing Adam would understand without further explanation.

            Adam nodded discreetly.  Money.  Would there ever be a time they didn’t have to worry about that?  It was a shame in this instance, too, for regular doses of fresh air and sunshine would undoubtedly benefit his slightly built friend.

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

The lyrics to “I Sing the Mighty Power of God” were written in 1714 by Isaac Watts, the music by G. F. Root in 1856, so it would have been a relatively new song at the time Adam sang it.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Thanksgiving Jubilee

 

 

            Though it was early afternoon, barely past the dinner hour, both Adam and Jamie were bundled into their mutual bed for the sake of warmth.  To conserve on coal, they didn’t bother keeping a fire going during the day, even on Sunday, when they actually spent more time in their room than they did during the week.  Neither of them had any desire for outdoor exercise on this raw, windy November day; they were content to keep their stocking-clad toes beneath the covers while perusing the day’s edition of the New York Times.

            They took turns, one reading an article of interest, while the other snuggled down under the thick quilt; then the reader would hand the paper over to the listener and pull the quilt up under his own chin for a while.  When Jamie’s turn came, he read about the closing of the Pony Express.

            “Seems a shame,” Adam observed from his pillow.  “It was a splendid sight, those boys galloping into Carson with the mail.”

            “Boys?” Jamie laughed.  “Your friend—Billy, isn’t it?—he’s older than you, as I recall.”

            “One year, almost to the day,” Adam admitted with a chuckle, “but he’s always seemed like such a kid at heart that I tend to forget he’s older.”

            “That’s the trouble with you younger brothers,” Jamie teased.  “Always forgetting your place.”

            “I have lived to rue the day I let you take on the role of older brother.”  Adam rose up on his elbows and reached for the paper.  Instead of reading a new article, however, he kept staring at the one about the end of the Pony Express.  “I knew it was coming, of course, the signs were obvious all the way here, and I know Billy will be fine, but I can’t help wondering what he’ll do now,” he mused.  “I should write him and ask . . . though I’m more likely to hear the answer from Pa than Billy.  He’s a terrible hand to write.”

            “Maybe he’d like to join us here,” Jamie suggested, rolling to face Adam with one folded arm beneath his head.

            Adam collapsed with laughter.  “That’d be the last thing he’d do.  Billy Thomas is about the furthest thing from a scholar you’ll ever meet!”

            “I understand,” Jamie said.  “College isn’t for everyone, but I would have enjoyed meeting your friend.  He’s always sounded like such an entertaining person, like those little brothers of yours.  I truly wish I could meet them some time.”

            Adam laughed so hard he had to hold his belly.  “Don’t expect them here!  Little Joe hasn’t even started grammar school, and Hoss’s Latin is definitely below Yale standards!”

            Jamie pulled the pillow from beneath his head and hammered Adam with it.

            A few feathers flew loose as Adam smacked his friend back.  “Seriously, if you want to meet my little brothers and Billy,” he said as they both snuggled under the covers again, “you should come to the Ponderosa for a visit after we graduate.  It would make a fine holiday for you, and I’ll relish showing the place off.”

            “I’d love to see it,” Jamie said, “and Hoss and Little Joe and your father.  Perhaps my father would be free to come then, too.”  He didn’t express his doubts that either he or his father would manage to come out of the next four years with enough extra income for a trip across the country.  He didn’t have to; Adam knew his circumstances better than anyone, but it didn’t hurt to dream.

            “You’d both be welcome,” Adam said, knowing as well as Jamie that they were dreaming of things that might never be.  So much could happen in a span of four years, especially in a nation at war.  He yawned.  “Do we have time for a brief nap before second chapel?”

            “Not really,” Jamie said with a sigh, “though I’d relish one, too.  This sort of weather always makes me drowsy.”  Hearing a branch scrape against the window, he looked out at the gray and gloomy sky.  “It would almost be worth the demerits to skip chapel, just this once.”

            “I am appalled,” Adam declared, glowering with mock horror, for he knew that dutiful Jamie would somehow manage to drag himself out into the cold, even without the added incentive of meeting his father, and that he himself would feel obliged to follow his roommate’s good example.

            After chapel and a cup of coffee in a nearby café with Jamie’s father, the two boys returned to their room.  While Jamie indulged in the longed for nap, Adam wrapped himself in an extra quilt and sat at his desk, penning a letter to Billy.  He shared Jamie’s suggestion about coming to Yale, knowing that his friend back home could take a joke better than anyone he knew.  “Seriously, though,” he wrote, “do write and tell me what your plans are.  It would be so good to hear from you . . . and I promise not to grade your spelling like Miss Eliza used to do.”

            He signed and sealed the letter and then crawled under the covers to snatch a few minutes cozy rest before time to head out into the cold again for supper.  He owed a letter to Ross, too, but his hands were growing so stiff in the chilly room that it would have to wait.  Adam dreamily recalled memories of snatched moments between chores, when he and Ross had shared a bit of poetry or some new lesson from one of his textbooks.  Though Ross really would have relished the opportunity for a little extra learning, he was no more prepared for Yale than Billy.  Too many deficiencies to ever catch up, which seemed a shame, given Ross’s genuine thirst for learning and for bettering himself.  In his letters Adam shared whatever he thought Ross would appreciate of his college experiences, and he promised himself that he’d try to do so more often.  Amid all his varied activities—and they seemed to expand almost daily—it was hard to find time to write to everyone he wanted to keep in touch with.  Hoss was due another letter soon—or was it Little Joe’s turn?  Woe betide him if he got them out of order!  Still trying to figure that one out, he drifted to sleep.

 

* * * * *

 

            The weather remained miserable throughout the next week.  Adam and Jamie invested in a used umbrella, fortunately large enough to cover both of them as they hurried from chapel to recitation rooms to dining hall and back to their lodgings in George Street.  Gone were pleasant afternoon walks through the cemetery or to scenic heights outside town.  Adam did still make an occasional excursion to the gymnasium, but working up a sweat and coming out into the bracing wind was quickly losing its appeal.  They studied in the library between classes because it was warmer than their room, but were nonetheless forced to use more of their precious supply of coal than frugality dictated.  It would be false frugality, Adam pointed out, if they ended up spending their meager savings for doctor visits and medicine, instead of fuel to ward off colds in the first place.

            When Adam had studied his lessons to perfection, he would wander around the library, noting the numerous curiosities collected there; for the building was, in fact, a museum of ancient manuscripts, coins, art and archeological finds.  Among the manuscripts was a petition to the Emperor of China, four feet long, covered in crimson silk and inscribed in gold characters.  Wouldn’t Hop Sing be proud of his heritage, if he saw something like this!  Not that he wasn’t already proud, Adam admitted with a grin; but he made a note to describe this in his next letter to Hoss.  Not only would his brother enjoy reading about something special to Hop Sing, but he could be trusted to pass it on to the cook.  Hoss would like the coin collection, too, especially if he could have actually seen and handled them.  It might even have heightened his interest in geography and history, for some were from colonial America, others from England, Napoleon’s France, Germany, Japan and China.  Some of those were over two thousands years old, another source of interest and pride to send on to Hop Sing.  Adam himself found the coins from the Roman Empire and Greece fascinating because of his current studies in their classic languages.

            He wished that Hoss could be with him to see the archeological finds, as well, although the boy probably wouldn’t have understood their significance any more than did Lucas, who accompanied him on the day he toured those.  In the midst of fascinating objects like a facsimile of the Rosetta Stone, all that caught Luke’s capricious eye were the anklets and bracelets of Egyptian dancing girls!

            Adam could have studied, hour upon hour, the architectural engravings of columns from Rome and of St. Giles church in Wales, of historical interest to the college because Elihu Yale was interred in its churchyard.  There was a view of Yale College itself as it had been in the previous century, along with a manuscript of its history and course of study in 1786.  It included a list of stringent rules for students that he was glad they didn’t have to follow in these more modern times.  “Imagine not being allowed to speak English at all, even in our own rooms,” he later told Jamie.

            “Ah, but think how proficient we’d become in Latin,” his friend pointed out with a smile, to which Adam responded with an audible and visible shiver not at all influenced by the chill in the room.

            No one could work up any enthusiasm for sloshing through the mud to a Brothers in Unity meeting that week.  Extra cups of steaming hot coffee became their new luxury expense, and diligent study of lessons their chief amusement, with an occasional flourish of reading the newspaper.  They did, of course, make their way through the wet streets for the Sigma Ep meeting on Saturday.  That was required, and they would have braved the weather even if it weren’t, because listening to the orations and debates of their classmates was always either entertaining or enlightening–when they were lucky, both.

            Monday was another miserable day, but Adam’s face was as bright as sunshine when his stop by the post office was rewarded with a letter from home.  He and Jamie raced back to their room, where they poked up the fire and wrapped up in quilts.

            “Keep any part to yourself that you please,” Jamie reminded his friend, although he was almost as eager to hear the news from the Ponderosa as Adam.

            “There might be something,” Adam said, assuming his father would have responded to the sober reflections he had written in his last letter home, “but I’ll share everything I can.”  He quickly scanned the contents of the letter and noted that there were some sober words toward the end.  He’d wait to read them privately.  “Well, here’s some information we need to give your father,” he said.  “Pa says they have a post office in Washoe City now, and that’s closer for them, so he asks that all letters be sent there from now on.”

            “Oh, yes, Father will certainly want that change of address.”  As Adam read it to him, Jamie wrote it down and laid it aside to give to his father the next time he saw him, probably the following Sunday at chapel.  “Any news of those little brothers?” he asked.

            “Pa says Hoss really enjoyed his letter from me and that Little Joe is looking forward to his and, especially, the rock collection I promised.”  He shook his head.  “Rot!  Little Joe’s letter was delayed.  I knew I was in trouble when the Rebs took over St. Joseph.”

            “Only briefly,” Jamie reminded him.  “I’m sure Little Joe has his letter and those rocks by now.”

            “They’ll be setting me out as bait for wolves if he hasn’t,” Adam moaned.  He shook off the concern and read all the news, including the impending birth of Enos and Katerina’s first child.  “Here’s the sort of story you like,” he chuckled.  “Pa says that when they got my letter, he told the boys that they’d save it for dessert after supper.  Seems Hoss got real concerned that Pa meant they’d be having the letter, instead of dessert.”

            “A tragedy for any boy,” Jamie agreed with a grin.

            “And then Little Joe chimes in to announce that he wants pie and the letter and Pa adds”—Adam laughed so hard he could barely get the words out—“‘Just thought you’d want to know how you stack up against apple pie, son!’”

            Jamie fell back on the bed, laughing.  “Don’t worry, Adam,” he gasped.  “You’ll always stack up against apple pie for me.”

            “The rest is pretty personal,” Adam said.

            “Would you like me to step out, give you some privacy?” Jamie offered, sensing his friend’s somber mood.

            If the weather had not been so inclement, Adam might have taken him up on the offer, but he could scarcely ask Jamie to leave when he had nowhere—at least, nowhere dry—to go.  “No, that’s all right,” he said.  “Just ignore me for a few minutes.”

            “Consider yourself ignored,” Jamie said, scrambling up off the bed and shuffling over to his desk, where he opened his Greek text to prepare for the next recitation.

            Adam took off his shoes, crawled onto the bed and sat cross-legged, facing the wall.  Closed in as effectively as he could be in a shared room, he unfolded the letter again and read its final paragraphs, his father’s response to his ponderings about the appropriateness of remaining at Yale while the nation was at war.

 

            My dearest boy, never fear that you should withhold from me any thought of your heart.  Though parted by thousands of miles, I am still your father and, as such, am intended to help carry such loads.  My shoulders are broad, Adam, and strong enough to share your concerns.

            I’m sure that you were much affected by what you experienced on the trip, and I can understand that you might feel drawn to the service of your country when you see others answering that call.  However, I believe you are wrong in referring to what you are doing as sitting in a classroom, enjoying yourself.  That is not what you are doing, my boy, just seeking your own pleasure; you are preparing yourself for the future beyond this terrible conflict that separates our country.  Remember, Adam, that your goal is to become a builder, and how greatly our country will need builders when this cruel war is over!  You are doing the right thing, and I hope you will no longer waste precious time second-guessing your decision.  Though it is hard to be parted from you, I know—I absolutely know—that you have made the right decision.

            Let us hear from you often.  As Hoss said, a letter from you rates higher than even an entire apple pie—with all of us.

 

            With a heart filled with love and longing,

            Pa

 

            Adam wiped away the single tear that trickled from one eye.  Pa’s words of support could warm his heart and soothe his troubled thoughts with a power that no one else ever possessed.  That rated above apple pie with him, too—or even an entire plate of Candy Sam’s divinity.

 

* * * * *

 

            The Lit. came out on Wednesday, and since Adam and Jamie picked up their copy after the first recitation, they were able to review its contents during breaks from classes and meals.  Adam found the article on the summer tour of the Yale Glee Club fascinating: they’d visited so many scenic and historic places!  “I wish I could have been part of that,” he confided to his best friend, “but evidently it only involved the Class of ’63.”

            “Does the Beethoven Society tour?” Jamie asked.

            Adam shrugged.  “Not that I’ve heard of.  I think they mostly provide music for chapel, but I don’t suppose I could afford the expense, if they did.”

            “God would provide,” Jamie declared fervently.

            Adam, whose faith was never as undiluted by doubt as his friend’s, merely quirked a half smile.  “Perhaps.”

            “He provided free voice lessons with Professor Stoeckel, didn’t He?” Jamie pointed out.

            “That He did,” Adam admitted, “but I think a tour through New England is probably not on His agenda for me any time soon.”

            “Oh, Adam,” Jamie chided softly.

            “Oh, Jamie,” his friend teased back.  “You don’t expect that for yourself, either, do you?”

            “I can’t sing,” Jamie said.

            Adam gave his friend’s shoulder a playful shove.  “That, sir, is the lamest argument I have ever heard from you.  Pray use better logic in your upcoming society debate.”

            Jamie groaned at the reference to his scheduled appearance before Sigma Ep that Saturday night.  “Don’t remind me.  I’m terrified of speaking before the class.  I wish I had your courage and podium presence, Adam.”

            “God will provide,” Adam said with a wicked wink.

            Jamie exhaled with exasperation, mostly at himself for providing the ammunition for the jest.  “Ooh, you . . . you . . .”

            Adam bounced up and headed for the door.  “Sorry.  I don’t have time to wait for the end of that sentence.  I’m due for those special voice lessons God has provided.”

            “Out, you heathen!” Jamie demanded, though a grin cracked through his reddened countenance.

            “See you at supper,” Adam called as he went through the door.

 

* * * * *

 

            “Good news,” Adam called to Jamie, who was waiting for him just outside the entrance to the Vultures’ dining hall.

            “The Beethoven Society is going to tour New England!” Jamie guessed.

            “Oh, ye of great faith,” Adam chuckled.  “Nothing quite that grand, but we are giving a special Christmas concert.  Visitors can come, so let’s ask your father.”

            “Oh, he’ll come,” Jamie assured his friend.  “He’d skip meals to save enough for that ticket.”

            “What’s this talk of skipping meals?” Lucas demanded as he came up to them.  “Don’t tell me you intend to skip supper?”

            “Not us!” Adam declared.  “Let’s get in out of the cold.”

            They pressed through the narrow doorway and removed their outer garments in the small hall just inside.  “Say, Luke, did you know about the competition for the Yale Literary Medal?  The first I heard about it was when I read who had won in the Lit.”

            “Sure, I knew,” Lucas replied, hanging his woolen scarf on one of the wooden pegs provided.

            “Then, why did you not tell your fondest friends, my boy?” Adam charged.

            Lucas just snorted.  “Freshmen never win.”

            “Maybe because they don’t know about it,” Adam pointed out.

            Lucas laughed then.  “We prep boys know; it’s just you country rubes who don’t.”  He laid a hand on Adam’s shoulder as if he were a gray-haired sage, imparting the wisdom of his years to a young whippersnapper.  “It’s just another way of keeping underclassmen in their place.”

            “Not everyone at Yale is a sophomore,” Jamie said in an undertone, in case any of the Vulture sophomores were already inside.

            “Trouble with them again?” Marcus asked, coming in on the tail end of the conversation.

            “No, we were talking about the Yale Literary Medal,” Adam said.  “Did you know about it?”

            “No,” Marcus admitted.  “I wish I had.  I shall try for it next year, though I doubt I have any chance of winning if Jamie competes, too.  Still it will be good experience for other prizes.”

            “What other prizes?” Adam demanded with a stern look at Lucas, their main fount of information regarding life at Yale.  “Lend us your prep school experience, Lucas lad, so we don’t miss another opportunity to let those upperclassmen know we’ve arrived!”

            “Tell you over supper,” Lucas promised.  “There is quite a list, though not so many open to freshmen.”

            The topic interested everyone at the table, although the two sophomores professed to know everything already.  The seniors undoubtedly did, too, but were happy to point out to the underclassmen just how many opportunities for awards and scholarships were available at Yale.

            “They’re all listed in the college catalog, of course,” George Miller said airily.  “Don’t tell me you country boys have lost yours already.”

            “We country boys never had one to begin with,” Adam retorted sharply.

            “I did,” Jamie admitted reluctantly.  “I guess I didn’t read it closely enough.”

            Miller clucked his tongue.  “Dear, dear, is there no limit to the ignorance of freshmen?”

            “He was probably more concerned about the section detailing what the entrance exam would cover,” Alexander White suggested generously.  “Do check it when you return to your room, Edwards; dates are listed for all the major prize exams.”

            After supper everyone adjourned to their respective open society meetings and made plans for the upcoming Thanksgiving festivities, so it wasn’t until they were in bed that Adam and Jamie returned to the topic of prizes and scholarships.  “We’ll definitely try for the Brothers’ prize debate,” Adam dictated.

            “You will,” Jamie demurred.  “I don’t see the point in my competing if you’re making the attempt.”

            “You need to take a page from Marc’s book,” Adam insisted.  “Whether you win or not doesn’t matter so much.  The prizes are quite small, after all, but the experience is everything.”

            “I suppose,” said Jamie, who was still so edgy about this Saturday’s debate that even contemplating another almost made him nauseous.  “I do plan to sit for the Woolsey and hope for the Hurlbut.”

            “With your excellence in Latin, it’ll be the Woolsey for you,” Adam said confidently.  “I’ll be the one settling for the Hurlbut,” he added, mentioning the prize given to the student who placed second in the same exam.

            “There’s algebra on it, too,” Jamie pointed out, yawning.  “You’re better at that.”

            “Minimally,” Adam said, stifling a yawn himself.  “And we’ll both try for the Berkeley premium . . . even though you’re bound to take it.  You lead the class in Latin composition.”

            “So long as I don’t have to deliver it orally,” Jamie moaned.

            “Will you quit worrying?” Adam chided.  “You’ll do fine on Saturday . . . but not if we don’t get some sleep between now and then.”

            “Too true.  Good night, Adam.”

            “Good night, Jamie.”  Though the room was too dark for his friend to see it, Adam sent him a mischievous smile.  “Sweet dreams . . . all about persuasive Latin phrases.”

            “And may your dreams be filled with sweet propositions from Euclid,” Jamie countered.

            “Ugh,” Adam grunted.  “Why did you have to remind me?  I’m due to recite tomorrow.  And it’s the Pons Asinorum, no less.”

            “Better you than me,” Jamie observed with a chuckle.  “You, at least, have some hope of passing the Asses’ Bridge,” he translated, using the nickname the students had given to the fifth proposition in their geometry text because so many of them found it difficult to get across.

            “I’d like to get my hands on the ass who wrote that,” Adam grumbled.

            “That would be Euclid,” Jamie pointed out, “and he’s safely out of your reach, my friend.”

            “Well, you’re not!” Adam pounced upon his bedmate with a well-aimed pillow.

 

* * * * *

 

            “He was wonderful,” Adam told Josiah Edwards as he and the Edwards shared an after-chapel cup of coffee on Sunday afternoon.  “His arguments were so cogent that everyone agreed he’d won the debate.”

            “Everyone meaning the three most prejudiced listeners in the room,” Jamie demurred.

            “Not just us,” Adam insisted.  “I overheard several people paying similar compliments.”

            “Really?”  Modest Jamie seemed incredulous.

            “Would I lie on Sunday?” Adam asked with an exaggerated air of innocence.

            “Oh, just every other day?” Josiah chuckled.

            “No, not then, either.”  Adam spread his hands to emphasize the obviousness of his next statement.  “I was raised by Ben Cartwright.”

            “Who always had a healthy respect for the truth.”  Josiah nodded his agreement with the son’s assessment of the father’s character.  “Would you care for another cup of coffee, boys?”

            “I’d like to, but I can’t,” Adam said, standing.  “At the last Brothers meeting Lucas and I got tapped to sell tickets to the Thanksgiving Jubilee next week: that is to say, Lucas volunteered, and he tapped me.  He wants to meet this afternoon to talk sales strategy.  In return, we’ll get free tickets to the program.”  He gestured toward Jamie with his chin.  “Then we’ll split the price for one for Jamie; it’s just a dollar.”

            “Very generous of you, Adam,” said Josiah as he stood and extended his hand in farewell.

            Adam shook the man’s hand, but shrugged off the compliment.  “Share and share alike.  Jamie would do the same for me.”

            “He would,” Josiah agreed, “but the Edwards were definitely blessed the day the Cartwrights rolled into St. Joe, and as this is the season for counting our blessings, let me say that the friendship we’ve shared over the years and that I still see so strong in you boys heads my list.”

            “Here, here!” Jamie cheered, though softly, as they were in a public restaurant.

            “You’ve expressed my sentiments, too,” Adam returned, and as he went out into the frosty air, fresh appreciation for the bonds of friendship warmed him from the inside, top to toe.

 

* * * * *

 

            After the drizzling misery of recent days, the sunny warmth of Indian summer refreshed the students’ spirits.  There was a bounce in Adam’s step as he trotted into the post office after the noon meal on Saturday, and his face beamed when he came out.

            “Who’s it from?” Jamie asked, indicating the envelope in Adam’s hand.

            “Pa,” Adam responded.  With the day so bright and clear, he broke open the seal on his father’s letter and spread it open, starting to read as they headed toward George Street.  But his steps soon slowed and then came to a complete halt.

            “What is it?” Jamie asked urgently, for the sudden darkening of his friend’s countenance disturbed him.  “Bad News?”

            “Not bad, really, just . . . disturbing.”  Adam looked up from the letter, frowning.  “I mean, it didn’t happen, but . . . but just the thought that it could have . . . that anyone for one moment thought . . .”

            “Adam, you’re babbling,” Jamie said, gripping his friend’s arm.  “Now tell me directly: what’s wrong?”

            Adam leaned his head back against the nearest building.  “There’s this rich couple in Virginia City . . . millionaires, actually.”

            “From the mines, I suppose,” Jamie said to draw Adam on, for he seemed to be having trouble getting the story out.

            “Yes . . . from the mines.”  Adam took a deep breath.  “They came to see Pa about . . . about . . .”

            “Yes?”

            “They want . . . they want . . . Little Joe!” Adam cried with the anguish of a man who’d just had a piece of his heart ripped away.  “To adopt him,” he amplified when he got control of his emotions.  “They offered to give him the best of everything, things Pa can’t hope to provide.”

            Jamie stared at him in shock.  “Y-your father—he wouldn’t!”

            “No, he told them no,” Adam replied, “but”—he swallowed hard—“he sounds so . . . sad . . . well, maybe more worried . . . fearful . . . . about whether he really is a fit father; he brings up that rough time right after we lost Marie, not being there for us then.”  He broke off abruptly and grabbed Jamie by the arm.  “I’ve got to write him,” he insisted, “write and post it tonight.”  Though he knew the letter would take close to a month to reach his father, he felt he couldn’t delay sending it by so much as one hour.

            “Of course, you do,” Jamie agreed.  “Fortunately, we’ve got the afternoon free.  Pour out your heart to him, Adam, and we’ll post it on the way to supper.”

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam stared at the empty sheet before him.  The room was silent, except for the light rustle of turning pages as Jamie studied at the adjoining desk.  As quiet and considerate a roommate as Jamie was, Adam still couldn’t release the pent-up emotions driving him with anyone as audience.

            Jamie must have sensed his conflict or, perhaps, just noticed the blank stationery, for he closed his Greek text and stretched his arms overhead.  “That’s enough studying for now.  I think I’ll go out for some fresh air.”

            “You don’t have to,” Adam said as his friend stood.  “This is your room, too.”

            “I was aware of that,” Jamie chuckled.  “No, seriously, I need a break.  The weather’s so fine that I think I’ll walk over to meet Father after he gets off work.  See you at the Vultures.”  He donned his coat and cap and moved for the door.

            “All right . . . thanks!”  Adam knew full well that his friend was doing this for his sake, especially since there’d be so little time between when Josiah got off work and supper was served that Jamie might as well save himself the walk.

            After his friend left, Adam let the quiet settle down over him for a few minutes, and the words finally began to flow:

 

Dear Pa,

 

            I can’t tell you how shocked I was to hear of the Bowers’ proposal to adopt Little Joe.  Actually, furious is a more correct reflection of my response.  He may be a little rascal, but he’s our little rascal, and the Ponderosa just wouldn’t be the same without him.  So, I am profoundly pleased and, yes, even proud that you sent them packing.

            The doubts about yourself that this distressing incident seem to have aroused cause me deep concern.  I know that you blame yourself for your inability to properly parent all of us during those first dark days after Marie’s death, that you feel that you burdened me with responsibilities rightfully yours.  I won’t lie and tell you that those days were easy for me, because they weren’t; I was the one filled with self-doubt then, wondering whether I could possibly be to Hoss and Little Joe what you had been to me.

            But don’t you see, Pa?  It is precisely because of the wonderful job of fathering you did with me that I was able to step into your shoes, at least until you were ready to fill them again yourself.  I cherish the memories of the days when it was just you and me.  No man ever gave more of himself to a child than you did to me, and you haven’t changed.  Except for that one brief interlude, you have given of yourself day after day; and while we all miss Marie, I know that you are fully capable of bring up her son without the help of any interfering busybodies.  I know because you did it with me.  And I haven’t turned out all that badly, have I?  (I hope that makes you smile, Pa!)

            We’re getting ready to celebrate Thanksgiving here.  There’s a tradition among the students who remain in town over the holiday to hold a jubilee, a student-organized program of mostly nonsense, from what I hear.  Jamie and I are both looking forward to that.  We’ll be having our turkey with the Vultures—the ones that don’t go home, that is—but I’ll be thinking of you and the boys and the Thomases, too, for I’m certain you’ll be sharing the Thanksgiving dinner with them.  I have much to be thankful for this year, especially the opportunity to come to Yale, but the greatest blessing of this or any other year is the knowledge that Ben Cartwright is my father.

 

Your grateful son,

Adam

 

            Spent, Adam set the pen down and read what he had written.  He had never before expressed himself so openly to his father, and at first he wondered if he could post such personal thoughts.  These words needed to be said, however, so before his courage failed, he sealed the letter, addressed the envelope and immediately took his coat from the wardrobe at the foot of the bed.  Wanting that letter out of his hand and on its way, he hurried out the door.  If he arrived too early for supper, well, it was a pleasant day for a walk.

 

* * * * *

 

            Waving two tickets, Lucas came running down the steps of the building shared by the Brothers in Unity and Linonia.  “Mission accomplished,” he called, “with the wildly expressed appreciation of the committee.  They declared themselves amazed at how many subscriptions we’d managed to produce.”

            “I’m happy to receive the reward of your hard labor,” Adam laughed.  “You are a phenomenal salesman, Luke, like my friend Billy back home; you sold three times the number of tickets I did.”

            “High time I bested you at something,” Lucas declared, “but you did your fair share, Adam.”  He held out the two tickets.  “Here you go: one for you and one for the little preacher boy.”

            Adam gaped at him.  “You aren’t going to the jubilee?”

            Lucas waved off the idea as ridiculous.  “Of course, I am.  I bought my ticket days ago.”

            “But . . . why?”  Adam felt he was almost babbling.  He’d taken on the commission purely to earn the free ticket, but why would Lucas work as hard as he had if his way in was already secured?

            “Boosted our total.  Very impressive, you know.”  Then Lucas shrugged.  “Like you said, I’m a born salesman; I enjoy it.  Besides, it’s the kind of thing that can pay dividends later on in a college man’s career, his standing among the other men, I mean.”

            “Wouldn’t your standing be more improved by showing up to class on time?” Adam teased.  “And skipping Latin altogether yesterday—tsk, tsk, my boy.”

            Lucas gazed at him with longsuffering patience.  “I didn’t mean academic standing, my boy.  That’s a hopeless quest in my case.  I meant—”

            “Popularity,” Adam finished for him with a grin.

            “Don’t naysay it,” Lucas charged.  “Now, will you take this or do I have to present it to Edwards in person?”

            Adam took both tickets.  “It’s very generous of you, but what made you think . . .”

            “That the price might be a problem?” Lucas asked.  He gave his friend a rare, sober smile.  “I’m not quite the flighty flibbertigibbet you take me for; I notice more than you think.”

            Adam blanched.  Was his and Jamie’s poverty that obvious?  To everyone?

            “It’s the way you watch your pennies,” Lucas said as if he’d heard the unspoken question.  “That’s why you wouldn’t go out for baseball, isn’t it?”

            “Yes,” Adam admitted.  “I would enjoy it, Luke, but . . .”

            “No need to explain,” Lucas said promptly, “and no need to feel embarrassed, either.  To most men at Yale it won’t matter; we believe a man’s character dictates his worth, not the plumpness of his pocketbook . . . not that there’s anything wrong with a plump pocketbook, you understand; I pad mine every chance I get.”  His usual impish grin flashed for a moment and then he sobered again.  “Look, I can’t help with club expenses—anything major like that—but a little thing like this . . . it’s nothing.”

            “Not to us,” Adam said.  He threw an arm around his friend’s shoulders.  “Loyalty . . . generosity . . . that’s character . . . and friendship.  I value yours and it’s time I said so plainly.”

            “I feel the same,” Lucas responded warmly, and they walked to their next recitation arm in arm.

 

* * * * *

 

            “Can you believe we’re already reviewing for term exams?” Adam asked as he and Jamie met Marcus outside chapel on Monday morning.  Lucas, of course, never deigned to arrive until the final bell was ringing.

            Marcus moaned.  “Thank God we don’t actually take them for another two weeks.”

            “The Thanksgiving holiday significantly shortens our class review time,” Jamie commiserated.

            “Oh, hush,” Adam chided.  “You don’t need any review time.”

            “Adam, that isn’t so,” Jamie protested.

            Lucas came running up.

            Adam held the back of his palm to his forehead.  “I think I shall swoon,” he declared.  “The first bell hasn’t even rung.  To what do we owe this exemplary promptness.”

            “I had business to tend to,” Lucas said, “and if you have spare pennies, my boys, please dig them out.”

            “Spare pennies?” Adam adopted a Shakespearean demeanor.  “Prithee, tell me what one looketh like.”

            “It’s for Candy Sam,” Lucas explained, ignoring the jest.  “The freshmen always take up a collection for him at Thanksgiving, to show our appreciation for faithful service all through the year.  You can donate clothes, if you don’t have cash available . . . but don’t worry if . . .”

            “We’ll come up with something,” Adam said.  “Probably cash.  It won’t be much, but I think Sam might need it more than we do.”

            “Yes,” Jamie inserted, “and giving to others is the best way to express thanks for our blessings, don’t you think?”

            “Oh, yes,” Marcus agreed, as he generally did with anything Jamie said.

            “That’s the spirit!” Lucas enthused, “and there’s the bell.  Run for it, lads!”  He frowned as the others laughed at him.

            Then Adam reminded him that that was only the first bell.  “Being in the choir, I have to run,” he chuckled, “but the rest of you may remain at leisure for another five minutes.”

 

* * * * *

 

            “Why don’t they open the doors?” Jamie complained, blowing warm breath on his hands.  “It’s almost time to start.”

            “My dear boy, if you don’t know that by this time, you shouldn’t be in college,” Lucas philosophized.  “It’s another way of keeping freshmen in their place, of course.”

            “Oh, Luke,” Adam chided, rubbing his own chilled hands together.

            “You don’t see any upperclassmen standing out here, shivering, do you?” Lucas pointed out.

            “No,” Marcus grumbled.  “I suppose your brother warned you.”

            “If he did, you should have passed it on,” Adam groused.

            “Are you kidding?” Lucas hooted.  “Older brothers and upperclassmen think alike on keeping the young ones in their place.”

            “Wouldn’t know,” Adam demurred with a smile.

            “Well, keep it in mind for when you return home,” Lucas advised.

            “I’ll keep it in mind for right now!” Jamie chuckled, giving his “younger brother” Adam a patronizing pat.

            Adam’s retort died on his lips as the doors opened, and all the freshmen hurried to enter the building that housed the meeting halls of both the Brothers in Unity and Linonia.  Though most of the freshmen had their tickets in hand, there was no one there to take them; so they all charged up the stairs into the room normally used by Linonia, host for this year’s Thanksgiving Jubilee.

            “It’s full!” Marcus gasped.  “Where are we supposed to sit?

            “Anywhere we can!  Follow me!” Lucas yelled and raced toward the back of the hall.

            Being in the vanguard, he reached one of the few wooden benches remaining for the freshmen and stretched out full length, kicking anyone who tried to push him off.  Adam, Jamie and Marcus weren’t far behind, though, and Lucas’s strategy had ensured that could sit together.  Other freshmen weren’t so lucky—or so ruthless, Jamie said later.  They ended up perching on windowsills or hanging to door casings throughout the proceedings.

            More than just freshmen joined in the scuffle, Adam noted, spotting a few sophomores with their distinctive plugs and bangers and some students from the professional schools, pushing and shoving their way through the crowd.  Doesn’t look like everyone got the message about how to get in early, he mused with a far-from-righteous grin.  Looking at the front of the room, Adam spotted Alexander White and Robert Raines, seated with their classmates on comfortable settees near a stage with a drop curtain and footlights.  He felt glad for his friends and glad that someday it would be his turn to sit in the place of honor and watch the freshmen battle to find a spot.  Much as he hated being low man on the totem pole now, college life had a way of evening things out as a man progressed.

            While the latecomers scrambled for seats and the upperclassmen yelled at them to hold the noise down, Adam took a look around the room.  While any student, regardless of society affiliation, was welcome to attend the meetings of Linonia, he’d never been in their hall before.  It was exactly the same size as that of the Brothers in Unity, but Adam thought the Brothers’ furnishings were more elegant.  The chief ornament here seemed to be two life-size marble statues.  “Any idea who those statues are supposed to be?” he asked, leaning over to his friends and raising his voice to be heard above the hubbub.

            “Demosthenes and Sophocles,” Marcus told him.  “Copies of statues in Rome, I heard from a Linonian chum.”

            “Which is which?” Lucas demanded, but Marcus could only shrug.

            A handful of sophomores began walking the aisles, flinging programs into the air.  Some freshmen who leaped up to run after one lost their seat in the process, but by working together, the four friends each managed to secure a program to save for their memorabilia books and opened it to see what sort of frolics the evening promised.

            Lucas leaned over and pointed to the line of that program listing him and Adam as committee members.  “Feeling famous?”

            Adam laughed.  “No, but I admit it’s nice to see my name in print—and I hear such things pay dividends later on in a college man’s career.”

            “That they do!” Lucas returned with a grin.

            Finally, the curtain slowly rose to reveal several seniors standing on the stage.  Adam recognized two of them as fellow committee members, and it was one of them who stepped forward and announced clearly, “Before we begin tonight’s program, there is one essential piece of business to be transacted.  As you all must be aware, our young freshmen have not yet had an opportunity to elect class officers, so that election will take place tonight—immediately, in fact.”

            The freshmen exchanged bewildered glances.  Somehow, this didn’t seem the right atmosphere for conducting serious business like the selection of class officers, but they quickly learned that this election would be anything but serious.

            “Obviously, the most appropriate choice for president of our little freshmen,” the senior committee man proclaimed, “is the shortest member of the class.  Who are your nominees?”

            Several names were suggested before Adam shouted out, “Marcus Whitmore!”

            “Oh, no,” shy Marcus protested.  “I decline; I decline,” he cried.

            “What’s that?” asked the man in charge, who hadn’t heard Marcus’ soft voice.

            “He declines!” shouted Jamie, not normally one to raise his voice, but motivated by his friend’s discomfort.

            The senior on stage laughed heartily.  “No declining allowed,” he declared.  “Pass him up; pass all the nominees up.”

            The student body raised the nominees into the air and began passing them overhead from one man to the next, the reluctant ones, like Marcus, receiving extra encouragement from the nearest sophomore.

            “They won’t hurt him, will they?” Jamie asked anxiously.

            “They’d better not,” Adam said tersely, irritated with himself for having thrust the reticent young man into the spotlight.

            “Oh, it’s all in fun,” Lucas insisted.  “Do him good.  He’s getting much too like the preacher boy here.”

            “If only you would!” Jamie barbed back.

            By this time all the presidential nominees had been handed up onto the stage.  They were directed to lie down and stretch out to their full length.  Then one of the seniors brought forth a huge measuring stick, some fifteen to twenty feet long, and laid it next to each man in turn.  When he measured Marcus, he called out, “Only four barleycorns long, gentlemen.  I think we’ve found your president!”  Amidst shouts of congratulations from all four classes, Marcus was lifted up and escorted to a seat on stage.  Adam, Jamie and Lucas clapped and hurrahed loudest of all.

            The senior committee man returned to center stage.  “Now, we must have a secretary to assist the new president, so I call upon you to pass up the tallest men in your class.”

            “Aha!” Lucas cried.  “Now’s your chance, Adam.”

            “Oh, no,” Adam protested.

            “All in fun.  Do you good,” Jamie laughed, for once siding with Lucas against his best friend.

            Along with a few others, Adam was lifted overhead and rolled toward the stage.  Once there, he and the other nominees were again asked to lie down for measurement.  “Five and a half square miles long,” announced the man measuring Adam.

            “I’ve got one six square miles, even,” declared another man, raising his yardstick.

            “The rest of you runts are excused,” announced the master of ceremonies.  As the not-quite-tall-enough freshmen hustled back to their places, he brought Marcus and his newly elected secretary forward.  “Make a place for them on those settees, my friends,” he ordered.  “The class leaders must, of course, have the best seats in the house for tonight’s performance, which will begin directly.”

            “Good for Marcus!” Jamie cheered.  “Too bad Adam wasn’t quite long enough for the honor.”

            “It’s all for the best,” Lucas declared dryly.  “I need him as a buffer between me and all your saintliness.”

            “Oh, hush,” Jamie scolded.  “Sometimes you overdo it, Luke.”

            “All in fun,” the other boy assured him just as Adam arrived back at his seat to the strains of the overture from a group of college musicians called the Yale Tooters, according to the program.

            The next thing on the program was the Opening Load, but the senior in charge came forward and stated that, unfortunately, the load had already been shot off, like the tongues of too many freshmen and even more sophomores.  A quick drum tattoo from the Yale Tooters punctuated the announcement, and the Censor’s Report was next called for.  With a flourish the censor unrolled his scroll, which cascaded to the floor and even over the edge of the stage.  As he began to read, laughter reigned, for the report was, in essence, a send-up of several people in the audience, mostly seniors and juniors, so the freshmen rarely understood the jokes, but joined in the general merriment nonetheless.

            Some of the sophomores came in for the good-natured ribbing, and the freshmen howled their appreciation of any jest at their traditional foes’ expense.  Even a few freshmen were mentioned, among them Lucas, chastised for his perennial tardiness to chapel and charged to work off his demerits by proclaiming the merits of the class above him.  “Don’t know any!” Lucas shouted and was roundly booed by the sophomores.

            Adam was surprised to hear his name read from the report, being charged with excessive speech-making ability.  “Unfitting in a freshman,” the censor declared and ordered him to come forward and present an impromptu oration on the virtues of poor grammar.

            With a grin Adam trotted forward.  “I are happy to comply with the askin’s of your excellencies,” he jibed, putting on an exaggerated rendition of uneducated speech patterns he’d sometimes heard back home.  He then presented a defense of poor grammar, emphasizing its accessibility to the smallest child or even to sophomores that left the audience rolling in their seats.

            “Enough!” declared the censor, clasping himself around the middle.  “I beg you, sir, no more, for the sake of my poor, aching ribs.”

            Adam bowed eloquently and, amid welcoming cheers, hurried back to his seat, eager to see the next event on the program.  Musical numbers alternated with comedic plays and a Thanksgiving oration until Miss Cushman and Mr. Booth (actually students portraying the famous actors) gave a serious recitation from Shakespeare’s Macbeth that was a welcome relief from the riotous laughter.  The young man playing Lady Macbeth gave the best portrayal of the evening, which lasted between two and three hours, ending with a play called Limerick Boy that was, by any measure, the most ludicrous item on the entire program.  As they exited the hall, the students were still laughing, and not even the frost in the air could stifle their bubbling spirits.

            Lucas spun around, walking backwards so he could face his friends as they departed from Alumni Hall.  “Well, that was grand!  Sets just the right mood for some traditional Thanksgiving fun,” he announced.  “Who’s going gate-lifting with me?”

            “Gate-lifting?  What’s that?” Adam asked, for he had learned to be wary of Lucas’s predictably hair-raising proposals.

            “Old Yale tradition,” Lucas insisted.  “On the night before Thanksgiving the freshmen go through the town and—well, liberate some gates, you might say.  Take them off their hinges and escort them to the college yard.  Great fun when the townies come after them in the morning.”

            “Sounds more like stealing to me,” Jamie said with a frown.

            “Oh, no such thing,” Lucas scoffed.  “They get their gates back, so it’s just pure freshman frolic.  Don’t be such a spoilsport, Saint James.”

            “I’m no saint,” Jamie stated, “except in the sense that all believers are, but there’s nothing pure about taking private property and I won’t do it.”

            “Nor will I,” Adam said.

            “Oh, not you, too,” Lucas moaned.  “A bit of mischief never hurt anyone . . . and I’ll treat to beer afterwards.”  He waggled his eyebrows as he dangled the enticement.

            For a moment Adam hesitated; then he shook his head.  “No, I’d join you for the beer, but not for what precedes it.”

            “Marc?” Lucas pleaded.  “You’re my last hope.  How about it?”

            Marcus glanced at Jamie, clearly torn between his desire to retain his best friend’s esteem and the yearning to be accepted by someone as personable and popular as Lucas.

            “Do whatever you like,” Jamie said softly, “but be careful.”

            “That goes for both of you,” Adam said, looking straight into Lucas’s eyes.  “I can’t imagine the faculty would think highly of this escapade.”

            “Kept you from being picked up after that freshman-sophomore rush, didn’t I?” Lucas boasted.  “I know all the back alleys.”

            “This is worse idiocy than that!” Jamie declared.

            “Just watch yourself,” Adam warned.  “You, sir, cannot afford many more demerits.”

            “All right, all right, worrywart,” Lucas laughed.  “Look, just to show my goodwill, even for such stiff and straight articles as you two, I’ll still treat to the beer.”  He grinned at Jamie.  “I presume you’ve taken the pledge.”

            “I have,” Jamie admitted with a smile.

            “Coffee in your case, then.  Rood’s on Union Street—say, around eleven?”

            Jamie looked hesitantly toward Adam, who shrugged.  “I’m not sure, Luke,” he said.  “Don’t wait on us; but if we’re coming, we’ll be there by eleven.”

            As Lucas and Marcus joined a group of raucous freshmen and headed off toward town, Adam and Jamie turned their steps the opposite direction.

            “Do you want to meet them?” Jamie asked.

            “Do you?” Adam countered.

            Jamie chuckled.  “Frankly, I don’t relish getting out in the cold again, especially at that hour, but don’t let me hold you back.”

            “No lessons ‘til Monday, so the hour doesn’t bother me,” Adam mused, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck, “and it isn’t often a man gets an invitation to free beer.  I wouldn’t want to insult Luke by turning it down.”

            “Oh, any excuse will do!” Jamie laughed; then fearing his jest might be misunderstood, he added, “I’m not judging you, Adam.  I assumed that you drank, although I haven’t seen you do so since you’ve been here.”

            “No funds for that sort of thing,” Adam admitted, “and I haven’t missed it that much.  I don’t indulge often, and I’m not sure I will tonight.  Hot coffee actually sounds better to me.”  He grinned.  “Or maybe coffee with muscle, as Pa puts it.  I’m not sure I’ll go, though.  As you say, I may not relish getting out in the cold again, once I’m indoors.”

            Reaching their lodgings, they hurried in, stoked up the fire and huddled in blankets until the fire knocked the chill off the room.  For once they laid aside their textbooks and indulged in some light literature borrowed from the Brothers-in-Unity’s Library.  Jamie finally set his book aside, yawning and stretching his arms.  “I’m going to turn in,” he said.  “It’s been a full night.  The light won’t bother me, if you want to stay up.”

            Adam lifted his coat from the back of his chair and thrust his arms into the sleeves.  “I guess I’ll go down to Rood’s and see how Luke and Marc made out.”

            “Good,” Jamie said, reaching for his nightshirt.  “I must admit, I am rather worried about them.”

            “I guess I am, too,” Adam admitted, “because, frankly, I’m not sure the drink is worth the cold walk to get it!”

            His worries were not alleviated by the cold walk, for neither Lucas nor Marcus were inside Rood’s when he arrived.  While he waited for them, he had a piping hot cup of coffee with muscle, but though he waited until nearly midnight, neither of his friends ever showed up.  Flighty Lucas might have just decided to visit another tavern, but Marcus, Adam was sure, would have insisted on coming here, since they’d said they would.

            Troubled, he walked back to his room, entering quietly to avoid waking Jamie.  He changed into his nightshirt and crawled under the covers; and though concern for his friends kept him wakeful, eventually exhaustion won out and he slept soundly.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam suggested they walk to breakfast the next morning by way of the college yard.  “That’s where Luke said they’d bring the gates they lifted,” he reminded Jamie.

            “Oh, I do hope he and Marc are there,” Jamie said.  “Well, actually, I’m hoping that they both decided against the whole business last night and were just too embarrassed to show up at Rood’s after backing down.”

            “I doubt that,” Adam muttered.  “Luke doesn’t have the sense, and—well, I don’t mean this as criticism, but Marc does tend to be a follower.”

            “I know.  It keeps me on my toes to be a good example.”  Jamie sighed.  “He’s got me on a pedestal I may topple off some day.”

            “I am shocked, Saint James,” Adam chuckled, “that you would even consider toppling . . . or is it tippling?”

            “Not you, too,” Jamie groaned.

            Adam grinned.  “Sorry.  Couldn’t resist.”

            As they reached the college yard, they heard a rumble of laughter and then a loud shout.  “Lift up your gates!”

            “Nothing like mangled Scripture to start the day,” Jamie said with a roll of his eyes.

            A couple of disgruntled citizens, each hefting an iron gate over his shoulder, stormed past Adam and Jamie.  “Blasted college kids,” growled a man whose skin was fiery red, all the way up to his bald pate.  “Worse than a plague of rats.  Town’d be better off without the lot of ‘em!”

            “Do you see Luke or Marc?” Jamie asked anxiously, knowing that Adam, because of his greater height, could see further.

            “No, no sign of them.  I hope that means they’re all right,” Adam replied.

            “It could mean that the police caught them,” Jamie fretted.  “I know Luke only intended to pull a prank, but it is illegal.”

            “Let’s hurry on to the Vultures’ Nest,” Adam said, using the nickname the group had developed for their dining hall.  “Hopefully, they’re there.”

            Skirting around clusters of irate townspeople, either on their way to or from the college, the two friends walked briskly toward the Vultures’ Nest and hurried inside.  They didn’t even take time to shed their coats before peering into the dining room and breathing with relief as they caught sight of Lucas and Marcus, sitting side by side.

            “We were certain you’d been hauled off by the peelers,” Jamie said.

            “Not quite that bad,” Lucas muttered with a grimace, while Marcus just shook his head.

            “I went to Rood’s,” Adam told Lucas as he sat down next to him.  “I waited an hour, but you never showed.”

            Luke’s nose wrinkled.  “Sorry.  We—uh—never quite made it.”

            Adam chuckled and made what he thought was an educated guess.  “Faculty spotted you and you had to make a run for it?  Too risky to show your faces on the street after that, I suppose.”

            “Half right,” Marcus groaned.

            “‘Fess up, Marc,” Jamie ordered.

            “We made a run for it,” Marc sighed, “but didn’t run fast enough.”

            Adam sobered.  “The faculty caught you?”

            Hoots of laughter went around the table when Lucas nodded miserably.  “A totally appropriate ending for such juvenile behavior,” Edgar Warington snorted.  “What can one expect from freshmen, though?”

            Darts flew from Luke’s eyes straight into Warington’s.  “And, of course, you never touched a townie’s gate last year!”

            “We didn’t get caught,” George Miller laughed.  “That, my dear Cameron, is why you are destined to remain a freshman forever.  Why, you’ve already racked up enough demerits to keep you from matriculating, haven’t you?”

            Lucas jumped up, looking ready to take Miller’s head off, but Alexander White rapped his glass with his knife to call them back to order.  “If you must scuffle, boys, take it outside,” he directed.  “However, I can’t guarantee there’ll be any breakfast remaining when you return.”

            Adam pulled Lucas down into his chair, leaned toward him and whispered, “Is it true?  Do you have that many demerits already?”  He knew that Lucas had been late to chapel a few times and had been caught whispering during recitation a time or two, but he hadn’t tried to add up the total.

            “Counting the three for disorderly conduct last night,” Lucas whispered, “I’m up to twelve.”

            Adam whistled softly as he snared a biscuit from the plate and passed it on.  “You are going to have to be on your best behavior for the next term, at least, if you plan to matriculate.”  Only after completing six months at the college in good standing would any student be officially admitted, and sixteen demerits was enough to disqualify a man from matriculation.  With twelve, Lucas was already dangerously close to the limit, with an entire term yet to go.

            Lucas shrugged.  “If I don’t then, I’ll make it the next go-round.”

            Though Adam suspected the nonchalance was just an act, he treated it seriously.  “You will buckle down to work, my boy, and mind your manners, for we have no intention of letting you lag behind.”

            On the way home Adam filled Jamie in on what had transpired between him and Lucas.  “Can I count on your help in keeping Luke on the straight and narrow?” he asked.

            “If he’ll accept it,” Jamie said.  “You have more influence with him, I’m sure.”

            “He thinks the world of you,” Adam assured his friend.  “Don’t take his teasing to heart.”

            Jamie smiled.  “I don’t.”  He paused a moment and then added, “I think Marc’s learned his lesson.  Fortunately, he only had one demerit before last night’s escapade, so he’s still in good shape.”

            “Yes, that much will be wiped out at the end of the second term,” Adam said, “so he can start fresh after that.”

            “They wipe out twelve, remember?  Even Luke will be safe if . . .”

            “That’s a big ‘if,’ in his case,” Adam declared.  “I scarcely think he’s going to turn into St. Luke overnight.”

            “Or ever,” Jamie laughed, “but I like him, just as he is . . . with a few less demerits.”

            “Amen to that, my pastoral friend.”  Adam stretched his arms wide and spun around like a top.  “A whole morning free!  Whatever shall we do with it?”

            “Finish the novel I started last night,” Jamie declared.  “Before we know it, it’ll be time to meet Father for the Thanksgiving feast.”

            The morning passed quickly, and soon they were back at the Vultures’ Nest, where Josiah Edwards was a special guest for the holiday meal.  More than half of the Vultures had already gone home to be with their families, so there was more than enough food to share, indeed, to gorge themselves on.  And it was hard to resist the bevy of culinary delights, for Mrs. Swanson had outdone herself.  Steaming bowls of split pea soup began the meal; then the steward, Alexander White, who was not returning to his home until that afternoon, carved the turkey and passed the plates until everyone had a healthy portion.  Serving bowls and platters were passed, filled with mashed potatoes, buttery squash, steamed turnips, Harvard beets and creamed onions.  Pumpkin pie and Marlborough pudding rounded out the meal and the stomachs of everyone who participated.

            They went around the table, each stating something for which he was thankful.  Everyone laughed when Adam declared simply, “Just being here!”  Without making a speech, he knew no better way to describe his continuing wonder at being a student at Yale College, a long-cherished dream he had never expected to see come true.  Much had stood in his way: the death of a mother, the grief of a father and a hectic rush across the continent, but he had made it.  To him, “just being here” summed up a heart full of thankfulness and earnest expectation for what the coming months would bring.

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

The program for the Thanksgiving Jubilee was taken from the Yale Literary Magazine for November, 1861.  Historic issues are available online at Google Books.

 

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Christmas Holiday

 

 

On Monday classes resumed their review of material covered that term.  Since Adam and Jamie had prepared diligently for each recitation as it came, neither really needed much review, but they drilled one another nonetheless, each wanting to make the highest marks possible.  In the library, between classes, they pushed their comrades, Adam taking Lucas in tow and Jamie helping the more receptive Marcus.  “I fear I shall shame the family by leading the class if you keep this up,” Lucas moaned.

“Shame the family,” Adam scoffed, thinking of the pride he hoped to give his father with what he achieved.  “They may die of shock, my spoopsey,” he said, adopting the college term for a silly fellow, “but scarcely of shame.”

            “That's the reason I don’t study,” Lucas stated with a grin.  “I don’t want to strain the poor old folks’ hearts.”

            “You are consideration personified,” Adam said dryly.  “Now, back to work!”

            The week passed quickly, and by its end the boys felt well prepared for the exams that would begin on the following Tuesday.  “I don’t see how we can fail,” Jamie moaned after their final recitation at noon on Saturday, “but I keep feeling as if I need to cram in just one more conjugation or proposition or algebraic equation.”

            Adam hooted.  “One more and you’ll burst!  I intend to relax this weekend, enjoy the society meeting tonight and hit the books hard one last time on Monday.”

            “It is a good plan,” Jamie admitted.  “What type of relaxing did you have in mind?”

“If the weather’s fair, I say let’s take a nice long hike, maybe to West Rock this time.  We haven’t been there yet.  Do you suppose your father would like to join us after chapel tomorrow?”

            “Yes, I think so,” Jamie agreed.  “I’ve missed our walks.”

            “So easy to bundle up with a warm cup of coffee, instead,” Adam chuckled.  “Dr. Cartwright has been slack about filling his own prescription, hasn’t he?”

            Jamie grinned back.  “You haven’t heard the patient complain.”

            “Lazy lad,” Adam chided playfully, knowing that there was no term less applicable to his friend.

‘           “Not at the table!” Jamie laughed and started running toward the Vultures' Nest.

            “I didn’t need to work up an appetite!” Adam hollered, giving chase.

 

*****

 

            Stopping by the post office after the noon meal was a ritual rarely neglected, and

on this Saturday Adam was not disappointed.

            “I thought it was time for another letter from home,” Jamie enthused.  “I’m

right, aren’t I?”

            “Right as rain,” Adam concurred.  “Wind’s picking up, so let’s wait until we get home to read it.”

They set a sprightly pace back to George Street.  Once inside, Adam tossed his jacket to Jamie to hang up, while he broke the seal on the envelope.  Two rectangular slips of paper fell to the floor, and just by their shape, he knew what they had to be.  The first made him smile, but when he saw the inscription on the second draft, tears came to his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Jamie asked urgently.  “Your father didn’t decide to let those people take Little Joe, after all?”

Adam grinned then.  '”No, it’s not bad news at all . . . just touching.  Pa’s sent me another draft . . . as a Christmas gift, he says.  He wanted to be sure it arrived in time, and weather back home is so unpredictable that he was afraid to chance waiting.”

“Why, that’s wonderful,” Jamie said, still puzzled by the tears.

Adam nodded.  “Yes.  Just hit me for a minute . . . all Pa’s doing for me.”  He brightened.  “And this means that I will be able to buy some small gifts for the boys, even if they probably won’t get them until after Christmas.”  He’d already posted a package with the stone pipe for Pa and a small sampling of Candy Sam’s divinity for his brothers, but now he could do a little better by them.

“Oh, yes!” Jamie cried.  “May I help you shop for that?  Let’s do it this afternoon!”

“We will,” Adam replied, “but first I have some good news that concerns you.”

He paused until he had Jamie’s expectant attention.  “Pa sent two drafts.”

“Not for me,” Jamie gasped.  “Oh, he shouldn’t have!”

“He didn’t,” Adam chuckled with a wicked wag of his eyebrows.  “It’s for your father.  I wrote Pa about his circumstances back when he first arrived and Pa sent this.”

Jamie gasped again when he saw the sum on the slip Adam handed to him.  “One hundred dollars.  Oh, Adam!”

“Not needed as much as when I wrote, of course, with his job at the arms company,” Adam said, “so you may well benefit from it.”

“Perhaps,” Jamie said, looking much more sober now.  “Oh, well, that is what Father will do, of course.  What did we ever do to deserve such parents, Adam?”

“No way to merit that,” Adam returned.  “A pure example of that grace you preacher types like to speak of.”

“It is that,” Jamie agreed with a good-natured grin.  “I can’t wait to tell Father tomorrow!”

“But now, my friend, get our coats back out of that wardrobe. We’re going shopping!”

 

*****

 

Both Adam and Jamie were fidgety throughout the second chapel service the next day, both excited about conveying the draft to Jamie's father.  “You don’t think he’ll be offended that I told Pa about his troubles, do you?” Adam had asked anxiously the afternoon before.

“No,” Jamie had assured him.  “He may not be willing to receive the money, but he’d never rebuke you for your charitable concern.”

As the final benediction was said, Adam found himself praying that Josiah would receive the gift in the spirit in which it had been intended.  Even with a steady job now, surely Josiah was finding it hard to make ends meet and still set aside something for his son’s continued schooling.  Many things here in the East were less expensive than back in Nevada, where shipping formed such a large part of the price, but people here seemed to require more of practically everything—food, clothes, entertainment, etc.—than had contented folks back home.

 As was their custom, they met Josiah outside the chapel; as students, they had assigned seating, while the gallery was reserved for guests.  “I don’t know when I’ve seen the two of you look brighter,” Josiah said in greeting.  “Did you find the sermon particularly enlightening?”

“I’m sure it was,” the normally attentive Jamie said with an intriguing smile.

Josiah stroked his chin whiskers.  “Hmm, perhaps ‘bright’ is not the correct adjective.  Yes, I believe, now that I examine you more closely, there is definitely a cunning look about you two.”

“No cunning,” Adam insisted, his lips twitching like Jamie's.  “We just have a surprise for you.”

“And I have one for you, as well,” Josiah laughed.  “Shall we exchange over coffee?  My treat.”

“Definitely your treat,” Adam said with an emphatic dip of his chin.

Josiah looked puzzled and then concerned.  Was his friend’s son running short of funds?  There was little he could do to help, of course, but the concern came almost as naturally as if Ben’s boy had been his own.  They walked to the eatery they generally frequented on Sunday afternoons and each ordered coffee.  Idle conversation filled the time until they were served; then Josiah ordered, “All right, spill the news.”

“Perhaps we should hear yours first,” Adam suggested with a mischievous wink at his roommate.  Having two little brothers, he was well acquainted with the look of curiosity about to burst.

“I think I’ll save mine,” Josiah said.  He sat back and folded his arms.  “Talk.”  The two boys exchanged a nod.

            “Please don’t be angry with me,” Adam said, “but when you first arrived, I wrote Pa about your—your situation.”  He pulled his father's bank draft from his pocket and handed it over.  “He sent this, in hopes it would help until things were better for you.”

“But. . . they are. . . better already,” Josiah stammered, seeing the amount.

“I know, and Pa hoped that would be true,” Adam said.  “The accompanying letter asks that you consider this a Christmas gift . . . or, if you insist, a loan; but either way, he wanted you to have it.”

Josiah waved the draft under Adam's nose.  “Can he afford this?  He must be doing very well, indeed, if he can!”

“The latest cattle drive was successful,” Adam replied with confidence and pride in his father's accomplishment, “and Californians pay very well for good beef.”

“Well, if you’re certain he won’t be depriving himself or you or your brothers . . .” Josiah swallowed the knot in his throat.  “I can never be the friend to your father that he has been to me.”

“Sir, he feels exactly the opposite,” Adam assured his former teacher.  “And who knows what the future holds?  He may one day be as much in need of your help.”

“I hope not, for his sake,” Josiah said with a warm smile, “but if he ever is, promise me you’ll be as faithful to write to me as you were to write to him.”

“It might earn me a trip over his knee,” Adam chuckled; then he sobered and made the promise.  “Will you accept the gift, sir?” he asked.

Josiah nodded.  “As a loan, I will, at least beyond what I deem a reasonable Christmas gift, provided I’m allowed to spend it any way I choose.”

            “Of course,” Adam said slowly, surprised that the man would have thought any strings were attached.  “I’m sure Pa intended nothing less.”

            “Now, Father, tell us your news,” Jamie urged.

            Instead of complying, Josiah asked, “When does your term end?”

            Adam sent Jamie a questioning look, as if to ask what his father was up to.  Then he answered, “The seventeenth.  That’s the last day of exams.”

            “Then, that’s the day we leave,” Josiah stated.

            “Leave?” Jamie asked.  Almost immediately, his shoulders slumped; then he gathered courage to face reality.  “Well, I had hoped for more than one term at Yale, but if you think—”

            Josiah quickly reached for his son’s hand.  “No, son, you’re not leaving Yale—except on vacation.  That’s what I meant.  Your father’s generous gift, Adam, will make it possible for us all to spend several days away for the holiday.  I hope that suits you boys.”

            “But . . . your job?” Jamie asked.  “Will they let you have that much time off?”

            “I’ll resign, effective the seventeenth,” his father said with a quizzical smile.

            “You can’t be serious!” Jamie gasped.  “Where will you find another?”

            “In Springfield,” Josiah said, burying his smile in his coffee cup.

            “Springfield?”  The son looked baffled, and then his eyes brightened.  “You have a teaching position!”

            “I do, indeed.”  Josiah beamed.  “I begin January second, and like you boys, I’d appreciate a few days between assignments.”  He waved the check.  “This makes it possible.  What would you say to Christmas in . . . oh, let’s see, what would be interesting?  New York City?”

            “That would be wonderful!” Jamie cried.  “I barely saw it, coming here, and it looked like a fascinating place.”

            “Adam?” Josiah asked, for the other boy had grown suddenly quiet.

            “I . . . can’t go,” Adam murmured, his disappointment obvious.  “I have an obligation here on the 22^nd.”

            “The Christmas chapel concert,” Jamie said.  “I’d forgotten.  And I so wanted to hear it, too.  Oh, Adam!”

            “It’s all right,” Adam assured his friend.  “Just—just enjoy yourself doubly for my sake.”

            Reaching across the table, Josiah’s fingers closed comfortingly around Adam’s forearm.  “We wouldn’t think of going without you, son.”

            Adam pulled back.  “And I wouldn’t think of depriving you of that grand trip.  Pa didn’t raise me to be that selfish!”

            Josiah chuckled.  “My dear boy, you won’t deprive us of a thing.  We’ll simply delay our departure until after the concert, which I also very much wish to attend.  If we take the evening train that Sunday, we’ll still arrive in the city in time for any special Christmas programs, and if there’s more we care to do, we can stay after a few days.  I dare say, New Haven Arms would be happier if I left at the end of the week, anyway, and it’s better for me financially, as well.”

            “It won’t inconvenience you in any way?”

            “None whatsoever,” Josiah assured him, although it would somewhat shorten his time for the relocation to Springfield.  “In fact, your Christmas concert will provide the perfect opening to our holiday expedition.  Now, how does New York City suit you, young man?”

            “Perfectly!” Adam exclaimed.  “Like Jamie, I didn’t see nearly enough of it my first time through.”

            “Then, New York City it is,” Josiah declared.  “We’ll still have to watch our pennies of course, save back some funds for my move and for Jamie’s extra expenses for the next two terms, but I’m confident we can have a fine holiday with a splurge of extravagance here and there.  Now, shall we indulge in a second cup of coffee?”

            “If you treat,” Adam teased.  “After all, you’re the wealthy man among us; all splurges of extravagance are on you!”

 

* * * * *

 

            The last recitation of the term took place after chapel on Tuesday and exams began that afternoon.  They followed a pattern unfamiliar to Adam, who was more accustomed to taking tests in his classroom during regular hours.  Here, however, the exams were held at odd hours throughout the week and lasted longer than the usual recitation period, as much as two hours for some subjects.  He and Jamie became ships passing in the night, for they were grouped in different sub-divisions of a dozen men each, he in the first and Jamie in the third, so while he was sweating over Latin conjugations, his friend was cramming in as many of Euclid’s propositions as possible.

            Adam felt odd, entering his regular recitation room with no book in hand for his first exam, but he’d been told that whatever was needed would be supplied by the instructor.  He and the eleven students in his sub-division, which included Lucas, filed in and took their seats on the back bench.

            Wilder Smith, their Latin tutor, began by calling two students to the front of the room.  They each drew a slip of paper from his hand and then sat on the front bench to consider their answers for about ten minutes.  Then the first man was called to recite.  Obviously nervous, he stammered through the translation he’d been assigned, but finally reached the end and hurried back to his place on the back bench.  A third student’s name was called; he came forward to draw his assignment, and then the second student was asked to recite.

            Since Smith was taking the students in alphabetical order, Lucas was called before Adam.  Noticeably nervous, he stared glumly at the paper before him as he sat on the first bench; when he was called forward, he stammered worse and made more mistakes than the first man examined.  Adam winced, for his friend had all but butchered the closing line of the translation, with which he was familiar.  His own turn arrived soon after, but though he was nervous, he smiled with relief when he saw the material he would be required to translate.  He had studied diligently and had no qualms about giving his recitation when called.

            When all twelve men had been examined, the process began again with a second round of questions.  After the first man finished this recitation, however, he was dismissed, so Adam knew that he had one more translation to complete, and then he’d be free.  As his name came late in the rotation, his exam endured almost the full two hours, but when he finished, he was certain that he had not only passed, but done exceedingly well.  Lucas, he was afraid, had barely squeaked through.  Back in his room, Adam shared all the information he had garnered about the examination procedure with Jamie, whose first session was not until the next day.

            “I’m sorry to disrupt your study time,” he said as he drew an envelope from his pocket, “but I do have a certain enticement to dangle before your eyes.”

            Jamie slammed Euclid’s Geometry shut.  “Consider me enticed,” he said.  “Those propositions are beginning to circle around in my head like a carousel, and I could use a chance to shake off the dizziness.  What’s the news from the Ponderosa?”

            “I don’t know yet,” Adam chuckled,” and I’m just as eager as you to find out.”

            “I can’t believe you waited this long!” Jamie exclaimed.  “You are all heart, chum.”

            By now Adam had broken the seal and opened the letter.  Quickly scanning it, he began to laugh out loud.  “Oh, it’s just the sort of thing you enjoy most,” he told his friend.  “That Little Joe and his shenanigans!”  He read aloud Ben’s rueful account of a trip to town in which he’d somehow lost track of his youngest son while being subjected to a lecture on the proper management of children by a total stranger.

            “It sounds as though Little Joe’s disappearance was the stranger’s fault, not your father’s,” Jamie, sitting cross-legged on his bed, decided.  “Still, he must have been frantic when he discovered the boy was gone.”

            “Yes, Pa says he searched for hours and had just elicited the new sheriff’s help—hey, it’s Roy Coffee, the man who helped search for Little Joe when he went missing after Marie’s death.”  Adam laughed.  “Pa says Sheriff Coffee gave him no end of ribbing about losing the boy again.  They were just setting out to search for him when Little Joe showed up at the jail, brought in by none less than Julia Bulette.  And didn’t that give the sheriff something to tease Pa about!”

            “I don’t understand,” Jamie said.

            Adam stifled his laughter to a light titter.  “Miss Bulette is a—well, she lives on D Street.”

            Jamie spread bewildered hands.  “So?”

            “It’s—uh—the red light district of town.”

            “Ooh,” Jamie said as he slowly understood what Adam was saying.  “She’s a—”

            “A soiled dove, we call them,” Adam explained.

            Jamie nodded.  “I’ve heard the term.  Fancy Little Joe ending up down there.  He must have made quite an exploration of town that afternoon!”

            “Evidently,” Adam said dryly.  “Pa says he was chasing a kitty cat and lost his way.  Pa tried to stay angry, but by the time they got back to Will Cass’s store, Little Joe’d managed to charm himself out of a spanking and a penalty of only two cents’ worth of candy, instead of the five Pa’d originally planned to give him.  And he considers that discipline.”  Adam shook his head.  “Unbelievable.  I seem to remember Pa’s being much stricter with me when I was that age.”

            “You wouldn’t really want him deprived of his candy, would you?” Jamie teased.

            “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Adam snorted, looking almost serious.  “A full continent away that scamp still works his charm!”

            “He took my mind off Euclid for a few minutes,” Jamie said.  “That’s worth two cents—or even five—of candy in my book.”

            Adam pointed to the geometry text.  “That’s your book.  Back to it, chum, or not even Candy Sam’s divinity will raise your spirits after your exam tomorrow.”

            Jamie moaned, but dutifully went back to his desk, opened the troublesome text and went over the next proposition for at least the third time since Sunday.

 

* * * * *

 

            In the midst of term exams, of all ridiculous times, the Brothers in Unity held their election of officers for the next term.  As thirty members were required for a quorum, the blue posters tacked to trees across campus urged the importance of everyone’s being there Wednesday night.  Though they knew no freshman was ever elected to society office, Adam, Jamie and Marcus dutifully attended.  Lucas did not, citing his need to study as reason for his absence.  “It’s not an excuse,” Adam told Jamie later.  “He didn’t do well in Latin, and his performance in algebra today was abysmal.  I’m worried about him.”

            “You think he’ll be put on condition?” Jamie fretted.

            “At best,” Adam replied soberly.  “I should have taken him in hand sooner.”

            “Let’s invite him to a study session in Greek,” Jamie suggested.  “We all have that next week, and he’ll need to be sharp.  Old Had’s a brick, but he’s strict.”

            “Good idea.  I’ll pass it on to Luke . . . and I won’t make it an invitation,” Adam said, his features severe.  “I’ll tell him his presence is required.”

            “Or what?” Jamie asked.

            “Or he’ll lose the pleasure of our company for a good six months, at least,” Adam grunted.

            “If he’s rusticated, you mean.”  Jamie’s nose crinkled in distaste.  “I suppose that is what would happen if he failed badly.”

            “Not that he’d really stay in the country and cram, as the faculty intends by that,” Adam said with a roll of his eyes, “so if he fails, we may as well bid our friend farewell for . . . well, possibly forever.  I won’t have that!”

            “Nor will I,” Jamie said, laying his hand atop Adam’s in pledge.

 

* * * * *

 

            “You’d think they’d cancel these things during exams,” Adam groused as he and Jamie walked to the meeting of Sigma Episilon Saturday night.  “First Brothers and now Sigma Ep.  At least, they didn’t assign anyone to orate or debate this week.  That really would be an imposition on the students selected.”

            Jamie blew on his chilled fingers.  “I wonder what the program will be, instead.  A guest speaker, perhaps?”

            “Can’t imagine.”  Adam sighed.  “I suppose I should be grateful for any excuse to take a break, but it’s hard to convince myself that I can spare the time.”

            “All we have left is Greek,” Jamie pointed out, “and you’ve given a dead rush in every recitation all term long.”

            “Almost,” Adam admitted with a pleased smile.  His performance under Professor Hadley’s instruction had been almost perfect, a dead rush, indeed, as the college boys called it.  “Yours has been even more perfect.”

            Jamie shrugged.  “I’m better at languages, but can’t compare with you in mathematics.”

            “Well, here we are; now we’ll see what sort of affair our leaders feel appropriate to examination week.”  Adam opened the door to the society hall, and they entered . . . to almost pure pandemonium, but it was pandemonium of the merriest kind.  Spotting Lucas, Adam weaved his way over to him.  “What’s up?” he asked.

            “Peanut bum!” Lucas proclaimed.  “That’s what my poor, aching head needs after all that Greek you and the preacher boy crammed in so ruthlessly.”

            “Only aches because you used it so little during the term,” Adam chided.  “So, what’s a peanut bum?”

            “Best part of society life,” Lucas enthused.  “My ever-so-secretive brother did tell me about this.  Oh, boy, here they come!”

            “Here who comes?” Jamie demanded.

            “Not who . . . what!” Lucas laughed.  “Get your pronouns straight, chum.  Just watch: you’ll catch on quick, smart as you are.”

            Adam and Jamie both turned their attention to the center of the room, which had been cleared of its usual seating.  Into the large space remaining marched two of the officers, hefting between them a huge sack, which they upturned and dumped onto the floor.

            “Come on!” Lucas yelled and, following his own advice, dove into the pile of peanuts.  It took Adam and Jamie only a second to join the scramble.  The rest of the evening was devoted to munching peanuts, crunching crisp apples and swilling down cocoa and coffee, while the students commiserated over the tough exams and celebrated the ones they were certain they had killed: a night of unadulterated relaxation for all the “poor, aching” heads crammed ruthlessly with Greek, Latin, geometry and algebra.

            “So that’s a peanut bum,” Adam said with satisfaction as they laughingly left at its close.  “May all our exam weeks be graced with its like!”

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam addressed and sealed the envelope and carefully placed the letter to his father inside his coat pocket, along with one each to Billy and Ross, to be mailed on the way to supper later that afternoon.  There hadn’t been much news to tell, really, but since he had the room to himself and not much else to do, this had seemed like a good time to send a few words to his family.  Before exams started, he’d written to thank his father for the Christmas draft and to assure him that the additional funds would be well spent.  He’d also already shared the good news that Josiah had found a teaching position and promised to send his address as soon as Jamie got word of his new lodgings in Springfield.  Enthusiastically, he’d told Pa about Josiah’s plan to treat them all to a holiday trip to New York City, but said that he would be mindful not to impose on that generosity.

            That left little for today’s letter except to report that he’d finished his exams.  He described how different they’d been from what he was accustomed to, but assured his father that he thought he’d done well.  In a separate note to Hoss and Little Joe, he’d described Saturday night’s peanut bum, knowing they’d both think that sounded like fun.  And he promised to write about all the fun in New York, too, to give them something to look forward to in his next letter.  “Be sure to tell me all about Christmas on the Ponderosa,” he directed, trusting Hoss, at least, to remember and set everything down on paper.

            Checking his watch, he determined that Jamie would probably still be wrestling with Professor Hadley’s Greek exam for another half hour or so.  He was confident he’d done well on his own test because the professor had given him a wink and a smile when he’d finished his last translation.  Throwing himself down on the bed, he opened the latest issue of the Yale Literary Magazine.  Neither he nor Jamie had done more than glance at the table of contents after picking it up almost a week ago.  Studying for exams should come first, they both agreed, and even though Adam had finished his yesterday, he hadn’t opened the magazine’s covers until now.  With his letters dutifully written and time to kill, he decided he might as well read an article or two.

            He read the prize essay, published in this month’s issue and was about halfway through the article evaluating whether boating or baseball was a better pursuit for most students when Jamie came bursting through the door.  “Done!” he cried.

            “And you look satisfied with your performance,” Adam observed with a bright smile.  “Did Old Had wink at you?”

            “He did!” Jamie exclaimed.  “After what you told me last night, I was looking for it, and while I was quite sure before that I’d done well, that wink was most reassuring.”  He flopped down on the bed next to Adam, glancing at the Lit. in his hands.  “Anything interesting?”

            “I haven’t gotten into it much,” Adam said, laying aside the magazine.

            Jamie lay back, folding his arms beneath his head.  “Odd, isn’t it?  We’ve been so rushed all week, cramming every minute with studying, and now it’s all over and nothing to do until Sunday.”

            “For you, oh man of leisure,” Adam laughed.  “I, on the other hand, have extra rehearsals between now and then.”

            “Do you have a solo?” Jamie inquired.  “I’ve been so occupied with Homer and Livy and propositions and equations that I haven’t thought to ask, but I assume they’ve been assigned by now.”

            “Yes, but those all went to the juniors and seniors,” Adam snickered.  “Besides, I’m not really good enough for solo work.”

            Jamie sat up.  “I disagree,” he said decidedly.

            Adam shoved him back down on the bed.  “You, sir, are enormously biased.”  He lay back beside his friend, adopting the same posture.  “Honestly, I probably have the least trained voice of anyone in the choir.  I’m lucky Herr Stoeckel accepted me at all.”

            “But you’re getting training now, and he sees your potential,” Jamie insisted.  “Add that to your natural talent—”

            “And, maybe by the time I’m a senior, I might hope for a small solo part,” Adam finished with a chuckle.  He turned his head toward his companion.  “You want to take a walk before supper or just relax?”

            “I want a good, old-fashioned nap,” Jamie said with a yawn, “and then I want to stack up my books and not open them once until we get back from New York.”

            “Second the motion,” Adam said in fervent agreement.

 

* * * * *

 

            Meeting the two boys outside the chapel on the following Sunday, Josiah pumped Adam’s hand.  “Bravo, my boy!” he exclaimed enthusiastically.  “You sang beautifully.”

            Adam’s smile had a slightly rueful cast.  “I hope that doesn’t mean my voice stuck out too much.  Herr Stoeckel keeps lecturing me—all of us, really—about blend.  I can’t seem to get it quite right, either too loud or too soft.”

            Josiah patted his shoulder.  “I have scarcely heard tones so sweetly blended, so you must be doing something right.”  He chuckled.  “However, I did manage to pick out a certain fine baritone at rare intervals.”

            “Well, as long as they were rare,” Adam returned with a grin.

            “When does our train leave?” Jamie asked.  “Do we have time for a hot meal or will we need to purchase sandwiches and fruit from the train boy?”

            “We have about two hours,” Josiah replied.  “Just about time enough to eat dinner, pick up our bags and get to the depot.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam fastened the clasp of his carpetbag and set it beside the door, where Jamie’s already stood.  “Are you sure you packed everything?” he asked.  “You don’t want some light reading material—dear old Euclid, perhaps?”

            “I shall cheerfully strangle you if you mention him once during this holiday,” Jamie vowed, though the twinkle in his eye belied the threat.  “If it’s light reading material you want, the ever-accommodating train boy can supply something better that that!”

            Adam reached for his coat.  “Time we headed for the train, then.”  He took a quick look around the room.  Everything in order: textbooks neatly stacked on their desks, the clothes they wouldn’t need hung neatly in the wardrobe, bed tidily made up.  Not a single cause for Mrs. Wiggins to reproach them when she did her weekly cleaning.

            Jamie wrapped a worn woolen scarf tightly around his neck, for the air outside was frosty.  Snatching up his bag and tucking their umbrella under his arm, he gave a hearty cheer.  “Let’s go!”

            “New York City or bust!” Adam declared, adapting an old trail cry, as he hefted his carpetbag and followed Jamie out the door.

 

* * * * *

 

            Red-cheeked, their breath puffing out white in front of them, Adam and Jamie trotted onto the depot platform, spotted Josiah inside and hurried over.  “We made it in time, didn’t we?” Jamie asked, for when his father immediately stood to his feet, he feared that they might be running late.

            “With about ten minutes to spare,” his father replied, affectionately cupping the young man’s wool-wrapped neck.

            Adam dropped his carpetbag beside the older man.  “I’d better get over to the window and purchase my ticket.”

            Josiah grabbed his arm.  “Already purchased, Adam.  This trip’s on me, remember?”

            “That isn’t fair to you, sir,” Adam insisted, “and I can pay my own way.  Pa sent me a draft, too.”

            “It’s my Christmas gift to you,” Josiah insisted.  He put an arm around his son’s slim shoulders.  “Jamie here may get a few more, but the train ticket, lodging and food will have to suffice for you, my boy.”

            “It will suffice for me, too, Father,” Jamie said.  “I didn’t expect more . . . or even this, to be honest, knowing how things were.”

            “Just needed things, Jamie,” his father said.  “You’re in sad need of a warmer winter coat, for instance, and I thought we’d pick one up while we’re in the city, as part of your Christmas.”

            “You are generous beyond my hopes,” Jamie said tenderly.  “Uh-oh,” he added as a whistle blew outside.  “Is that our train already?”

            “Running a bit early, evidently,” his father replied.  “Get your bags, boys, and let’s board!”

            Three happy faces hurried aboard and settled into second-class seats, Josiah taking the one facing the two boys.  Within a few minutes the train departed and soon passed over an extensive flat meadow as they rolled toward West Haven.  The tracks lay near the shore, and all three travelers gazed out the window at the soothing sight of Long Island Sound on their left.  “If the weather had been more pleasant, we could have gone by boat,” Josiah said, “but I think this will be warmer.”

            “I’m all for staying as warm as possible,” Adam said with a shiver.  “We picked a fine time for a pleasure trip, didn’t we?”

            “Well, if that’s a complaint,” Josiah teased, “we can always turn back at the next station.”

            “No complaints,” Adam said with a grin, “but I might be joining you in that quest for a warmer coat.  I’ve spent my most recent winters in Sacramento, and it doesn’t get much worse than rainy there.”

            “A pity it’s Sunday,” Jamie observed.  “We could have purchased those warm coats right away.”

            “Jamie, Jamie,” his father laughed.  “Even if it weren’t Sunday, we wouldn’t be doing any shopping.  By the time we find our hotel, settle in and have some supper, the stores will be closed, anyway.”

            “I suppose so,” Jamie said with a chagrinned shrug.  “I tend not to think things through when I’m excited.”

            “A failing common to man,” his father opined lightly.  “I thought we would just get acquainted with the city tomorrow and do some shopping, as well.”  He extended a copy of the New York Times.  “This is yesterday’s paper, but it details what’s available this next week.  If you’ll look on page four, you’ll find a list of theaters and other amusements, and there are fuller descriptions on page seven.  See what appeals to you.”

            “Theater of any kind appeals to me,” Adam said with enthusiasm.  “I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve seen a play.”

            Adam and Jamie eagerly perused the newspaper column of amusements on offer.  “So many,” Jamie gasped.  “I scarcely know what to choose.”

            “Anything but ‘The Wonders of the World,’” Adam said with a scowl at the newspaper.  “‘Monster child with two heads, four legs and three arms.’  It’s nothing but a freak show!”

            “I’m glad that doesn’t appeal to you,” Josiah admitted.

            “Not at all, despite how educational the advertisement touts it to be.”  Adam handed the newspaper back to Josiah.  “Honestly, sir, I think we’d both be pleased if you planned our itinerary.”  If from nothing but sheer courtesy, he felt he owed that much to his host, but in addition, he still held his old teacher in such esteem that he had confidence that any choice Josiah made would be both enjoyable and profitable.  He had noticed an advertisement for a production of Hamlet that was extremely enticing, but it was playing in Brooklyn.  Since he wasn’t familiar with New York City, he didn’t know whether the hotel they booked into would be close enough to make that a practical destination.

            “I’ll give it good consideration, then,” Josiah replied.  “We’ll see something tomorrow evening and probably most evenings while we’re in town.”

            “Oh, this will be the best holiday ever!” Jamie enthused, and Adam nodded his vigorous agreement.

 

*  * * * *

 

            The train ride was uneventful, except for the steady deterioration of the weather as they moved southward, from cold to cloudy to rainy to a drenching downpour by the time they reached the end of the line.  They immediately boarded the city cars down to Chatham Street, just past City Hall.  “I remember this,” Adam laughed.  “I trotted from the ferry to here at a most prodigious pace.”

            “I stopped overnight here in New York, so I missed that opportunity to race through the streets,” Jamie chuckled as he opened the umbrella and held it over both their heads.  His father, fortunately, had one of his own.  “Evidently, we’re not staying at the St. James, as I did then.”

            “Not this time, son,” Josiah replied.  “We’ll be in a more—well, economic—hotel on this trip.”  He smiled apologetically at the two boys.  “The quarters won’t be luxurious.”

            “We’d have been disappointed if they were,” Adam quickly said.  “None of us wants to live above our means.”

            “Oh, well, perhaps a bit above our means,” Josiah chuckled.  “We are on holiday, right?”

            “Right!” both boys cried in unison.  They dodged puddles as best they could for the short walk that followed.

            “Well, this is it,” Josiah announced, stopping in front of French’s Hotel.  After checking them in, he led the way to the room they would all share.

            “I thought you said it wouldn’t be luxurious,” Adam teased as he set his carpetbag at the foot of one of the two beds.  “By western standards this is a palace.”

            Josiah laughed as he dropped onto the other bed.  “I forget you boys have not been spoiled by the likes of the Astor House.  No, this is a sound businessman’s hotel that was recommended to me by my supervisor at New Haven Arms.  There are others closer to the attractions we wish to see, of course, but we’d pay for that convenience.”

            “No need when we come equipped with strong sets of these.”  Adam slapped his right thigh.

            “New York has a thorough network of city cars,” Josiah told him, “so if we need to go further than our legs will comfortably carry us, we can ride in style for only five cents.”  He nudged his carpetbag with his toe.  “We can unpack these when we return after supper,” he suggested.

            Jamie immediately asked, “What are we doing now?  The stores are closed, remember?”

            “Anyone hungry yet?” Josiah asked.

            After a quick exchange of glances with Adam, Jamie replied, “Not yet.  We’d rather explore.”  Adam nodded his agreement.

            “In the rain?” Josiah said with an unbelieving shake of his head.

            “We won’t melt,” Jamie insisted.

            “Let’s wait a bit and see if it clears off; then we can walk a few blocks up Broadway,” Josiah suggested, “and see what we find.  We won’t stay out long, however.  The temperature is dropping steadily.  Cold and wet is not a sensation I’d welcome.”

            Half an hour later the rain let up, and even though he personally would have preferred to stay in the warm hotel, Josiah gave in to the boys’ desire to see the big city.  Leaving the hotel with umbrellas firmly in hand, they crossed the park facing them and paused to examine more closely the marble edifice of City Hall.  “Imposing, eh, Adam?” Josiah said.

            “Yes,” Adam agreed readily.  “It does stand out, as an official building should.  I wonder why they’re building a new one.”  He’d noticed the excavation for the new foundation behind the current building.

            “It’s a growing city, and with growth comes the greater possibility of crime and, thus, the need for more courtrooms,” Josiah suggested.  “One of the things I thought we’d do this week is to visit some of the best examples of architectural design in the city,” he added.  “You’ve said that you might be interested in a career in that field.”

            “Possibly,” Adam said, though he secretly wondered how he could manage an architectural career from the confines of the ranch.  He looked up at his host.  “But touring buildings surely can’t hold much interest for you or Jamie.”

            “Actually, it does,” Jamie put in.  “I can appreciate beauty in a building, as well as in words.”

            “Here’s Broadway,” Josiah said as they reached the end of the block.

            “Which way?” Adam asked.  “North or south?”

            Josiah chuckled.  “North, if you’re interested in retail stores.”

            They’d traversed no more than two blocks before they stopped to gape at a large dry goods emporium, their eyes dazzled by the wide variety of goods available.

            “I wish it were open,” Jamie sighed.

            “It’s so close to our hotel that we can take it in any time,” Adam pointed out.  “I want to see what else Broadway has to offer.”

            “All right,” Jamie, always eager to accommodate, murmured.  He had, however, a secret mission to fulfill and chafed at the delay of getting it underway.

            Adam had a secret mission of his own, but wanted to see a wide spectrum of possibilities before making a final decision.  It was, after all, still two days until Christmas.  A bigger problem than what to buy, in his mind, was finding enough time alone to make certain purchases unseen.

            They ambled up Broadway, pausing here and there to gaze in windows as something caught their eyes, but when they reached the 400-block, Josiah suggested that they turn around.  “I’m quite certain I felt some raindrops assault my poor beaver,” he said, referring to his hat.

            “May we start here tomorrow?” Jamie begged, looking with longing into the window of D. Appleton and Company.

            “Oh, you boys and your books,” Josiah snickered.

            “I can’t imagine where we got that from, can you, Jamie?” Adam observed dryly with a wink at his friend.

            Pressing an index finger to his lower lip, Jamie cocked his head in a studious attitude.  “I can’t imagine, either,” he said after a moment’s reflection.  “It certainly can’t be hereditary.”

            “Or influenced by the present company, who appears to disdain entrance into a bookstore,” Adam said.  “Oddly enough, I seem to recall a different attitude in my first teacher.  So sad that it seems to have dissipated with age.”

            “Highly discouraging,” Jamie concurred with a twinkle in his eye.

            “All right, all right.”  Josiah lifted his palms in surrender.  “I confess: I’m the one who started you both on this path, so I might as well resign myself to visiting every bookstore in New York.”

            “Oh, no, not the entire state,” Adam assured him merrily.  “Just the ones here in town—at least, the ones on Broadway.”

            “That’ll be quite as much as we can handle, most likely,” Josiah said with a wry smile, “but to answer your question, Jamie . . . no, we will not be coming here first thing tomorrow.”  He pulled his son into a one-armed embrace.  “First stop will be a gentleman’s clothing store—a coat, remember?”  He frowned at the large puddle on the walk.  “And some rubbers, too, I’d say.”

            With a shiver Jamie agreed.  “Where shall we eat?” he asked.

            “Let’s just patronize the hotel restaurant tonight,” Josiah suggested.  “Then we’ll go upstairs, unpack and decide on our itinerary for tomorrow.”

 

* * * * *

 

            “Is Fulton Street nearby?” Jamie asked as his finger rested on an advertisement in the newspaper.

            “I’ll see,” Adam, sitting cross-legged on the opposite bed, replied.  He peered intently at the street map loaned to them by the helpful clerk downstairs.  “Yes!  There it is, a few streets south and east of us.  Why?  What’s on Fulton Street?”

            “Leggat Brothers,” Jamie reported, adding with a grin, “declaring itself to be the ‘cheapest bookstore in the world.’  Ten thousand books, many only twenty-five cents.”

            “Definitely my preferred price,” Adam said, his eyes still resting on the map.  If he seemed less enthusiastic than Jamie had expected, it was only because he had also noticed that Fulton Street was marked as the departure point for the ferry to Brooklyn.  Not far at all, he was glad to note, although he still didn’t feel right voicing his desire to Mr. Edwards.

            Between Adam’s lack of response and his father’s statement about where they’d be going first, Jamie set aside the paper with a sigh.  “I don’t suppose we can go there tomorrow, anyway.”

            Josiah turned from the small table that served as a writing desk.  “Actually, Fulton Street is our first stop, son, so whichever store we come across first gets our business first . . . even if it’s books, instead of coats,” he finished, laughing at the sudden brightening of his son’s countenance.

            “Truly?”  There’s a coat store on Fulton?”

            Josiah rolled his eyes.  “If you’d looked past the advertisements for books, my boy, you’d already know that.  Find the one for Evans’ and you’ll see why we’re going there.”

            “Oh, I see what you mean!” Jamie exclaimed when he’d found the column almost totally devoted to a list of offerings at Evans.  “The prices are good.  Only three dollars for an overcoat, Adam!”

            “I shall definitely get one at that price,” Adam declared.

            “If it’s of good quality,” Josiah reminded him.  “A bargain’s only as good as the merchandise itself.”

            “Father, you’re neglecting your duty to plan our itinerary,” Jamie chided playfully.  “Personally, I could probably spend the day in that bookstore, but . . .”

            “But you most certainly will not,” his father chuckled.  “And I need no admonition from you, boy, about my duty . . . since I’ve completed it.”

            Both boys turned eager eyes on him.  When Josiah just continued to smile at them, Adam gave him a gentle prod.  “Well, then . . .”

            Josiah laughed out loud.  “Leggat Brothers and Evans should take most of the morning.  Then lunch somewhere, and then we’ll shop our way up Broadway through the afternoon, have supper and clean up for the evening’s entertainment.”

            “And what is that?” Jamie demanded.  “You know that’s what we’re most eager to know.  Sometimes you can be most provoking, Father.”

            The words sounded disrespectful, but the tone definitely was not, and they brought a smile to the father’s face.  “The Brooklyn Academy of Music.”

            “Hamlet,” Adam gasped, in awe that his unvoiced hopes were to be fulfilled.

            “Of course, Hamlet,” Josiah said with a mirthful shake of his head.  “Don’t you think I know you boys that well?”

            Jamie had bounced up from his bed at the announcement, and now his arms circled about his father.  “And we know you!  You’re as much a fan of Shakespeare as either of us.  I hated to mention it, though, as I didn’t know where Brooklyn was.”

            “Nor did I,” Adam admitted.

            “Nor I,” Josiah chimed.  “That’s why I sent you boys up to the room, so I could speak with the clerk in private.  He assured me that it’s just across the East River and said we should take the Fulton Street ferry across.”

            “It’s on the map,” Adam said.  “I guess we’ll be spending quite a bit of time on Fulton tomorrow!”

 

* * * * *

 

            “Umm . . . luxury,” Adam murmured with satisfaction as he, Josiah and Jamie departed Evans’ and Company the next morning, each sporting a new overcoat.  Though only made from black cloth, not wool, they were warmly lined.  All three had also purchased fleece-lined gloves and rubber overshoes.  As tempting as the inventory of Leggat Brothers had been, however, they’d purchased little there.  Jamie and Adam had each indulged in a single novel for twenty-five cents, just in case the weather turned inclement and they were forced to spend the afternoon in the hotel.  The clouds above were definitely gray and gloomy with the portent of rain.

            “Do you want to eat before we drop your books by the room?” Josiah asked.

            “I am getting hungry,” Jamie said, “but I could wait if you have a place in mind on Broadway.”

            “Nothing in mind,” his father admitted.

            “That oyster saloon we passed between here and Leggat’s looked promising,” Adam suggested, “and it would be on our way back.”

            “Oysters agreeable to you, son?” Josiah asked.

            When Jamie said that they were, they walked the few blocks back to the establishment and ordered piping hot bowls of oyster stew with coffee.  Then, fortressed against the cold both inside and out, they returned to the hotel long enough to leave their packages from the morning’s shopping and then set out for the shops of Broadway.

            They stopped first at the dry goods store they’d seen the night before and then went to a men’s clothing store further up the street.  It was hard to get excited about items as mundane as undershirts and drawers, but as the prices were low, everyone bought a set or two.  Adam spotted a table of ties, ranging in price from five to fifty cents.  “I’m feeling extravagant,” he said with a grin as he selected a couple for fifteen cents each.

            “That dark crimson one will look elegant with your suit tonight,” Jamie suggested.

            Adam held aloft a deep blue tie.  “Ideal for you, chum,” he told his friend.

            “You have such good taste,” Jamie said admiringly as he handed the blue tie to the clerk.

            “Ugh!  Raining again,” Adam groaned, opening their umbrella as they stalwartly set forth again.

            They didn’t see much else of interest in that block, but when they reached the next, Jamie cried, “Now, here’s what I’ve been waiting for—Appleton’s!”

            “Planning another trip soon, son?” Josiah asked playfully, referring to Appleton’s reputation as a publisher of travel guides.  “I thought this one would satisfy you for a long while.”

            “It does,” Jamie replied, “but, Father . . . it’s Appleton’s.”

            “Evidently, the epitome of publishers,” his father said dryly with a wink at Adam.

            “One of the few I know by name,” Adam admitted.  “I would like to shop here, sir, if you don’t mind.”

            “I never intended otherwise,” Josiah said with a companionable pat to the young man’s shoulder.  “Let’s go in.  At least, it’s not raining inside!”

            Inside, long rows of European authors met their wondering gaze, as well as American fiction by such authors as Washington Irving and James Fennimore Cooper.  Both boys enthused over the beautifully bound works of Longfellow and Bryant, and Jamie picked up a volume of Emerson’s essays with a look of desire that Adam filed away for future reference.

            “Anyone buying this afternoon?” Josiah asked as he reluctantly set down a book on natural history.

            “Not yet,” Adam said.  “Prices might be better elsewhere.”  In fact, he knew books were cheaper at Leggat’s, though not so richly bound as those here.  As a gift for Jamie, he would consider the costlier purchase; the cheaper works at Leggat’s would have to do for him.

            “Possibly,” Josiah conceded, “and we do have plenty of time to look.  We won’t be spending a great deal of time in our room, but even if you don’t finish those novels you bought this morning, I do think we should each treat ourselves to something new for the train trip home.”

            “Oh, yes!” Jamie agreed heartily.  “And I know just what I’ll choose!”

            Adam had a feeling he knew exactly what book his friend had in mind.  Scratch that idea off the list, he thought.

            They kept walking north on Broadway, but made slow progress because there seemed to be at least one bookstore in every block.  If Adam had been willing to pass one up, Jamie certainly was not, but when five o’ clock came, the stores made the decision for them by closing.  “Time for supper now?” Josiah asked with a mischievous smirk.

            “Past time,” Adam stated, “but I do hope we can come back another day.  I think I know what I want now.”

            “We can come back tomorrow,” Josiah said.  “There’s one place in particular I want to take you then, but we should still have time for more shopping.”

            “Where’s that, Father?” Jamie inquired.

            “All in good time, my boy; all in good time.”

            “Provoking chap, isn’t he?” Jamie said with a side glance at Adam.

            “Not to me,” Adam chuckled.  “I’m quite used to that sort of behavior from a certain Benjamin Cartwright.”

            “They must be a matched pair,” Jamie agreed.

            “Takes one to know one,” his father observed dryly.

 

* * * * *

 

            With some reluctance Adam surrendered his overcoat to the cloakroom attendant.  Not that he was either cold or concerned for its safety, only somewhat embarrassed by the plainness of his apparel.  In his best suit and new tie, he had felt well dressed when he’d looked at himself in the hotel mirror and had thought Jamie looked even more handsome in the tie matching his eyes.  Here, among the rich gowns and furs of the ladies and the fashionably cut trousers of expensive fabric sported by the gentlemen, he felt . . . well, dowdy . . . as if his frugality shouted penury for all to see.  However, once they’d taken their seats in the family circle, where tickets went for only twenty-five cents, he relaxed.  The people around him in those seats were more plainly attired, and frankly, he and the two Edwards looked quite dashing next to some of them.  When the curtain rose, all such mundane worries fled, anyway.  Nothing matter except the perceptive interpretation of the immortal lines.

            “He’s good, isn’t he?” Jamie leaned close to Adam’s ear to whisper during a break between acts.

            “Davenport?  One of the best I’ve seen,” Adam agreed.  He added with a self-deprecating grin, “Not that that’s saying a lot.  I like the way he plays Hamlet, so dreamy and wrapped in thought.”

            “That’s it,” Jamie said, “just what I was feeling.  I saw Hamlet once in St. Louis, and the lead actor there played him so robustly that I couldn’t imagine he ever took pause for thought.”

            Adam replied only with a nod, for the next act was beginning.  He watched, spellbound, until the final scene and reluctantly rose from his seat.

            “Hate to see it end?” Josiah asked with a discerning cock of his head.

            “I know I do,” Jamie exclaimed.  “How shall we ever sleep tonight with such scenes running rampant through our heads?”

            His father laughed.  “Let’s stop somewhere for cake and coffee and see if that helps you relax.”

            Retrieving their overcoats, they left the theater.  “Oh, dear,” Jamie sighed when he saw the sleet streaking down.

            “There’s the horse car now,” Adam said, pointing ahead.  “Let’s hoof it!”

            Dodging icy pellets, they sprinted up the block and rushed onto the Fulton Street car.  Jamie gasped for breath as he said, “Lucky for us the line comes direct to Montague Street from the ferry.”

            “And back again,” Adam quipped, pointing out the more pertinent fact.

            “Luck has nothing to do with it,” Josiah scolded playfully.  “Didn’t I tell you that New York had a well organized transportation system?”

            “The best I’ve ever seen,” Adam replied.

            “And how many have you seen, world traveler?” the older man chuckled.

            “Not many,” Adam admitted with a shrug, “but between the railroads and the horse cars and the ferries, a man can go almost anywhere safe from the sleet.”

            “And the snow.”  Jamie pointed out the window of the car.  Soft flakes were beginning to float down.

            Josiah looked at the gentle flakes with apprehension.  “Maybe we should skip that cake and coffee and go straight back to the hotel.”

            Though not afraid of cold weather on his own account, Adam immediately understood the father’s concern for a son who had always been prone to winter illness and had already endured excessive exposure on this chilly day.  “I think we should,” he agreed quickly.  “Perhaps the hotel restaurant would still be open for coffee.”

            “Perhaps,” Josiah said, sounding doubtful, but looking at Adam with eyes of gratitude.

            “The wind’s picking up,” Jamie sighed.  “I suppose we should get under cover as soon as possible.”

            “And under the covers, too,” Adam snickered.

            The cars took them straight to the ferry.  Fortunately, they only had to wait a few minutes for its arrival.  Once across the East River, however, they were on their own, and the turbulent wind blew them through the slick streets back to French’s Hotel.  The restaurant was closed, but the desk clerk did offer them coffee from the pot kept brewing through the night for his personal use.  They gladly accepted and repaid the kindness by describing the night at the theater to a man who rarely had opportunity to go.

            The howling of the wind accompanied them to bed and sang a boisterous lullaby through the late-night hours into early morning.  Adam lay awake, listening, thinking of storms as fierce that he’d known back home and wondering if the weather would keep them trapped indoors tomorrow.  Even if all they gained from this trip, however, was this one wonderful night at the theater, he considered the holiday a success.  He had much to dream about as he finally drifted to sleep.

 

* * * * *

 

            The light was still soft when Adam slipped from his bed and slid silently to the window.  After their late night, he and the Edwards had decided to sleep in, like gentlemen of leisure, but the habit of years was strong, and Adam had awakened at his usual early hour.  A few snowflakes drifted through the morning air, but otherwise the skies were clear, giving promise of a fine day.  He dressed quietly, and leaving a note that he’d gone out for a paper, he left his friends still slumbering and stepped into the hall.  Making his way down the stairs, he said good morning to the desk clerk and asked where he might find a newspaper.

            He was assured that the nearest corner would provide whichever he preferred, so he left, thankful for his warm new coat in the bracing cold that met him.  He smiled in its face, however, for crisp, cold air always reminded him of home.  He almost scolded himself for giving in to homesickness; then he realized that he always felt that way on Christmas Eve, having spent the past several separated from his family for the sake of his schooling.  His fondest memories, however, revolved around the simple ceremonies of his youth: decorating the tree, nibbling popcorn with Hoss while his father read A Christmas Carol, sharing a festive feast with friends.  And this Christmas, while so different from those back home, had in a sense brought him back to where it had all begun; for he was spending it with the same friends who had shared that first wonderful Christmas in St. Joseph, his earliest memory of any Christmas traditions for the Cartwrights.  Somehow, that seemed fitting.

            He walked briskly down to the corner, purchased a copy of the New York Times and made his way back to the hotel.  Entering the restaurant, he ordered a cup of coffee and unfolded the newspaper.  He intended to turn immediately to the amusements column, but the bold-faced headline caught his eye.  “Oh, no,” he sighed and immediately searched for the accompanying article.

            He’d read through several articles and carefully perused the advertisements by the time the Edwards joined him at the table.  “Taking over planning our activities, are you?” Josiah teased.

            “Not at all,” Adam said.  “Just killing time until you sleepyheads chose to roll out of your warm beds.”

            “I had no desire to,” Jamie admitted with a grin, “and even less desire to face the cold outside.”

            “So you’ll be staying in the room while your father and I tour the city?” Adam asked with a wicked waggle of one eyebrow.

            “Not on your life!” Jamie declared.  “I just wish the weather would cooperate.”

            “I think it is,” Adam told him.  “It’s still cold, but not windy like last night.”

            A waitress took their orders for breakfast, and then, nodding toward the newspaper, Josiah asked, “Any changes in the programs available, Adam?”

            “I think they’re all the same.”  Adam handed the paper over.  “Perhaps you’d like to see the news, sir.  I’m afraid the lead story is a sad one.”  In response to Jamie’s quizzical look, he added, “Prince Albert has died.  Gastric fever, the paper says.  Nine children left behind.”  Though he didn’t say anything, Adam couldn’t help identifying with those children’s loss of a parent.  He, too, had lost one—three times over, in fact, and one recently enough that the pain was still fresh.

            “Oh, no,” Jamie said, “and at Christmastime, too.”

            “A good man,” his father said, “and, like you, son, I always associate him with Christmas, ever since the papers printed that picture of the royal family around the Christmas tree he introduced to the palace.”

            Jamie exchanged a nostalgic smile with Adam.  “Remember our first Christmas together?  We told you mother—Inger, I mean—that we wanted a tree to shut Sterling Larrimore’s bragging mouth.”

            “We didn’t say it that way!” Adam protested.  “We’d have gotten nothing in response to that, but I definitely did want to shut Stirpot’s mouth; all that boasting that his tree would be bigger than Queen Victoria’s made me sick . . . with pure envy.”

            “Boys, boys,” Josiah chided.  “Of all the unworthy motives for Christmas décor . . .”

            “I know,” Adam said sheepishly, “and Inger probably disapproved of our ‘unworthy motives,’ too, but she worked her magic on Pa, anyway, so we could have that tree.”

            “Remember making all those ornaments from scrap shingles?” Jamie recalled.  “What fun we had painting them!  We still have them, you know.”  The light in his eyes faded.  “That is, we did.  I don’t know where they are now.”

            “At Mr. Whitcomb’s,” his father said.  “At least, I hope they’re still there.  Once I get settled in Springfield, I’ll send for my belongings and see what the soldiers—Union and Confederate alike—saw fit to leave me.”

            “Surely, they’d have no use for Christmas ornaments,” Jamie protested.

            “Kindling?” his father suggested.  Seeing his son’s glum response, he added, “They probably had better sources for that, though.”

            “I remember the cookie ornaments Inger baked,” Adam said fondly.  “We ate as many as we hung on the tree!”

            “We should find some cookies somewhere today,” Jamie said, “and indulge for old times’ sake.”

            “Any excuse will do,” his father said dryly, just as their breakfast plates arrived.

 

* * * * *

 

            This is the place,” Josiah said, holding open the door to 548 Broadway.  “Ideally, we should have taken this exhibit in yesterday, when the weather was so inclement, instead of being out in it so much, shopping, but youth must be served, I suppose.”

            “I believe it was age that insisted on a clothing store being our first stop,” Adam quipped.

            “I believe you are correct, my friend,” Jamie added with a saucy wink at his father.

            Josiah gave an exaggerated sigh as he gave the attendant ten cents for each of them.  “I should know better than to trade wits with two college wiseacres.”

            “This is a wonderful idea . . . for any day,” Adam said enthusiastically.

            “And a wonderful benefit to the poor, young man,” the attendant said brightly.  “Thank you for your contribution.”

            “Considering what you offer—an exhibit of over one hundred paintings—well worth the price,” Josiah assured the man.  Leading the boys toward the first painting, he said, “Now, I’m no more an art expert than either of you, so let’s just share whatever each of us notices about the paintings.”

            “And triple the benefit,” Adam agreed.  He gazed intently at Niagara by Frederick Erwin Church.  “What I like most is the artist’s use of light.  It draws you right to the majestic falls.”

            “And then leads you back to the foaming water in the foreground,” Jamie commented.

            “And highlights the flat, brown rock there, too,” Josiah added.

            “I wish it weren’t done in such dark colors, though,” Adam mused, “and the part of the falls done in green doesn’t seem as natural as the rest of the work.”

            “Very observant, Adam,” Josiah praised.  “Shall we move on, then?  Here’s another view of Niagara.”

            “Niagara in Winter by Gignoux,” Jamie read from the plate beside the artwork.  “This says it’s a companion piece to the work by Church.”

            “I like this one better,” Adam said.  “The way the rising sun plays on the evergreens around the falls.”

            Josiah gently massaged the young man’s shoulder.  “A touch of home, Adam?”

            A little embarrassed by open expression of the sentiment, Adam just nodded.

            “Nothing to be ashamed of,” Josiah said softly, “especially at this time of year.  I even feel a bit nostalgic about dear old St. Joe, when all I love best about Christmas is standing right here with me.”  His other arm moved to encircle Jamie in a loose embrace.

            “What about this one, Adam?” Jamie asked when they moved on to the next painting.  “Does it remind you of the Ponderosa?”

            Adam made a careful appraisal of Bierstadt’s Rocky Mountains.  “Not really,” he said.  “We have snow-covered mountains, too, of course, but the trees are different, and that Indian camp in the foreground definitely does not belong to the Paiutes.”

            “How can you tell?” Jamie scoffed.  “The figures are too small to show tribal detail.”

            Adam shrugged.  “True, but the Paiutes don’t live in tepees; their karnees are dome-shaped.”

            “Draw me one sometime,” Jamie suggested.  “I remember how you used to send me sketches of animals you saw along the trail.”

            “I’m no artist,” Adam protested.

            Josiah smiled.  “It’s an architectural structure, isn’t it?  Should be right down your alley, Adam.”

            Adam laughed.  “The karnee I can draw, so long as you don’t expect more than stick figures to represent the Paiutes.”

            “Now, there’s something more than a stick figure!” Jamie exclaimed, moving rapidly toward a sculpture of a barely clad young man stretched on his back over a rock.  “I almost expect to see him take a breath,” he whispered.

            “The Dead Pearl Diver by Benjamin Paul Akers,” his father read from the accompanying plate.  “A magnificent piece.”

            “Very lifelike,” Adam agreed.  “I haven’t seen much sculpture before—well, nothing at all like this.  To be able to see with such a sensitive eye and to reproduce life so believably—it’s a true gift.”

            “As is the eye to see its worth,” Josiah, ever the teacher, observed.

            They moved from one piece to another, each as absorbing as its neighbor, throughout the morning.  Since it was nearly noon when they finished, they selected a small eatery nearby and dug into steaming plates of roast beef, potatoes and carrots.  “Did you boys have any more shopping to do?” Josiah asked.  “I intend to stop by Hegeman’s drug store for some of that camphor ice with glycerin they’ve been advertising for chapped lips and hands, but otherwise, I’m done.”

            “Just Appleton’s for me,” Jamie replied.  “I want that book of Emerson’s essays.”

            “Adam?”

            Adam bit his lip.  “Well, perhaps a bit more, but I wouldn’t want to keep you out in the cold.  Don’t think I haven’t heard that cough you keep trying to hide, Jamie.  You could go on back to the hotel, and I could meet you there, if that doesn’t interfere with other plans you’ve made.”  Seeing that Josiah looked torn between his concern for his son’s health and uneasiness about leaving his other charge alone in such a large city, Adam smiled.  “I can take care of myself, you know, and I don’t expect to stray off Broadway.”

            “Yes, of course, you can,” Josiah chuckled.  “I seem to forget that I’m dealing with young men now, not little boys.  As you say, if you stay on Broadway, you should have no problems.  Just keep a sharp lookout for pickpockets.”

            “I will,” Adam promised.  “I don’t have enough to share with the likes of them!”

            “Don’t stay out too long,” Jamie urged.  “You’ll want to rest before we go out tonight.”

            “Not long,” Adam assured him.

            With further admonishments to keep safe and keep warm, the party separated, Jamie leaving the umbrella with Adam, since he could share his father’s.  Adam headed directly to the store whose advertisement he’d seen in the morning paper.  E. Anthony’s ad had finally sparked just the right idea for a gift for Jamie, something even more certain to please, Adam was sure, than those Emerson essays he’d first contemplated.  With the assistance of a clerk, he found exactly what he wanted and was so pleased with its appearance that he purchased an identical one for himself.  Then his eye spotted a display of cartes de visite, small cards portraying everything from works of art to photos of celebrities.

            “Very popular collector’s item,” the clerk urged persuasively.  “Perhaps for a young lady friend?”

            Adam chuckled.  “I was thinking more of my little brother.”  He picked up the card depicting Whittier’s “Barefoot Boy.”  The picture of the happy-faced boy reminded him of Hoss, as did the portion of the poem printed on the back.  “I’ll take this one,” he told the clerk.

            “Just the one?” the man pressed.

            “Well, perhaps this one, as well,” Adam replied, picking up a card of “The Little Match Girl.”  It wouldn’t do, after all, to send a token of his New York visit to Hoss without sending one to Little Joe, as well; prisoners had been tossed in the stocks for lesser offenses, he thought with a grin as he paid for his purchases.

            He’d pondered long and hard about a gift for Josiah.  The only other older man he’d ever purchased for was his own father, whom he, of course, knew much better.  Casting back over his memories of Jamie’s father, however, he recalled one incident that gave him the perfect idea.  Concerned that the book-loving Edwards might have dawdled at Appleton’s, he chose Miller’s Bookstore, instead, and found a nicely bound copy of the book he wanted.  Then, satisfied with a mission accomplished, he turned his steps toward the hotel.  Along the way, however, he passed Snow’s Confectionery and, recalling their breakfast discussion about cookies, went in and purchased a tin.  There’d be no tree for them this year, other than the one in the hotel lobby, but they could, at least, enjoy this sweet reminder of more traditional Christmases.

 

* * * * *

 

            Juggling packages as he came into the room, Adam laughed at the sight that met his eyes.  Jamie and Josiah were both bundled up under the bed covers, each deep in a new book.  “You’re quite the pair,” he announced.

            “Guilty as charged,” Josiah chuckled, closing his book with his index finger in place as bookmark.

            “And you’re quite the shopper,” Jamie declared.  “What did you buy?”

            “Oh, I’ll show you later,” Adam said, placing the packages on the table.  “I know your book is Emerson, but what is yours, sir?”  He was relieved when Josiah lifted the cover so he could read its title.  Not the one he’d just purchased—good!  “So, is this what we’re doing for Christmas Eve?” he teased.  “And not a seasonal story in the lot!”

            “You’ll get your seasonal story tonight at the theater,” Josiah said, barely glancing up from the book to which he had returned.

            Jamie looked up brightly.  “Does this mean that you are, at last, going to reveal our plans for the evening?”

            His father’s mouth twitched with mischief.  “Goodness, no!  You should be able to figure them out from what I’ve just said.”

            “I can,” Adam assured him and cocked his head inquiringly at Jamie.

            Jamie pursed his lips in thought and then shook his head.  “Surely you don’t mean that Bower of Beauty nonsense playing at Barnum’s.”

            Both Adam and Josiah hooted.  “That’s your idea of seasonal?” Adam scoffed.  He turned to Josiah with a wink.  “You’d better keep an eye on this one, sir,” he said with a tilt of his head in Jamie’s direction.  “I think he has his mind on those forty beautiful young ladies who are supposed to cavort around that stage in the garb of fairies.”

            Josiah chuckled.  “Let’s see . . . how did the paper this morning describe the piece?  ‘A great deal for the eye and little for the mind’—does that sound like the sort of entertainment I’d encourage?”

            “Well . . . when you put it that way . . . no,” a flushing Jamie replied.  “I didn’t have time to read the review this morning,” he added in his own defense.

            Adam concluded that it was time to put his friend out of his evident misery.  “We’re going to Laura Keene’s Theater, of course.”

            Jamie looked just as perplexed as before.  “Robinson Crusoe?  That’s your idea of seasonal?”

            Adam laughed.  “That’s the afterpiece, Spoopsie.  The seasonal part of the program is Little Tom or, A Christmas Carol.  I suppose it’s an adaptation of Dickens’ work.”

            “Presumably,” Josiah said.  “Meet with your approval, boys?”

            “Absolutely!” Jamie cried.  “Why didn’t I think of that?”

            “Perfect for me,” Adam agreed.  “Pa always reads that story to us on Christmas Eve.”

            Josiah smiled.  “Then I’m doubly glad I chose it.  In the meantime, Adam, snuggle up with one of your new books.  We’ll have an early supper and then dress for the theater.”

            As Adam lifted a book from the table, he also picked up one of the packages he’d brought in.  Tearing off the paper, he extended the tin to his friends.  “I suppose we shouldn’t indulge much, in light of that early supper, but I picked these up at Snow’s.”

            “Cookies!” Jamie cried, prying off the lid.  “I’d forgotten about them, but this is perfect.”

            “Cookies in bed and a new book.”  Adam shook his head in pretended patronization.  “Easy to please, isn’t he?”

            “Always was,” Josiah said with a smile.

            “As if you were any different,” Jamie scolded.

            “Never denied it,” Adam chuckled, reaching for a cookie.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam was surprised to see several theatergoers leave before the afterpiece was finished.  He had to admit the production hadn’t met his expectations; in fact, even the limited resources of the far West had often given him more enjoyable evenings than this special holiday presentation.  Still, to walk out seemed a breach of manners, so he sat quietly and watched Robinson Crusoe to its bitter end and, like the remaining audience, greeted it with polite, though halfhearted applause.

            “I’m sorry, boys,” Josiah said as they waited for the crowd in the aisles to pass.  “This was a mistake.”

            ‘Oh, no,” Adam said, trying to reassure his host.  “It was . . .”

            “Dull,” Jamie supplied when Adam appeared at a loss for words.  Unlike his friend, he had no concern that his father would be hurt by complete honesty.

            “Incoherent,” Josiah amended.  “I suppose I should have realized something was amiss when the play was called ‘Little Tom,’ instead of Tiny Tim, but I assumed it was a typographical error.”

            Adam smiled wryly.  “I’ll admit I had a difficult time recognizing this version as Dickens’ Christmas Carol.”

            “Robinson Crusoe was a little better,” Jamie offered as they made their way up the aisle toward the exit.

            “Except that it was supposed to be a comedy,” Adam pointed out.

            “The laughs were few and far between,” Josiah admitted.  “Again, I apologize for not knowing—”

“What you couldn’t possibly have known,” Adam insisted.  “It was still an enjoyable evening because of the company.”

“Well, you’re a good sport,” Josiah said.  “Live and learn, eh, boys?”

            “Right!” Jamie affirmed.  “And now, I’m for returning to the room . . . and that marvelous tin of cookies.”

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam found it difficult to fall asleep that night, and he wasn’t really sure why.  He hadn’t shared a Christmas at home with his family in years because he’d been at school in Sacramento.  It was no different this year, but for some reason, perhaps the strangeness of his surroundings or the greater distance from home, he found himself missing them more than ever.  Maybe seeing that butchered version of A Christmas Carol was to blame.  He kept wishing he could hear Pa’s rich cello voice read the story, instead.  It had always seemed so much more alive that way, as he and Hoss sat together, munching popcorn and listening, wide-eyed, to poor Scrooge’s visits from the three ghosts.  I’m trapped in Christmas Past, he realized but he didn’t try to escape.  The memories were like a warm blanket, wrapping him in the security of his family’s love.

            As he was lying there quietly, trying not to disturb his friends in the next bed, he saw a stealthy figure slip from under the covers and tiptoe across the room to the window.  Recognizing Josiah by its size, he started to ask if it was snowing again, but then he saw that the man was hanging something in the window.  Obviously, it was intended to be a Christmas morning surprise, so Adam kept his mouth shut and feigned sleep until Josiah was back in bed.  He stared a long time at the dark, dangling shape, but the light wasn’t strong enough for him to identify it.  Between puzzling about what it might be and wondering how Pa, Hoss and Little Joe were celebrating this Christmas, he finally fell asleep, and visions of sugarplums, stored in a tin from Snow’s Confectionery, danced in his head.

            Adam still woke before anyone else.  With a yawn and a stretch he met the morning and happened to glance toward the window.  He smiled in fond remembrance at the star shape hanging in the window.  The single ornament, one of those that he and Jamie had crafted together back in St. Joseph, brightened his Christmas morning as much as an entire tree of them.  The tall pine on the Ponderosa beneath which his little brothers would soon be tearing into gifts, would dance with identical ones, and the little star somehow made him feel as though they were all together.  “Merry Christmas, Pa . . . Hoss . . . Little Joe,” he whispered, trusting that somehow the spirit of Christmas would transmit the message on the wind blowing west.  Closing his eyes, he imagined the same wind blowing their Christmas greeting back to him.

            Making a sudden decision, he slipped quietly out of bed and tiptoed across the room in his stocking feet.  He took two packages from the table and brought them over to the window, carefully propping them on the windowsill below the simple yellow star, as if it truly did perch atop a Christmas tree.  Then, for warmth’s sake, he hurried back under the blankets to await the awakening of the Edwards, father and son.

            “About time,” he chuckled when Jamie finally cracked open an eye.

            With a wide yawn Jamie scooted up in bed and, propped up on his elbows, looked across at Adam.  “Merry Christmas to you, too,” he said chidingly.

            “Merry Christmas,” Adam replied.  “Santa came while you were snoozing.”

            Jamie’s eyes narrowed quizzically.  “Santa?”

            Adam cocked his head toward the window.  “Pickings are a bit slim, but the old boy didn’t forget you.”

            Jamie’s mouth gaped open.  “But . . . but how?”

            Adam scratched his head.  “I don’t know.  Not a chimney in sight, and I’m sure he’s much too plump to come down the stovepipe,” he said with a nod at the pot-bellied heater in the corner.

            “Oh, you are infuriating,” Jamie scolded as he hopped out of bed and hurried to the window.  His eyes lighted as they fell on the star, and he turned to look at Adam.  “How did you . . .?”

            “Not me,” Adam said.  “That’s your father’s doing.”

            “To think of his bringing that all the way from St. Joe!”  Jamie snatched up the packages and scurried back to his bed.  Toes tucked beneath the covers, he turned the packages over and over in his hands.  “No tags,” he finally said.  “No way to tell who Santa meant them for.”  He gave Adam a mildly reproachful look.

            Adam grinned.  “The larger one is yours, the smaller your father’s.”

            Josiah rolled over.  “What’s this?  I thought there weren’t to be any gifts this morning.”

            “Someone forgot to tell Santa,” Adam snickered.

            Jamie, meantime, had torn the paper away from his gift to reveal an album of blue velvet, trimmed in silver.  “It’s beautiful,” he murmured in evident awe.

            “For your memorabilia,” Adam explained, “in the colors of the Brothers in Unity.  I thought you’d like that best, and I bought one just like it for myself.”

            “But I have nothing nearly as grand for you,” Jamie murmured.

            “Nor have I,” Josiah said, accepting his package from his son’s hand.

            Adam waved off their protests.  “You’ve given me the riches of Hamlet and . . .”

            “Little Tom?” Josiah suggested with a wry grin.

            “Well, not exactly riches there,” Adam laughed, “but a good time nonetheless . . . and then there’s that.”  He smiled, dreamy-eyed, at the little star in the window.  “The gift of memories is the best of all.”

            “I just brought the one with me,” Josiah said.  “Like your journals to Jamie and the daguerreotype of my wife, a treasure too precious to leave behind.  As you say, a memory of the pleasantest Christmas we ever spent.”

            “Dear Inger made it so,” Jamie put in wistfully.

            Misty-eyed, Adam nodded his agreement.  “You haven’t opened your gift,” he reminded his former teacher.

            “An omission I shall correct forthwith,” Josiah replied as he exuberantly tore away the brown wrapping paper.  “Don Quixote!” he exclaimed, reading the gilt title on the book’s maroon cover.

            “To replace the copy you donated to the Sanitary Commission,” Adam explained.

            Lifting the book, Josiah waved it toward Adam.  “Ah, but this is a much finer copy than the one I gave.”

            With his palms out, Adam waved both hands in negation.  “It cost little, I assure you.  I wish it could have been of fine Morocco leather, but this was what I could afford.”

            “The words will be the same,” Josiah returned with a smile, “and I will treasure every one as a reminder of you.”

            “Any resemblance between me and Sancho Panza is—”

            “Nonexistent,” Jamie interrupted to supply, and all three laughed.  Jamie slipped out of bed, scooted over to a pile of packages sitting on the desk and pulled out a small rectangular one.  “It isn’t much, but I wanted to give you something on my own,” he said, handing the package to Adam and then climbing onto the bed to tuck his toes beneath the covers.

            Adam eagerly tore the paper away to reveal a copy of Two Years Before the Mast.

            “It’s only a cheap copy, but I hope you’ll enjoy it,” Jamie said.  “I thought it might be similar to your father’s adventures at sea and describe what California was like before you first saw it.”

            “Thanks!” Adam said, turning at once to the first page.

            “Here now, don’t start that,” Josiah scolded.  “If we hope to have breakfast before church, we’d best get out of bed now,” he added, immediately taking his own advice.

            Adam and Jamie followed suit, and they were soon enjoying hot biscuits, ham and eggs downstairs in the hotel dining room.  After discussing their options for the day, they decided to attend services at Trinity on Broadway.  Since it was considered the most beautiful and magnificent church building in America, Josiah suggested that Adam would find its architecture interesting.  “I’ve also heard that it’s the only church in New York where no distinction is made between rich and poor,” he added, “which makes it ideally suitable for visitors like us.”

            Breakfast finished, they walked down to Broadway and Rector, grateful for the clear sunshine that kept the frosty air bracing, rather than chilling, and when they arrived, spent some time simply looking at the cathedral-like brownstone.  As they were early, they also toured the graveyard.  While they didn’t have time to cover the entire two acres, they did find the plain obelisk honoring Alexander Hamilton at its southern extreme.

            They were welcomed into the chapel, which was lavishly decorated with flowers and evergreens, and conducted to excellent seats by the usher.  The room was well heated and so crowded by the time the choir of young boys began the opening carol that the cold outside became a mere memory.  Adam listened with awe to the soaring music that seemed to lift his soul toward heaven.  The solos to the carols were sung by a twelve-year-old with an enviable upper range, and he was supported by a number of other fine, young soprano voices.  Dr. Vinton’s sermon, whose text was Genesis 28:12, was blessedly brief, especially since Adam couldn’t discern what Jacob’s ladder had to do with Christmas.

            Church bells rang across the city as they exited and walked back to the hotel.  The kitchen had outdone itself for Christmas dinner, and while it didn’t match Adam’s memories of feasts back home, he and the Edwards had all they could comfortably hold of turkey with dressing, ham and potatoes and a variety of pies, including apple, cranberry and mince.

            They took an hour’s rest in their room afterwards; then, in accordance with their plan, they proceeded to Central Park.  Cold as it was, the ice still wasn’t firm enough for skating, as the cries of disappointed youngsters clearly announced while the visitors strolled through the snowy grounds.  “Much pleasanter in summer, I’m sure,” Josiah observed, his breath condensing in white clouds before his lips.

            “It’s wonderful that they have a place like this, though,” Adam said.  “Unexpected in so large a city—and so well arranged.”

            “Not finished yet, of course,” Josiah remarked.  “It really will be a wonder when it is.”

            “Perhaps we could come back at a more timely season,” Jamie suggested.

            “This summer?  Perhaps,” his father said, “although we will need to set aside funds for your second year at Yale, son.”

            “Yes, I know,” Jamie sighed.  “Do you suppose we’ll ever see the day that we don’t worry about money?”

            Adam laughed aloud.  “Not unless you change your intended profession, my chum.  Most preachers I know have very ill-padded pockets.”

            “Ah, but my Jamie may aspire to the pinnacle of the profession, perhaps as successor to Dr. Vinton,” Josiah boasted with a twinkle in his eye.

            “Keep it up and I shall practice my sermonizing on the two of you!” Jamie snorted.  “I have no such aspirations, as you well know, Father.  I just want to serve wherever the Lord leads.”

            “To the wilds of Nevada, perhaps?” Adam suggested with a teasing smile.

            “If you’re any example, the need is great,” Jamie teased right back.

            “All right, my boy,” Josiah laughed, wrapping an arm around his son’s shoulders.  “We confess ourselves duly chastised for our mischief and beg your forgiveness.”

            “Granted,” Jamie replied with a quick grin.  “Pleasant as the park is, I’ve seen enough of it until the sun shines more warmly.  I vote to return to the hotel.”

            “I agree,” Adam said, adding, “unless you had other plans, sir.”

            “I do,” Josiah chuckled, “although I’m willing to abandon them if you two conservatory flowers need to huddle by the stove.”

            “What plans?” Jamie asked.  “You didn’t mention anything else at breakfast.”

            “I just thought we might give Adam a chance to see some of the prominent buildings and homes of New York,” Josiah explained.  “We needn’t stay out any longer than either of you desires.”

            “Oh, I would like that!” Adam cried.  He looked at Jamie with concern.  “Unless the cold is bothering you.”

            “No, I’m fine,” Jamie assured him.  “I just didn’t want to stay out to no purpose, but advancing your intended profession is as good a purpose as we could desire.”

            “I won’t keep you out all afternoon,” Adam promised.

            The temptation was great, however, as they made their way up Fifth Avenue toward the residential areas of the rich.  “And you thought the Ponderosa was a mansion!”  Jamie jabbed an elbow into Adam’s ribs.

            “It is,” Adam assured him with a forbearing smile.  “None better, in my opinion.  I’ve seen grander houses, like the Larrimores’ in San Francisco, of course, but these homes would make even Camilla’s eyes pop out.”

            “As I recall,” Josiah observed dryly, “it didn’t take much to cause that!”

            After sharing a hearty laugh at Camilla Larrimore’s expense, they headed back downtown, pausing to examine a number of prominent buildings whose structure Adam considered interesting.  “So many styles,” the budding architect sighed, “and I know so little about them.  I’ve read books, of course, enough to know Corinthian from Doric, but I scarcely know how to proceed.  I mean, I love Yale, of course, and wouldn’t want to miss that training in the classics, but how to translate that to the real world of building is still a mystery.”

            “Why not make some inquiries at architectural offices while we’re here in New York?” Josiah suggested.  “Perhaps they could, at least, suggest a line of individual study that would prepare you to take up the career after graduation.”

            “That’s a wonderful idea,” Adam said with enthusiasm.  “If it wouldn’t interfere with your plans, perhaps I could do that tomorrow.”

            “I have no plans beyond today,” Josiah chuckled.  “Oh, we’ll probably indulge in some sort of entertainment tomorrow night, but you can do as you like all day tomorrow.”

            “I’d like to go down and see the Battery,” Jamie said.  “Perhaps we could do that while you’re visiting architects’ offices, and we could meet somewhere for lunch.”

            “That sounds fine,” Adam agreed.

            “That being settled, I suggest we return to the room and rest until supper,” Josiah said.  “We have another big night out and will want to be fresh for that.”

            “Yes, indeed!” Adam cried, for he’d earlier seen Josiah purchase tickets for tonight’s performance of Handel’s Messiah.  The Beethoven Society had included the “Hallelujah Chorus” in its Christmas concert, and he couldn’t wait to hear the entire, stirring work.

 

* * * * *

 

            A wry smile lifted one side of Adam’s mouth as he read the name etched into the glass panels in the door of the imposing brownstone trimmed in creamy marble.  Bracebridge, Harwood and Associates certainly seemed like an appropriate name for an architectural firm, but he had small hope that he would be more successful here than he had at the three previous offices he’d visited.  The secretary in the first had bluntly stated that they had no time for schoolboys and sent him packing, and while the architects in the other two had received him cordially, their advice had been minimal.  One suggested that he take some drawing courses, and the other stated unequivocally that he’d be better off enrolling in Sheffield Scientific School than pothering around with Greek and Latin.  Both had hinted that his best bet would be to seek an apprenticeship with some respected builder and forget college altogether.  He figured he’d get more of the same here, but he had time for one more attempt before meeting the Edwards.  With a gusty exhale, he gathered his determination and opened the door.

            Stating his purpose to the secretary seated behind the plain maple desk, he took the seat shown to him and rhythmically tapped his heels on the floor as he waited.  The secretary soon ushered him into an inner office, where a lean-limbed man of about forty rose to grasp his hand across a massive mahogany desk.  “Addison Bracebridge,” he said in introduction, “and you are . . . ?”

            Adam gasped at the last name.  Surely, this couldn’t be the Mr. Bracebridge, the senior partner of the firm who had agreed to see him.  In all the other offices he’d been dealt with either by a clerk or an apprentice or, at best, a junior partner.  No, this must be a son or younger brother or—Adam pulled himself together enough to stammer out his name.

            Mr. Bracebridge didn’t seem disturbed by the sudden appearance of a blathering schoolboy in his office.  “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Cartwright?” he said, gesturing toward a captain’s chair.

            Thanking him, Adam sat down, but the young man who had so eloquently stated his case in the other architects’ offices couldn’t seem to find his tongue in this one.

            “How may I help you, young man?” Bracebridge asked as he again sat down in his padded leather chair.

            Adam swallowed with difficulty, due to his suddenly dry throat.  “Sir, I—I have hopes of one day becoming an architect.”

            “Excellent!” Bracebridge declared with completely believable enthusiasm.  “The field can certainly use fine young minds.”

            Encouraged, Adam moved to the edge of his seat.  “I know that practical training is desirable, of course, but I do wish to complete my college education, as well.  I mean, I know that Latin and Greek seem to have little to do with . . . the field,” he said, borrowing Bracebridge’s term.  His voice trailed off in uncertainty.

            Bracebridge shrugged.  “Not directly, but I personally hold education in high esteem.”  His gaze took on a distant dreaminess.  “Once I, too, dreamed of attending college, but my father felt it was wiser to see me apprenticed early.  I can’t argue with his wisdom, as it has brought me far, but I still think I might have made just as good an architect—perhaps a better one—if I had taken those college courses.”

            “Then . . . you understand,” Adam murmured.  “You don’t think it’s foolish to try to do both?”

            Bracebridge chuckled.  “Who’ve you been talking to, son?”

            Adam winced.  “Other architects.”

            Bracebridge laughed aloud.  “Ah!  So Bracebridge, Harwood and Associates was not your first choice.  I had flattered myself that you’d seen our work and been impressed.”

            Adam smiled, though weakly.  “Sir, I’m so ignorant I don’t even know how to find out who is the architect of a given site.  The clerk at our hotel showed me a city registry, and I jotted down a few names with addresses I was sure I could find.  Then I just started from there and made my way south, stopping at any promising places to seek advice on . . . well, how to even begin to prepare myself for the field of architecture.”  He added quickly, “I know about Sheffield Scientific School, of course, but I’m enrolled in the academic department.”

            “Sheffield’s a fine school,” Bracebridge acknowledged, “but I don’t see it as the only path to a career in architecture.  Tell me a little more about yourself, Mr. Cartwright, and I’ll see what suggestions I might offer.”

            With occasional questions from Mr. Bracebridge, Adam filled in his background, talking about how the building of the Ponderosa and his small part in drawing the plans for it had birthed his dream of becoming an architect.  He spoke of his longing for an education and how, against seemingly insurmountable odds, the door for that had opened.

            “So you’ve come all the way from Nevada in pursuit of your dream?” Mr. Bracebridge asked.  “That shows determination.  You say you’ve only completed your first term, so you probably don’t know exactly where you stand in your class, but you should have some idea.”

            “Near the top, I think,” Adam said, flushing modestly.

            Bracebridge smiled.  “I thought that might be the case.”  Hands loosely folded, he leaned across the desk.  “Here’s what I want you to do, young man.  Ask my clerk for some drawing paper and to show you to a drawing table.  Then I’d like you to sketch, from memory, any building you’ve seen here in New York that particularly attracted your attention.  Just a quick sketch.  When you’ve finished, return here and let’s talk about it.”

            “You mean now?” Adam asked, incredulous.  “I’ve taken so much of your time already, sir.”

            Bracebridge chuckled.  “The day after Christmas is one of our slower days of the year, Mr. Cartwright.  If you have the time, I do.”

            “Yes, sir; thank you, sir,” Adam said eagerly as he stood.

            Soon he was seated at a drawing table, sketching busily.  He wished he could spend hours, perfecting his work, but in addition to his concern about overtaxing Mr. Bracebridge’s generosity, he was due to meet the Edwards soon.  Doing the best he could in the time available, he returned to the architect’s office and showed him the completed drawing.  He nibbled his lower lip while Bracebridge studied it.  “Does it show any potential for success as an architect?” he asked hesitantly after a few minutes.

            “Quite a bit,” Bracebridge acknowledged.  “It’s certainly recognizable as Trinity Church, and I’ve seen many first attempts that were barely recognizable as structures.  You’ve had no training whatsoever, not even a drawing course?”

            “No, sir,” Adam admitted.  “Is that what I should do first, take a drawing course?”

            “I’d recommend it,” the architect said.  “I’m certain they have such courses at Sheffield, and although that’s not the path you’re pursuing, perhaps they might permit you to take a course as an elective.  I suggest you look into that.”

            “I will,” Adam said, rising from his chair.  “Thank you for your time, sir.”

            “Not so fast,” Bracebridge scolded gently.  “I have one more question for you.”

            “Oh, of course, sir,” Adam said, lowering himself again.  “I just didn’t want to abuse your generosity.”

            “Much appreciated,” Bracebridge said.  “Now, my final question to you is this: would you like a job?”

            Somehow, Adam managed to catch his jaw before it struck the floor.  “A job?”

            “For the summer,” Bracebridge said quickly.  “I don’t want you leaving school, is that understood?”

            “Yes, sir,” Adam replied, his mind and heart still racing at the sudden development.  “But . . . well, shouldn’t you check with your father?”

            Bracebridge looked totally puzzled.  “My father?”

            “Or older brother?” Adam amended quickly.  “The senior Mr. Bracebridge, I mean.  Shouldn’t you consult him before offering a job to—”

            A loud laugh interrupted him.  “What a compliment to my youthful appearance!  No, my boy, I’m the senior Mr. Bracebridge of the firm—well, the only one of that name, to be precise.”  He laughed again at the chagrinned look on Adam’s face.

            Adam tried to stammer out an explanation for his misapprehension, but Bracebridge, still chuckling, waved it aside.  “I think you have great potential, Adam Cartwright, and I’d like to play a part in nurturing it.  So I want you to send me regular sketches of buildings in New Haven, whether on campus or the State House or those three marvelous churches on the Green.  If at all possible, take a drawing course as an elective, although the college may not approve, since you’re still a freshman.  Then come to me during your summer break, and we’ll see if we can’t add some practical training.  Does that sound acceptable?”

            “Acceptable?” Adam cried.  “It’s so much more than I hoped for when I came, sir!”

            Bracebridge stood and extended his hand.  “Fine.  Get my mailing address from the secretary and a full pad of drawing paper, and I’ll look forward to hearing from you soon.

 

* * * * *

 

            “Oh, there he is!” Jamie cried.  He stood and waved toward Adam, who hurried to join them at the table.  “We were afraid you’d gotten lost.”

            “No, the directions were clear,” Adam assured the Edwards as he sank into the seat, catercorner to his friend.  “My last stop took longer than expected . . . and ended more profitably, too.”

            Josiah studied the beaming face opposite him.  “You found a helpful architect, I presume.”

            “Helpful, indeed!” Adam exclaimed.  “I found a job . . . for the summer,” he quickly added.

            “Adam, that’s wonderful!” Jamie cried.  “Tell us all about it.”

            “As soon as we order,” Adam promised.  He ordered a large bowl of oyster stew, as did the others, and then told them everything, beginning with his disappointment at his first few attempts to discuss his future with professional architects.  As the meal was served and eaten, he described in detail his visit with Mr. Bracebridge.  “I’m to send him sketches of New Haven architecture,” he concluded, showing them the pad of drawing paper he’d been given for the purpose.

            “Adam, it sounds as though Providence has directed you to exactly the right man,” Josiah observed.

            “Yes,” Adam agreed, “and I have you to thank for that, sir.  Without your suggestion of visiting architects, I would never have met Mr. Bracebridge.”

            “This calls for a celebration,” Jamie decreed.  “Apple brown betty for me.”

            “Adam?” Josiah queried as he lifted a hand to signal the waitress.

            “I’ll have the same,” Adam said.

 

* * * * *

 

            Knowing that trains left for New Haven at least every thirty minutes, the travelers slept in the following morning.  They’d kept their entertainment close at hand and inexpensive the previous night, attending a lecture at Hope Chapel by Captain Williams on his voyage to the South Seas.  Still, they’d been out somewhat late and granted themselves the luxury of a late start on their final day in New York City.

            After an uneventful trip they debarked at the depot in New Haven and went their separate ways.  Jamie wanted to spend the night with his father, who would be leaving for Springfield, Massachusetts, the next day, so Adam returned to their George Street lodgings alone and spent the afternoon and evening writing long letters describing his trip to family and friends.  He was especially excited to write to his father about the on-the-job training he would receive the next summer under Mr. Addison Bracebridge.

            On Saturday he and Jamie saw Mr. Edwards off at the depot, and that afternoon Adam took his sketch pad to the Green to begin his first drawing of local architecture, choosing the State House as his subject.  He wanted to complete it and ship it off to New York before the second term, with all its busyness, began on Thursday.

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

Some of the art that Adam saw at the gallery may be viewed online:

Niagara -http://www.nflibrary.ca/LocationsHours/VictoriaAvenueLibrary/NiagarabyFrederickEdwinChurch1857/tabid/117/Default.aspx

Gignoux’s Niagara Falls in Winter - https://www.art-prints-on-demand.com/a/gignoux-regis-francis/niagara-falls-in-winter.html

Bierstadt’s Rocky Mountains - http://gardenofpraise.com/art35.htm

The Dead Pearl Diver by Akers - http://iamsarge.tumblr.com/post/3111031646/the-dead-pearl-diver-benjamin-paul-akers-1858

 

Prince Albert, much respected in the United States, died on December 14, 1861, as reported in the New York Times of December 24, 1861.  The entertainments our travelers attended, as well as a description of the Christmas service at Trinity Church, were also found in issues of the Times from that week.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A New Term

 

 

            On a stormy New Year’s Eve Adam and Jamie ran into James Brand, who had remained in New Haven over the term break, and invited him to see in the new year with them.  They did it in relatively quiet fashion, since both James and Jamie had taken the pledge against drinking.  Still, a toast over coffee at midnight elicited just as much enthusiasm, and they pressed through the streets, shouting “Happy New Year” at every lighted window they passed.  Despite near gale-force winds, some residents leaned out those windows and shouted the greeting back, for that brief interlude, at least, forsaking the traditional rivalry between town and gown.

            Though they had retired late, the two roommates were up early on January first.  The first thing they did, even before breakfasting on apples and rolls purchased the day before, was to exchange their journals.  “Not by mail this year, which is quite an improvement,” Adam commented.  “I won’t have to watch the post with such anticipation.”

            “Except for letters from home,” Jamie quipped.

            “Oh ho!” Adam exclaimed.  “You’re worse than I am about that now, chum.”

            Jamie grinned sheepishly.  “I admit it.  I’m very anxious to hear from father and learn what sort of accommodations he’s found.”

            “Oh, I can tell you that now,” Adam said flatly and added wryly, “Cheap!”

            Jamie laughed.  “I was able to figure that much on my own!”

            Adam inclined his chin toward the book now in Jamie’s hand.  “There’s some railing against the heavens in that, I’m afraid.  I hope you won’t find it offensive.”

            “I never find honesty offensive,” Jamie declared stoutly.

            Adam nodded.  He’d seen the proof of that many times.

            Jamie rubbed his index finger down the spine of the volume.  “I suppose this will be our last year to exchange journals like this.  Not much point when we share practically every moment.”

            Adam shrugged.  “Yeah, but I bought a blank book, anyway.  The habit of years.”

            Jamie grinned.  “I did, too.  It just wouldn’t feel right not to record my thoughts at the end of the day.”

            “Same here,” Adam agreed.  “We can decide next New Year’s Day whether we think they’re worth exchanging.”

            “Right.  Well, I’m going to delve into this right after breakfast.”  He tapped Adam’s journal.

            ‘Um, I’d like to,” Adam said, “but I still need to put the finishing touches on my drawing of the State House, so I’ll probably save yours for a bedtime story.”

            Jamie tossed an apple to Adam.  “I trust the raucous laughter as I read your musings won’t disturb your work.”

            Adam deftly caught the fruit.  “No, nor the loud and fervent prayers on behalf of my sinful soul when you reach certain parts,” he snorted.  “I shall be oblivious to them.  First things first, though.”

            “Breakfast!” Jamie agreed, taking a large, enthusiastic bite of his apple.

 

* * * * *

 

            Jamie leaned over Adam’s back and scrutinized his drawing.  “That’s wonderful, Adam.”

            Adam’s mouth remained puckered.  “I can’t quite get the perspective right, but that should be something I could learn.”

            “Of course, you can!” Jamie gave an encouraging pat to his friend’s shoulder.  “You have the talent.”

            “Thanks,” Adam set his drawing pencil down and stretched his arms overhead.  “I still need to talk to Louis Bail, the drawing instructor, to see about joining his class.”

            “Will you do that tomorrow?” Jamie inquired.

            Adam’s brow furrowed thoughtfully.  “I don’t think so.  I want to make a good start on my other work first, and probably Mr. Bail would be more amenable to a new student after he settles in for the new term.  I think I’ll wait until Saturday.”

            “Good thinking,” Jamie said.  “It’s a short day, so you’ll both have more time.”

            “Exactly.”  Adam stood and worked his arms back and forth.  “I’ve got to get the kinks out before I do any more.”

            Jamie slid into Adam’s vacated seat to examine the drawing more closely.  “It looks perfect to me now.  What more can you do to it?”

            Adam’s nose wrinkled.  “Maybe nothing, but it’s far from perfect.  That perspective just isn’t right.”

            Jamie stood up and moved toward the door.  “A fresh perspective is just what you need.  Let’s go out for a while, get some air and exercise.”

            “Hey, who’s the doctor around here?” Adam chuckled.  “That sounds like my prescription for you!”

            “Physician, heal thyself,” Jamie snickered as he reached for his wraps.

            Adam followed suit and soon they were moving briskly through the streets of New Haven, relishing the crisp air and the bright prospects ahead.  When they returned, Adam again tackled his problem in perspective, while Jamie opened his textbooks and studied for the next day’s recitations, even though they had no specific assignment.  “I’ll be prepared and you won’t,” he teased.

            “I’ll risk it,” Adam scoffed.  “We’ll probably just review last term’s material, anyway.”

            “Perhaps,” Jamie admitted, “although we did a rather thorough one before exams.  Anyway, I can use a head start on the work.”

            “Oh, yeah,” Adam grunted as he bent over his drawing.  “You’re in such danger of falling behind.”  He worked on the drawing another hour and then set his work aside.  “That’s the best I can do.”  He went over to the bed and stretched out.  “If I fall asleep, wake me in half an hour,” he requested.  “The Beethoven Society has rehearsal at five.”

            “Something simple, I hope,” Jamie said with a sympathetic smile.

            Adam folded his arms beneath his head.  “I doubt we could learn anything new by chapel tomorrow.  Herr Stoeckel said we’d repeat a song from our Christmas concert.”  Half an hour later he rose and prepared to leave.  “Shall I pick up something for dinner?”

            “Whatever suits you,” Jamie replied.  “I can’t wait until tomorrow, when we can start eating at the Vultures’ Nest again.”

            “My stomach heartily concurs,” Adam said with a wink.

            Even though the song for the next day was one the choir had sung so recently, the rehearsal ran full length, for Herr Stoeckel introduced new material for upcoming chapel services.  And he took time, of course, to give his usual firm admonitions to “watch your blend, gentlemen.”  For once, Adam was not one of the culprits called out for singing louder than his companions.  As he walked toward a local grocer’s shop, he thought about how hard that first meeting with Gustave Stoeckel had been.  He’d proven himself to the music instructor, though, and given the chance, he was hopeful that he could do the same with Louis Bail.  He was still nervous about Saturday’s meeting, but success in one endeavor, he was finding, helped generate confidence in the next.

 

* * * * *

 

            On Thursday morning a riot of ravenous boys swooped down upon the Vultures’ Nest and greeted Mrs. Swanson with the affection that one might bestow upon a long lost mother.  Most of them, of course, had just come from home, where their own mothers had pampered and petted them and stuffed them to the seams with their favorite foods, but they seemed quite ready for more of the same attention here at school.  Fortunately, Mrs. Swanson felt well disposed to give it.  While even Adam and Jamie had eaten quite well on their trip to New York City, they’d returned to their penny-pinching ways once back in New Haven, often dining on sausage, cheese and apples from a nearby grocery, and were eager to rejoin the Vultures, where the same penny bought a more substantial meal.

            Thankfully, no mother supervised that reunion breakfast, for she would have been kept busy admonishing the young men not to talk with their mouths full.  Everyone was bursting with news to tell and too eager to hear it to waste time commenting about oversights in table decorum.  Even the sophomores temporarily—Adam was quite sure it was only temporarily—suspended their traditional taunting of the class below them, and they were all, for once, just a table of friends, sharing the highlights of their holidays.  There wasn’t time for everyone to do justice to that subject, so they shared by classes, beginning with the seniors.  Adam and Jamie promised to give a full account of their adventures in New York when their turn came, most likely at the evening meal.

            As soon as breakfast ended, the boys raced for chapel, Adam fastest of all, for as a member of the choir, he needed to be in place at the very beginning.  Jamie lagged behind in order to converse a little more with Marcus, but they were all, even Lucas, in their seats before the second bell rang.

            President Woolsey warmly welcomed everyone back.  “And since I know how eager you are to renew your recitations, I shall keep my remarks this morning brief,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.  True to his word, he released them in less than the customary fifteen minutes, and the four freshman friends hurried to the Athenaeum for their first class.

            An unfamiliar face greeted Adam, Lucas and Jamie as they took their places in the recitation room.  “Who’s that?” Adam whispered to his seatmate, Lucas.

            “Professor Thacher, I think,” Lucas whispered back.  “I thought he taught juniors, though.”  He snickered softly.  “Do you suppose he’s lost his way?”

            “I doubt it.  Maybe something’s happened to Mr. Smith, and he’s filling in for him,” Adam suggested, citing the name of their Latin tutor from the previous term.

            Lucas shrugged.

            Deep-set eyes appraised them from behind a set of spectacles, and Adam caught the barest hint of an upward curve to the lips above the jutting chin.  “I can see from the surprised look on many of your faces,” the teacher said, “that you have not read your catalogs to good purpose.  Does anyone have the slightest idea what class you have just entered?”

            Having assumed it would be Latin, as before, Adam and Lucas exchanged a bewildered look; so did most of the other young men in the room.  Finally, James Brand raised a hesitant hand.  “Could it be Ancient Geography and History, sir?”

            The teacher’s eyes sparkled with pleasure.  “It could, indeed, Mr. . . . Brand?” he finished, consulting a chart on the lectern before him.

            “Yes, sir,” Brand replied.

            “And by way of introduction to you and your less prepared fellow students, I am Thomas Thacher, Professor of Latin Language and Literature.”

            A student in the front row raised his hand and, when recognized, asked, “Sir, might I ask what has happened to Mr. Smith?”

            “Nothing whatsoever, as far as I know,” Thacher chuckled.  “You’ll see him tomorrow at this same hour.  Mr. Wilder Smith will continue to tutor you in the Latin language on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, while you will meet with me on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.”  He then suggested that the students take out notepaper and paused long enough for them to do so.  “Between now and Saturday,” he continued when everyone appeared prepared, “please purchase a copy of Pütz and Arnold’s Manual of Ancient Geography and History and read through the section on the geography of Palestine.  Be prepared to recite on the boundaries of Asia, its principal mountains and waterways and how it was divided in ancient times, as well as the same details for Palestine in particular.”  He picked up a volume, obviously the text in question and consulted the seating chart.  “Would you begin reading the introduction, please, Mr. Edwards?”

            Trusting Adam to write down the assignment just given, Jamie stood, took the book from the professor’s hand and began reading the passage to which Thacher pointed.  The remainder of the hour was spent in having one student after another read a few paragraphs, and though the introduction was somewhat lengthy, the students were still released early.

            “Phew!” Adam declared as they gathered under the Elm of Assembly.  “Did you see the detail we’re expected to memorize?”

            “All the calendars used by man . . . ever . . . is just the beginning,” Lucas groaned.  “I see nothing ahead for me but scholastic disaster.”

            “You’ll be fine . . . if you study,” Jamie assured him.  Turning to Marcus, who was in a different division than the others, he quickly explained about the new class.  “I just can’t believe I didn’t consult the catalog again when I vowed I wouldn’t let anything else slip past me after missing the competition for the Literary Medal.”

            “Yes,” Adam avowed loftily, “your time would have been much better spent with that than reviewing for a class we didn’t even have.  I told you not to bother preparing!”

            “You, of course, foresaw the new schedule,” Jamie scoffed, “and that’s why you didn’t bother to review anything.”

            “Of course,” Adam returned with as straight a face as he could manage.  The others hooted their disdain.

            “We must get copies of that text right away,” Jamie declared.  “Anyone for heading to the bookstore now?”

            “Might as well,” Adam agreed.  “We won’t get far without that book!”

            “After dinner is soon enough,” Lucas insisted.  “The book isn’t going anywhere.  Let’s visit the gym, instead.”

            “Don’t speak of dinner,” Adam groaned.  “All that talk of mountains and rivers and calendars, especially the oh-so-detailed Republican calendar of the French, has done nothing but create a vast emptiness in me that only Mrs. Swanson’s best can fill.  Unfortunately, my chums, we have another recitation to endure before dinner, and since I have no intention of using the time between in either preparation for that or bodily exercise, which will only increase my hunger, we might as well just purchase the text that is soon to become our closest companion.”

            He turned toward the dormitory known as South Middle, where the college bookstore was located, but swung back to face his friends.  Walking backward, he advised, “I give you fair warning, however: as soon as Mr. Nolen releases us from this morning’s torture by Euclid, I shall take immediate flight for the Vultures’ Nest.  Last bird there risks starvation!”  He turned his back and took off at a run toward South Middle with the others shouting, “Unfair!” and racing to catch up, as if even now the race were on against that threat.

 

* * * * *

 

            The midday recitation revealed George Nolen still firmly ensconced as their mathematics tutor.  When the instructor announced—with malevolent glee, Lucas later asserted—that this term they would concentrate full time on Euclid’s geometry, predictable groans rippled along the students’ benches.  Adam’s voice was not among them, for he actually enjoyed mathematics and excelled in geometry, only calling it torture to fit in with his friends, but he was almost certain he could hear Jamie’s moans, even though they were two rows apart.

            Dinner with the Vultures provided a welcome interlude between classes, and Adam and Jamie easily fell into their former routine of stopping by the post office on their way back to their George Street lodgings to study the assignments that were already piling up.  Study had to wait, though, as there were letters waiting for both boys.

            “Father’s found lodgings,” Jamie announced after perusing his letter back in their room.  “Just a boarding house for now, but he says he’ll keep looking for a small house or suite of rooms.  I hope he finds one by term’s end.”

            “I do, too,” Adam said.  “Otherwise, you and I will be spending our vacations right here, chum.”

            Jamie looked duly glum at that prospect, but quickly brightened as the letter in Adam’s hand caught his eye.  “What news from the Ponderosa?  Has Little Joe gone off chasing any more kitties down D Street?”

            Adam laughed.  “Apparently, he’s been good as gold since that incident.  Maybe he heard that Pa was tempted to give him away to the Bowers and is on his best behavior.”

            “Oh, I hope not,” Jamie gasped.  “Think how it would upset the little fellow to hear that, Adam.”

            “I was teasing,” Adam assured him.  “I’m certain Pa kept that nonsense from him.  As to the letter, it’s about the most boring one Pa’s sent me.  He describes Thanksgiving dinner with the Thomases—no surprises there; then he makes a few comments about the weather and asks about our holidays.”  He grinned.  “I guess I shouldn’t complain.  My next letter home will probably be equally dull, unless Pa is easily excited by my prospect of learning ancient geography this term.”

            “Well, if he isn’t, no doubt Hoss and Little Joe will be!” Jamie snickered.

            “Oh, go memorize the rivers of Palestine,” Adam grumbled.  “I’m sure that will excite you.”

            “More than the Republican calendar of France,” Jamie sparred back.  “I’ll let you concentrate on that.”

            Adam scowled.  “Why is it I think Professor Thacher would be bound to ask me about the rivers and you about the calendar if we tried a strategy of divide and conquer?”

            “Because you, sir, have one term of college under your belt,” his friend declared in his most worldly-wise voice.

            “Precisely.”  Adam pulled out his desk chair and sat down.  Opening the new geography text, he cupped his chin in his hands and began to read.  Next to him, Jamie did the same, and the afternoon was silent, except for the rustle of turning pages and an occasional comment from one diligent student to the other.

When Adam had absorbed all the geographic detail he felt his brain could tolerate at one sitting, he flopped onto the bed to relax with a copy of yesterday’s New York Times, which Robert Raines had passed on to him at dinner.  He skimmed the war news, which always dominated the front page, even when no major battles were being fought; and then he read through a long poem called “The Muster of the North.”  Pure patriotic fodder by comparison with the classics he studied here at Yale, yet one set of verses brought a thoughtful frown to his face:

 

The students leave their college rooms

Full deep in Greece and Rome,

To make a rival glory

For a better cause near home . . .

 

            Somehow, those few words made his classical studies seem foolishly out of touch with the very real conflict tearing the nation apart.  All his questions about his chosen course surged back to the surface.  To be a student or a soldier—that was the question, to paraphrase Shakespeare.  The issue was settled, though, wasn’t it?  Then why did these few mediocre lines of poetry make him wonder once again if he’d made the right choice?  He wasn’t tempted by the glories of war; he’d learned back in the Paiute war that there were none.  Still—”

            “Adam?”

            “Hmm?”  Still lost in thought, Adam was slow to look up.

            Jamie gazed at him quizzically.  “Everything all right?”

            “Sure.”  Adam sat up and stretched, pushing the issue to the back of his mind.  “Want me to quiz you on the those rivers?”

            Jamie chuckled.  “Not right now.  Time to leave for Greek class, though you don’t seem to have noticed.  The news must really be absorbing.”

            Adam tossed the pages aside.  “Just bad poetry.  Let’s go.”

            The third recitation hour was still conducted by Professor Hadley, who seemed genuinely glad to see the students again and spent the first few minutes of class asking about their holidays.  Comfortable as an old shoe, that was Old Had in Adam’s opinion.  Always stimulating, but never one to trap a student by a cleverly worded question.  It felt good to be back in his class, good to be back in all the classes.  In fact, Adam realized with a jolt of surprise, it felt like being home.  Oh, he still missed the Ponderosa, still cherished each bit of news from there, but New Haven, and Yale College in particular, was becoming home, too.  And what were the glories of war, compared to the glories of home?

 

* * * * *

 

            Having checked the college catalog to learn the location of Louis Bail’s office, Adam dressed neatly, carefully covered his sketchbook against the ever-present possibility of rain and made his way to the Lyon Building downtown on Saturday afternoon.  He found No. 9 and rapped on the door.  When a man’s voice called, “Come in,” he entered, his attention immediately caught by the framed portraits and sketches of the human head adorning the walls of the office.

            “Yes?” the man behind the plain walnut desk asked with an inquiring cock of his head.

            “Mr. Bail?” Adam asked.

            “Yes.  How may I help you, young man?”

            Summoning his courage, Adam introduced himself.  “I’m a student at Yale,” he added.

            The quizzical expression on Louis Bail’s face deepened.  “Not one of mine,” he said after careful examination of Adam’s features.

            Adam moistened his suddenly dry lips.  “No, sir . . . but I’d like to be.”

            Bail relaxed into his chair.  “Ah.  I see.  You wish to be an artist?”

            “Oh, no,” Adam said quickly.  “My abilities don’t extend to that.”  If he hadn’t already instinctively known that, a quick glance at the portraits on the wall would have instantly extinguished any hopes he had of artistic greatness.  “I’m interested in pursuing architecture, though, and since you do teach drawing at the college, I thought that . . . perhaps . . . I might . . . well, join the class.”

            “I don’t recall seeing you around the yard,” Bail stated.  “Are you actually enrolled or”—he smiled crookedly—“is that, also, something you’d ‘like to be’?”

            Adam flushed uncomfortably.  “I’m enrolled,” he said, “but not at Sheffield, where you teach.  I’m in the academic department.”

            Bail laughed lightly.  “That would explain why I haven’t seen you.  I don’t mingle much with the academics.  Now, tell me, young man, why you are taking this most unusual path to becoming an architect.”

            Oddly enough, being laughed at put Adam more at ease.  “You’re not the first to find that unusual,” he admitted.  Then he began to talk about his early interest in architecture and the series of events that had brought him to Yale, going on to describe his visits to architectural offices in New York City and the encouragement and promise of summer employment that he had received from Addison Bracebridge.

            “I’ve heard of the firm,” Bail inserted, “and seen some of their designs.  Good workmanship.  Your summer apprenticeship with them should benefit you.”

            “It was Mr. Bracebridge who recommended that I see about taking some drawing courses at Sheffield,” Adam explained.  “Do you think you might see fit to permit me to join your class, sir?”

            Lacing his supple fingers above his abdomen, Bail leaned back in his chair and scrutinized Adam’s youthful face more closely.  “What class are you in, Mr. Cartwright?”

            Knowing it was likely to be a sticking point, Adam hated to answer that question, but he told the truth.  “I’m a freshman, sir.”

            Bail put his head back and laughed aloud, and this time the sound didn’t put Adam at all at ease.  “My dear young man,” Bail finally said, “since you’ve only been a student at Yale for one term, don’t you think your time might best be spent in concentrating on your regular studies and making certain that you matriculate?”

            “No,” Adam said.  Then, seeing the teacher’s wide-eyed stare, he added, “I mean, there’s no risk that I won’t matriculate.”  He lifted his head proudly.  “In fact, I stand near the top of my class in all subjects and have only earned a single demerit.”  Frankly, he didn’t think he deserved even that one, but knew that arguing the unfairness of Wilder Smith’s mark would gain him little ground with a fellow teacher.

            “Exemplary,” Bail agreed.  “However, you are still new to college life, Mr. Cartwright, and may find it more rigorous as you move into more difficult material.  I would advise you to wait until next year before adding an additional subject to your workload.  After all, you already have one new subject to contend with, and Professor Thacher has a reputation for, shall we say, thoroughness in covering the material?”  His mouth curved upward in a confiding smile.

            “I understand what you’re saying,” Adam said slowly, “but I do want to be better prepared for my work this summer.  I’ve brought some of my sketches, and I think you could see right away that I need training.  May I show you?”

            “By all means,” the teacher said.  “I’d be most interested.”

            Adam opened his portfolio and spread his sketches of the State House, as well as the one he’d drawn of the church in New York City, before the instructor.  Bail studied them carefully, nodding at some moments, frowning at others.  “I know I don’t have the perspective correct,” Adam ventured hesitantly.

            “No, you don’t,” Bail agreed readily.  He pulled one sketch toward him.  “It should be more like this,” he said, quickly drawing lines to the side of Adam’s original.  “Shorten this line; lengthen that one, more at this angle.”

            “Yes, I see,” Adam said eagerly.  “That’s just what I was missing.”  Eyes gleaming with hope, he looked up.  “Oh, sir, won’t you reconsider?  I promise you I would keep up with my regular studies and diligently complete any assignment you gave me.”

            Bail held up a restraining hand.  “Have you read the college catalog?” he asked.

            Adam slumped.  Was that every professor’s favorite question or did it just seem that way?  “I looked up your address in it,” he said with a sheepish smile.  “Was there something else I should have read?”

            Bail laughed.  “The fact that I don’t teach architectural drawing until the third term might have been pertinent,” he suggested.

            “Oh,” Adam said, deflated, suddenly feeling that he’d made a complete idiot of himself by coming here today.  Not exactly the way to impress a new teacher!

            Bail reached out to pat the young man’s arm.  “I think it’s for the best anyway, Mr. Cartwright.  You need at least one more term without added responsibilities.”

            The spark of hope rekindling in his eye, Adam raised his head.  “Then you might agree to accept me next term?”

            “I might,” Bail conceded.  “I would need to discuss this unusual request with the rest of the faculty, so I make no guarantees.  However, if you continue to do as well in your academic work as you’ve begun and in view of Bracebridge’s interest in you, see me again when you’ve finished your second term exams and we’ll discuss this matter further.”

            “Thank you, sir!” Adam cried with enthusiasm.  “I can’t tell you how much this means!”

            Bail chuckled.  “I have a fair idea, by the look on your face.  I’ll look forward to seeing you in April, Mr. Cartwright.”

            “I’ll be here . . . and thank you again,” Adam said, gathering up his sketches.  “I’ve taken up enough of your time, so I’ll just thank you—”

            “Again?” Bail teased.  “You’re beginning to babble, young Mr. Cartwright.  Work on that perspective and bring me your best sketch when you come in April.”

            “Yes, sir; I will, sir,” Adam promised.  Then, realizing that he was babbling yet again, he said good-bye quickly and left the office.

            Rain was pouring down steadily as he stepped onto the sidewalk.  Putting up the umbrella, he shook his head in disgust.  Rain.  Again.  It didn’t take any scientific know-how to predict the weather in New Haven: just predict rain and you’d be right, nine times out of ten.  And only one umbrella between him and his roommate.  On days like today, when one of them had a separate errand, the other was either confined to the room or left to the whim of the elements.  Since Adam intended to get back into the routine of visiting the gymnasium each morning, while Jamie still preferred to study at the library between first and second recitation, sharing one umbrella was becoming impractical.  More than impractical—penny wise and pound foolish, Adam decided.  He made his way toward Chapel Street and, turning into J. H. Coley and Sons’ dry goods store, chose a serviceable umbrella, dickered the price down a bit and made the purchase.

 

* * * * *

            Adam was surprised to hear a deep sigh coming from his friend as they exited from morning chapel on Sunday.  “Sermon strike a bit close to home?” he asked roguishly.

            Jamie smiled weakly.  “The trouble is, rather, being far from home, my dear chum.”  Seeing that Adam did not understand, he explained, “I’m feeling a trifle melancholy today.  I was used to being apart from Father during the week, but we always met here after chapel on Sundays, remember?”

            “Melancholy is a serious ailment, young man,” Adam intoned solemnly, stroking his imaginary chin whiskers.  “Fortunately, my vast medical research has suggested the perfect cure.”

            “Surely you don’t intend to prescribe a walk, Dr. Cartwright.”  From beneath its shelter, Jamie pointed heavenward with his open umbrella.  “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s raining.”

            “Again,” Adam moaned.  “Does it ever miss a day?”

            “Not lately,” Jamie laughed, “but a hot and filling dinner in our nice dry nest is the best antidote.”

            “Agreed.”  As both boys headed toward the Vultures’ Nest, Adam observed, “I still think a walk would do you good, get your mind off that abominable homesickness . . . for a home you’ve never even seen, I might point out.”

            Jamie gave his friend a shove as he skipped over a puddle.  “Father is home to me, wherever he is.  Isn’t that how you feel about your family?  Or is it only the pine trees you miss?”

            Adam tipped Jamie’s umbrella back just long enough to see his face splashed.  “That is a decidedly wicked twinkle in your eye, sir, for someone who’s just left church,” he chided.

            Jamie mopped his damp cheeks.  “You’re merely seeing a reflection of the mischief in your own, I assure you.”

            Chuckling, Adam conceded the point in that duel of wits to Jamie.  “Maybe a walk back to George Street will be sufficient exercise, given the weather,” he said.  “I still need to drill those rivers, mountains and islands of India into my head, but I’ll definitely need fortification before facing that.”

            They walked a block in silence, and then Jamie ventured, “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll walk over to Dwight Street, instead.”

            “Of course, I don’t mind,” Adam assured him, “though that doesn’t seem like much of a destination.  What’s on Dwight?”

            “The Sunday school mission,” Jamie answered.  “Maybe volunteering—keeping busy, I mean—would keep me from missing those afternoons with Father.”

            “Maybe,” Adam conceded.  Teaching a roomful of restless boys and girls didn’t appeal to him as a way to spend a free afternoon, but a future clergyman no doubt saw the opportunity differently.  “You’ll really need fortification for that,” he teased.  “On to the Vultures’ Nest!”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Class Warfare

 

 

            On Tuesday morning tree trunks at Yale again budded with posters of red and blue, announcing the meetings of Linonia and the Brothers in Unity.  To Adam, they were another welcome sign that he was returning to a routine he loved.  As he hurried toward the chapel, he wondered if even the exhilaration of that new job this summer would compare to the emotion that welled within him just with a simple walk through the college campus.  Oh, of course, it would, he decided as he found his place in the choir loft.  No doubt New York City would soon become familiar to him and by summer’s end would elicit the same feelings.

            His entrance into the gymnasium with Lucas after the morning recitation returned the same thoughts to his mind.  He’d only started back into that routine the previous morning, but it had felt so good to stretch his muscles and work out all the kinks from protracted study that he had vowed he wouldn’t miss a day of exercise.

            A trio of sophomores roughly pushed them aside.  “Oh, Freshie, don’t block the doorway,” one scolded.

            “Oh, Sophie,” Lucas snorted, “don’t fret your feeble little brains to find a way around.”

            “Watch your step, Freshie,” the sophomore warned.  “Don’t trip over your own feeble wit.”

            “Watch your own, Sophie,” Lucas called after the upperclassmen.

            Adam snagged his arm.  “Will you stop?” he demanded.

            “Why?” Lucas demanded.  “Do you think those addle-pates merit respect?”

            “No, but what use is there in antagonizing them?”  Adam pulled him toward the horizontal ladders, across the room from where the sophomores were gathered.

            Lucas jumped up and began to swing from one rung to the next.  “I’m not afraid of them,” he snapped down at Adam.

            Adam swung up behind his friend.  “You think I am?”

            “Actions say so.”  Lucas missed a rung and dropped to the floor.

            Adam let go and dropped beside him.  “It’s not fear; it’s common sense.  I wouldn’t mind taking any one of them on in a fair fight, if we could keep the faculty from finding out, but I won’t risk expulsion over a few meaningless taunts.  It’s only a couple dozen bullies—the ones who do the really bad hazing, I mean—not the entire sophomore class, but you invite trouble, even from the peaceable ones.”

            Arms akimbo, Lucas stared Adam down.  “The ‘peaceable ones,’ as you call them, don’t oppose the hazing; they just turn a blind eye.”

            “True enough,” Adam admitted, “but if you keep it up, they’ll probably join together, out of class loyalty, and put you in your place, Freshie.”

            Lucas groaned.  “Oh, don’t you start it now.”

            “Come on,” Adam said with a jovial punch to his friend’s shoulder.  “Let’s start across that ladder again . . . and pay attention this time.”

 

* * * * *

 

            “I’m worried about him,” Adam confided to Jamie that afternoon during their study session.  “It’s like he’s itching for a fight.”

            “He may get one,” Jamie agreed, looking up from Euclid, the bane of his collegiate existence, “but I don’t think the sophomores would do him any serious harm.  I haven’t seen anything worse than what we went through during initiation into Sigma Ep, and isn’t that what Freshman year is, a sort of initiation?”

            “I suppose.”  Chin cupped in his hand, Adam mulled the idea over for a minute.  Except for that initial smoking out, Jamie was right: nothing worse than an initiation.  “It isn’t what the sophomores will do to him that matters,” he concluded.  “It’s what the faculty would do if they found out.  You know how many demerits that boy already has racked up!”

            Jamie nodded grimly.  “And expulsion is not outside the limits of what they might dictate for a serious infraction, like a major brawl.”

            “Would Lucas settle for any other kind?”

            Jamie closed his geometry text.  “Do you want me to talk to him?”

            Adam snuffled.  “Do you think it would do any good?”

            “No,” Jamie said with blunt honesty.  “Not if he doesn’t listen to you.”

            Adam laughed gruffly.  “No, he turns a deaf ear to me, too, so I guess all we can do is wait for disaster to happen and pick up the pieces as best we can . . . assuming the sophomores leave some.”

            “Time we headed for the Vultures’ Nest, isn’t it?”  Jamie stood up and took his jacket from the back of the chair.  Thrusting his arms into the sleeves, he said, “I’ll pray for him tonight.  Sure you don’t want to come with me?”

            “To the class prayer meeting?”  Grinning, Adam shook his head.  “No, thanks.  I find the ancient geography of India so fascinating that I just can’t tear myself away.”

 

* * * * *

 

            The weather Wednesday seemed determined to prove its changeableness.  While the sun shone brightly early that morning, by the time the students left chapel a slowly thickening fog blanketed the college yard.  When they met at the Elm of Assembly after first recitation, coal-dark clouds hovered overhead, and soon soft, warm rain splattered the rooftops.  Before the day ended, snow clouds formed, and a light powder dusted Adam’s hat as he made his way to rehearsal with the Beethoven Society.  During the hour he spent indoors, the snow turned to hail, and just when he’d decided that he’d have to either risk getting his head bashed or go without supper, the hail stopped and the snow returned.  He made a dash across the yard, hearing the blinds on the windows of the college dorms clatter a rhythmic percussion to the storm’s symphony and dodging a shower of loose window glass that rained to the pavement.

            “What did you expect?” Lucas grumbled when Adam complained over the evening meal.  “It’s just typical New Haven weather.  Or hadn’t you noticed that it rains every day at 5 p.m.?”

            Adam’s nose wrinkled.  “Just when we’re free for the day, you mean?”

            “Exactly!”

            “Saturday was pleasant, though,” Jamie observed.  “More free time then, anyway.”

            “An excellent point,” Lucas agreed, “and I propose we take appropriate advantage of the cooperation of the weather this Saturday.”

            “How do you define ‘appropriate’?” Adam inquired, wary, as always, of any proposal by Lucas.

            “A skating party!” Lucas announced with enthusiasm.

            “Oh, that sounds like fun,” Marcus put in.

            “But I don’t know how to skate,” Jamie moaned.

            “Neither do I,” Adam admitted, “but it’s time we learned.”  He gave his friend a light poke in the ribs with his elbow.  “Dr. Cartwright prescribes this for your health and wellbeing, young man.”

            A cunning look entered Jamie’s usually guileless blue eyes.  “All right,” he said slowly.  “I’ll follow your prescription on Saturday if you’ll follow mine Sunday afternoon.”

            Adam looked up from slicing his roast beef.  “That, sir, has the suspicious clank of a trap about it.”

            “No trap,” Jamie insisted, spearing several green beans with his fork.  “A simple bargain.  I go skating with you, and you—all of you—come to the mission with me the next day.”

            “I’ll be glad to do both,” Marcus assured his best friend and earned an appreciative smile in response.

            Adam scowled, for while he considered himself a believer in God, daily chapel more than satisfied his desire for religious duties.  Before he could say anything in protest, however, Lucas inserted earnestly, “Why, of course, we’ll help at the mission!  You should have asked us sooner, my little preacher friend.”

            Adam’s eyebrow arched as he stared in wide-eyed skepticism at Lucas.  Luke volunteering for mission work?  This definitely demanded investigation.  “What’s in it for you?” he demanded.

            Lucas slammed his chest with his open palm.  “You suspect my motives?  You doubt the sincerity of my desire to teach little townie children to read?”

            Adam propped his chin in his cupped hand and continued to give the other boy an appraising scrutiny.  “In a word . . . yes.  I repeat: what’s in it for you?”

            “Girls,” Edgar Warington muttered from across the table.

            “What else?” sneered George Miller, the other sophomore.  “They are freshies, after all.”  The way he said it sounded like an accusation of something as heinous as rape, pillage and murder by invading barbarians.

            “What do you insinuate, Sophie?” Lucas demanded, rising from his seat.

            “Mind your tongue, Freshie,” Miller growled ominously.

            The sound of a knife tapping against a water glass interrupted them.  “Take your seats, please, gentlemen,” Alexander White said with calm control.  “I would remind you that our rules allow no exhibitions of class rivalry at the table.”

            Miller bowed stiffly to the steward.  “My apologies, sir.”  He took his seat.

            Lucas balked for a moment and then sat down, muttering, “Sorry, White,” while he still glared across the table at the irritating members of the class just above him.

            Every man turned his attention to his plate until another subject for conversation was offered by one of the juniors.  As they left the Vultures’ Nest, however, Adam snagged Lucas’s arm.  “All right, ‘fess up,” he demanded.  “Is it girls that are inspiring your sudden philanthropic attitude?”

“Of course,” Lucas readily admitted to his friend.  “I’ve heard some rather lovely young ladies devote themselves to that particular ministry.”

Adam laughed.  “And you believe the virtues of righteousness should be instantly rewarded, is that it?”

            Lucas shrugged.  “Better sooner than later, I always say.”

            “You are irredeemable,” Jamie offered with a shake of his head.

            “Oh, I am, too,” Adam declared with a teasing grin, “and since you surely don’t want such disreputable volunteers for your mission work . . .”

            Jamie smiled like a man in complete control of a rebellion.  “You don’t get off that easily.  I will take anyone I can get, and I don’t care in the slightest how self-centered your motives may be.”  He folded his arms and stared them down.  “The bargain remains the same: my skating for your volunteering.  Take it or leave it.”

            “Girls, Adam,” Lucas reminded him.  “As a fellow prisoner of all-male Yale, can you afford to let an opportunity like that pass?”

            “Definitely not,” Adam decided.  He wagged a finger under Jamie’s nose.  “However, if they turn out to be anything less than lovely . . .”

            “You’ll find that righteousness is its own reward,” Jamie finished with an irritating smile.

 

* * * * *

 

            “Are you sure the ice is thick enough?” Jamie asked nervously as Marcus laced his skates for him.

            “You saw the red ball hanging at State and Chapel,” said Lucas, who had generously rented skates for all of them.  “That means the ponds are safe for skating.”  He wagged his head at the other boy.  “Quit looking for excuses, preacher boy.”

            “I’m not,” Jamie began, but the protest died in a sheepish grimace.  “Well, all right, I am.  I admit I’m scared.”

            “Worst that can happen is you fall on your—uh, dignity, shall we call it?” Lucas laughed.

            “I won’t let you fall,” Marcus promised as he pulled Jamie to his feet.  “If I can help it,” he added at Lucas’s skeptical look.

            “Do I get the same promise out of you?” Adam asked Lucas with a grin.

            “Falls are inevitable,” Lucas said, “but I’ll stick with you until you’re steady on your blades.”

            Immediately after dinner that Saturday, they had walked from the Vultures’ Nest to Hamilton Park, about a mile and a half from the Green.  To Adam, the weather seemed perfect for skating: crisp and cold, with no ominous storm clouds hanging low on the horizon.  Once again their free afternoon had been blessed with a clear day, favorable to an outing, and the four friends, along with a crowd of other young people, planned to pack the afternoon brim full of fun.

            Marcus led Jamie onto the ice, the student sliding after the teacher with slow, cautious strokes.  On the other hand, Lucas seemed to prefer a teaching technique that Adam later told him was akin to being tossed into a creek and told to sink or swim.  Fortunately, Adam’s innate sense of balance and athletic agility kept him mostly on his feet, and while he did fall three times in the first half hour, he got up again each time and kept trying until Lucas declared him proficient enough to strike out on his own.

            With each turn around the pond, Adam gained confidence—and speed.  Soon he was whizzing around, exhilarated by the rush of cold air on his ruddy cheeks.  Then, suddenly, he hit a slick spot.  Though he windmilled his arms, struggling for balance, his feet flew out in front of him, and he went careening down the ice until he collided with another set of skates and knocked the person wearing them to the ice.  “I’m sorry,” a chagrinned Adam said as he untangled his feet from the other skater’s sweeping skirt.  “Here, let me help you up.”

            He scrambled to his feet, but as he took the young lady’s hand and started to assist her, his feet slipped again and he crashed to his knees, his hands hitting the ice on both sides of the girl’s prone figure.  “I am so sorry,” he babbled again, but then fell silent, his gaze riveted on the darkest blue eyes he’d ever seen.  Inger—and Hoss had inherited them—had had eyes the color of an alpine lake; in fact, most blue-eyed people he’d met, Jamie among them, tended toward that shade, but these eyes, now snapping with irritation, were as deep a blue as a lagoon—well, what he imagined a lagoon would look like, anyway.  He’d never seen one of those, any more than he’d seen an alpine lake, except with imagination’s eye.  “I’m sorry,” he said once more.  “Let me help . . .”—the look in those deep blue eyes kept him from finishing the offer.

            “Please don’t!” she declared.  “I’d rather not have you land on top of me!”

            By this time they were surrounded by helping hands, and soon both skaters were again on their feet.  With a flounce of her auburn ringlets, the young lady skated off, leaving Adam staring after her, mouth agape.

            “If it were summer, you’d catch flies,” Lucas snickered, knuckling Adam’s chin  up to close his mouth.

            “Did you see her?” Adam asked.

            “Yeah.”  Lucas started to lift a nonchalant shoulder, but then favored his friend with a wicked wink, instead.  “Not as closely as you did, of course.  I thought it was tomorrow we planned to find you a lovely lady.”

            Adam flushed and, to cover his embarrassment, snorted, “I don’t need the likes of you to find me a lovely lady.”

            “Evidently not!” Lucas laughed.  “You’re still honor bound to help at the mission tomorrow, though.”  At the sour twist of Adam’s mouth, he added, “Plenty of time left for fun before we face that.  Race you to the far end of the lake!”  He took off, and Adam struck out after him, moving more slowly this time.  He’d lose the race, of course, but staying on his feet—and keeping other people on theirs—seemed more important on this first skating adventure.

 

* * * * *

 

            “Hard to believe such a normally kind-hearted person could be so devoid of pity when it’s most needed, isn’t it?” Adam observed as the four freshmen walked from afternoon chapel toward Dwight Street.  “To force a man to work when every movement is unadulterated pain.”

            “Oh, quit complaining,” Jamie chided.  “You’re scarcely more bruised and achy than I am!”

            Adam shook his head.  “I beg to differ.  You had Marcus—kind, gentle Marcus—as your instructor, while I was committed to Luke’s tender mercies . . . if I may be forgiven such a bald-faced lie as to call them that.”

            “Got too big for his britches and raced around the pond like a madman, he means,” Lucas cackled.

            “It’s that poor young lady who deserves our pity,” Marcus put forth shyly.  He rarely joked, but by common consent Adam was fair game today.

            “Amen!” Lucas agreed heartily.  “She probably sports bruises that will dwarf yours into insignificance.”

            “I don’t doubt it,” Adam moaned.  “The first pretty girl I meet in six months, and I have to ruin all hope of winning her favor.”

            “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness—at the mission, that is,” Jamie intoned solemnly with a twinkle in his eye, “and all these things shall be added unto you.”

            “If only they would!” Adam laughed.  “But I’m afraid it’ll be as you said before: I’ll have to settle for righteousness being its own reward.”

            “Settle,” Jamie, who truly believed that principle, scoffed.

            Teasing one another about the worth of their various motives, the group entered the small frame building on Dwight St. and joined the handful of other workers, who were trying to curb the lively spirits of the youngsters jostling their way into the mission.  Lucas proved especially helpful in that department, for being prone to high jinks himself, he instinctively knew how to redirect that energy.

            Adam herded the group he’d been assigned to corral into the designated corner.  Once they were seated on the backless benches, he turned to greet his assistant for the day’s lesson, and his eyes widened in shock—as did the young lady’s lagoon blue eyes.  “You!” she cried.

            “Y-you,” he sputtered.

            “Is everything all right, Elizabeth?” another young lady called, having heard the cry.

            Elizabeth turned away briefly and said, “Yes, Mary, I’m fine.”  Then she spun back to face Adam.  “Are you following me, sir?”

            “No!” Adam protested.  “Certainly not, Miss . . . Elizabeth.”  His expression softened.  “Elizabeth . . . that was my mother’s name.”

            “Oh, really,” Elizabeth scoffed with a roll of her beautiful eyes.  “And I suppose her maiden name was Allen,” she added scornfully.

            Adam looked puzzled.  “No . . . Stoddard.”

            Her breath caught in a short gasp.  “Well, that’s original, at least.”

            “It’s the truth,” Adam hissed through gritted teeth.

            The two stared each other down until a little girl with a front row seat for this confrontation snickered, “Teachers fighting, they is.”

            “They are,” both Adam and Elizabeth corrected simultaneously, and when they realized what they’d done, both burst out laughing.

            “Less levity and more lessons, please,” suggested the minister in charge of the mission.

            “Yes, Reverend Walters,” Elizabeth said.  She smiled demurely at Adam.  “Truce for now?”

            “Truce for always,” he said.

            The two young people worked well together, and the time seemed to fly.  When the small scholars were released, Elizabeth smiled warmly at Adam.  “You’re an excellent teacher, Mr. Cartwright,” she said, having learned his name when he introduced himself to the children.

            “Thank you,” Adam replied.  He’d been surprised to find that he enjoyed the role of teacher, and to be told that he’d done well was meaningful in the light of that discovery.  “If I have any ability, I suppose it comes from helping my younger brothers with their studies . . . well, mostly the older one.  Little Joe’s only four, so he can’t do more than print his letters, rather tipsily at that.”

            Elizabeth laughed.  “Now, confess: it’s really your mother who teaches the little ones.”

            Adam pressed his lips together and his gaze dropped.

            “Did I say something wrong?” Elizabeth asked.

            Adam looked up.  “No, of course not.  You couldn’t have known.  It’s just that . . . my mother is deceased.”  All of them, he might have said, but felt uncomfortable relating such personal information to a complete stranger.

            “I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth said with chagrin.  “Recently?”

            “Yes,” Adam said and then abruptly, “No.”

            Frowning, Elizabeth cocked her head.  “Well, which is it?”

            Adam gave her a wry smile.  “Both.”  When her frown deepened, he said, “It’s a complicated situation.  My own mother died in childbirth, but my stepmother died a few months ago.”  He felt disloyal for omitting Inger, who was equally his mother, but he felt uneasy with sharing the full family history yet.

            Elizabeth gently touched his hand.  “How very sad.”

            Uncomfortable with displaying his emotions, Adam barely nodded.

            Sensing his discomfort, Elizabeth asked, “Do you plan to teach here every Sunday, Mr. Cartwright?  I do hope so.”  Then, fearing he might think her forward, she added quickly, “There’s such a need for good teachers, I mean.”

            “Yes, I think I might,” Adam said, daring to look into her eyes, “if I might hope to have your excellent help.”

            Elizabeth’s dark lashes swept her cheeks.  “I think you might.”

            “Might I see you home today . . . if I promise to steer well away from ice ponds?” Adam requested, lip quirking upward.

            Elizabeth tittered lightly as she again said, “I think you might.”

 

* * * * *

 

            As the freshmen walked to chapel the next morning, Adam was, of course, thoroughly twitted for insuring his own reward for the righteousness of teaching.  “I do assume the charms of the lovely Miss Allen are sufficient reward,” Lucas probed.

            Adam refused to be baited.  “Sufficient to entice me back next Sunday.”  He winked at Jamie.  “Provided you still don’t concern yourself with the motives of your helpers.”

            Jamie laid his palm across his heart.  “I stand by my word.”

            “I must say, I find this western way of winning a lady’s favor quite interesting,” Lucas observed.  “To literally knock a woman off her feet is simply not done here in the East, sir.”

            Marcus laughed.  “I still can’t believe she let you walk her home after that!”

            “I can’t either,” Adam admitted, “especially as prickly as she was when she first realized we’d be working together yesterday afternoon.”

            “Saepe creat molles aspera spina rosas,” Jamie somehow managed to state with a straight face.

            Adam’s nostrils flared.  “I’ll show you how often prickly thorns produce tender roses!”  He had no opportunity to carry out his threat, however, for the first chapel bell rang, and as a member of the choir, that was his signal to take his place in the loft.

 

* * * * *

 

            Long arms stretched above his head, Adam swung easily from rung to rung in the gymnasium.  A smattering of half-hearted applause greeted him as he dropped to the floor at the end of the horizontal ladder.  He stiffened when he saw a quartet of sophomores.  “Well done, Freshie,” said one.

            Adam bowed slightly in their direction in a gesture that avoided being deferential, while still maintaining the show of respect the upperclassmen craved.

            “You, however,” the sophomore then said to Lucas, still on the bars, “in common with most freshies, lack a certain grace.”

            “All the more reason to exercise,” Adam inserted quickly before Lucas could shoot off his mouth.

            “Granted,” the sophomore conceded, “but not when your betters require the equipment.  Run along now, both of you.”

            “Find a game of hopscotch or tiddlywinks,” another suggested.  “Much more in keeping with freshie abilities.”

            Reaching the end of the ladder, Lucas performed a twisting turnaround and started back the way he’d come.

            “Drop down, Freshie,” came a stern order.

            “When I’m ready, Sophie,” Lucas returned with a sneer of disdain.

            The two sophomore spokesmen took hold of his legs and hauled him down from the ladder.  Seeing Lucas hit the floor hard, Adam sprang forward, but the other two sophomores just as quickly grabbed him and pulled his arms back.  “Stay out of it, Freshie,” they advised him.

            Adam struggled in their grasp.  “Leave him be, then!”

            “Take him off and we will,” said one man, thrusting Lucas toward Adam.

            At the same moment Adam was released, just in time to grasp the arm Lucas was drawing back while closing his fist.  “Come on,” he urged.  “I fancy a game of ten pins, anyway.”

            Lucas let himself be dragged off.  “Why do you give in to their bullying?” he demanded.

            “You can’t fight here,” Adam argued as they moved down the stairs to the basement.  “The gymnastics instructor would see and report you.  Besides, they have as much right to that equipment as we do.”

            “I don’t mind sharing the equipment,” Lucas grunted, “but the way they demand it is insolent.”

            Adam chuckled.  “The way you refuse is, too.  Will you, at least, try to get along?”

            Lucas shrugged.  “Maybe, but I promise you that these particular prickly thorns will never produce tender roses.”

            Adam’s nose wrinkled in distaste.  “And I promise you that if you use that analogy once more, I shall be forced to punch you in your prickly snoot.”

            Clucking his tongue, Lucas wagged his finger beneath Adam’s nose.  “Tsk, tsk, wouldn’t want the gymnastics instructor to see that, would you?”

            “Uh . . . no,” Adam agreed as he selected a bowling ball.  “Best two out of three?”

            “Yeah, we’ve got time for two games,” Lucas said with a cocky jut of his chin.

            Adam scowled at the suggestion that Luke could defeat him that easily.  If only it were false boasting!  All too often, however, their bowling matches played out exactly that way.  Someday, my friend, he promised himself, the shoe will be on the other foot.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam had just exited the chapel after that week’s rehearsal of the Beethoven Society when he spotted someone waving at him.  He walked over to the upperclassman, curious as to what he could want, since freshmen rarely had contact with those above them in the college ranks.  As he approached, he recognized the man who had served as his escort to the Sigma Epsilon initiation.  “Mr. Demmings,” he said in greeting.  “I saw your article in the Lit.  Admirably phrased, I thought.”

            “Thank you,” Demmings said, but his sober expression gave no hint of pleasure in the compliment.  “Might I have a word with you, Cartwright?”

            “I was just on my way to supper,” Adam said.

            “Obviously, I think this is important or I wouldn’t be here, delaying my own,” Demmings said sharply.

            Adam’s eyebrows came together in a straight, brooding line.  “Is there a problem, sir?”

            Demmings seemed to relax.  “With you, no . . . never.  Your friend Cameron, on the other hand . . . well, I fear retribution awaits him.”

            Adam drew himself up and demanded fiercely, “Is that a threat?”

            “No.”  Demmings spread his hands in an imprecating gesture.  “It’s a warning, Cartwright, a sincerely intended one.  I don’t approve of serious hazing myself.”

            “Didn’t seem to bother you the night you came to smoke us out,” Adam pointed out.

            Demmings frowned.  “I’m not above putting you freshmen in your place at the beginning of the year, but even you should admit that we weren’t rough with you.”

            Adam nodded in basic, though not enthusiastic, agreement.  The experience had been unpleasant, of course, but not unbearable, and as a result of what he’d learned that night, Demmings had insured that Jamie’s initiation had gone smoothly.  Worth the price, in Adam’s view.

            “However,” Demmings continued, “there is talk among certain of my classmates of Cameron’s needing a lesson in humility.”

            “What sort of lesson?” Adam demanded.

            Demmings shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I’m not part of it; most of the class isn’t, in fact, so I can’t give you details.  I just know that if Cameron doesn’t change his attitude—and soon—there will be some sort of disciplinary action taken, probably of a rather rough nature.  Can’t you speak to him, suggest he keep his impertinent opinions to himself?”

            “I’ve tried,” Adam admitted.  “I honestly don’t know what more I could say.  He doesn’t see any need to kowtow to a man, just because he’s a year older.”

            Demmings looked puzzled.  “Kowtow?”  The word even felt odd on his tongue.

            Adam smiled ruefully.  “Sorry.  A term borrowed from my Chinese cook back home, meaning to show deference.  Frankly, I don’t disagree with Luke’s opinion, and I don’t disagree with his right to express it.  We are still guaranteed freedom of speech in America.  You might remind your friends of that.”

            Demmings’ nose crinkled in distaste.  “They aren’t my friends or I would.  You make a good point, Cartwright, but I doubt it’ll carry the day if Cameron persists in flouting tradition.  Please speak to him.”

            “I’ll try . . . again,” Adam said.  “Thank you for the warning, Demmings.  I’m sure it was kindly intended.”

            Demmings nodded and extended his hand.  “A few more months . . . when you’re sophomores and we’re juniors . . . and this nonsense will be behind us.  I welcome the day when we can meet on equal footing without anyone’s raising an eyebrow.  I think you’re a fine man, Cartwright, and a loyal friend.  Hopefully, one day I can call you mine.”

            Adam took the other man’s hand and pressed it warmly.  “As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Demmings, you already can.”

 

* * * * *

 

            “Good debate,” Adam said, shaking hands with a man who had just participated in one of the Brothers in Unity’s weekly encounters.  “I thought your points were well stated and convincing.”

            “Thanks, Cartwright,” the man responded.  “If you want to hear really strong debating, though, I’d recommend that you attend tomorrow night.  Williams and Borden are superior debaters.”

            Knowing that the man was referring to the sophomore prize debate, which had been announced at every meeting since the beginning of the term, Adam said, “Yes, I’ve heard that, and I’m looking forward to hearing them.”

            “Not me,” Lucas announced loudly, coming down the steps in time to hear the exchange.  “I refuse to attend anything featuring the accursed sophomores.”

            “Luke,” Adam growled a warning under his breath.  Not only was the man he’d been speaking to a sophomore, but there was a whole gaggle of them hovering nearby.  The debater shook his head in disgust and moved toward his own circle of friends.

            “You shouldn’t call any man accursed,” Jamie scolded.  “It’s against Scripture.”

            Lucas stared at the prospective preacher and exhaled gustily, “Oh, all right, but how you can compliment one of the creatures, Adam, is beyond me.”

            “Because he deserved it,” Adam returned simply.  “Good work should be acknowledged, whoever does it.”

            “Lofty ideals,” Lucas scoffed.

            Adam punched him in the shoulder.  “Something you should aim for, spoopsey.”

            Lucas stroked his chin in apparent contemplation.  “No,” he decided conclusively.  “Lofty ideals and sophomores simply don’t go together.  Never will.  Basic Greek teaches you that.”

            Comprehending at once what he meant, Adam and Jamie both groaned.  Marcus, however, looked puzzled.

            “From the Greek,” Lucas explained, adjusting an imaginary pair of professorial spectacles.  “Sophos meaning wise and moros, meaning foolish.”  He laughed suddenly.  “Not that I’ve ever seen any indication of the wise half of the equation in the sophomores of Yale!”

            “Will you stop?” Adam demanded, hauling Luke further from a group of glowering sophomores.  “You’re the one acting like a moron tonight.”

            “No faculty around.  What are you worried—or scared—about?” Lucas sneered.

            “I’m not scared,” Adam retorted, “except for you.  I’ve had a warning that you’re asking for trouble and may soon get it.”

            Lucas pulled away angrily.  “If I do, I’ll handle it!  Mind your own business, Adam.”  He turned on Jamie and Marcus, who had followed the other two away from the building.  “And the same goes for both of you!”  He shoved Adam away and stalked off.

            “Oh, Luke,” Jamie cried after him.  “Don’t go off mad.  We only . . .”  Realizing that he was speaking to the air, he broke off.

            “There’s no talking to him when he’s like this,” Marcus said softly.

            “Not tonight,” Adam admitted.  “I’ll try again tomorrow, when he’s cooled down some.”

            “Does he ever, where sophomores are concerned?” Jamie asked with a troubled frown.

            Adam shook his head and winced at the thought that he’d probably get it bitten off again tomorrow.

 

* * * * *

 

            The next night Adam, Jamie and Marcus again clattered down the steps of Alumni Hall.  “That was so good, better than I have ever hope of being,” Jamie sighed.

            “That’s not so,” Marcus declared loyally, for in his eyes Jamie could do no wrong nor suffer by comparison with anyone.

            “Here, here,” Adam chimed in, though not quite as enthusiastically.  Jamie was a good debater, but would have stood little chance against the top men tonight.  About as much as me, Adam admitted ruefully.  He certainly wasn’t convinced that he could perform as well as had Williams and Borden, who had placed first and second, just as the sophomore yesterday had predicted.

            “You shouldn’t judge yourself by men with a year’s more experience,” Marcus argued.

            Adam chuckled.  “Marcus, you may make the best debater of the bunch.”

            Shy Marcus flushed at the compliment.  “I learned a lot tonight—about debating and the question itself.”

            “Yes, the speakers brought out a number of points I hadn’t considered,” Adam agreed.  The question—ought the liberty of the press to be restricted in time of war?—was timely, in light of the current conflict, and thought-provoking.  The speakers, too, had been so excellent that he hadn’t envied the judges, Law Professor Henry Dutton, an outside lawyer and Professor William Norton of the Civil Engineering department.  “I just wish that Luke had come,” Adam added.  “He let his prejudice against sophomores deprive him of an exceptional evening.”

            “At least, he seemed on good terms with us again today,” Jamie pointed out.

            Adam nodded.  “That’s Luke.  Quick to flare up, quick to forgive.”

            “Except sophomores,” Marcus snickered.

            “Except sophomores,” Adam and Jamie repeated simultaneously, making them all laugh.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam and Jamie had almost reached their lodgings when they heard footsteps running up behind them.  Turning, Adam recognized Percival Demmings, but his smile of greeting faded when he saw the serious look on the other man’s face.

            Demmings motioned them into the shadows of a nearby building.  “Cartwright, might I recommend a little exercise before retiring, as an inducement to sound sleep?”

            Perceiving that the sophomore was speaking in some sort of code, Adam’s brow furrowed.  “What sort of exercise?” he probed.

            “Perhaps a long walk,” Demmings suggested.  “Have you seen East Rock in the moonlight?”

            The notion of a two-mile walk at this hour of the night was so ridiculous that Adam again realized that there was some purpose beyond the simple meaning of the words.  “Why, no, I haven’t,” he said slowly.  “Is it a memorable sight?”

            Demmings nodded gravely.  “Not to be missed—especially tonight.”

            Adam’s face hardened.  “What are they planning?” he demanded, only substituting the last word for ‘plotting’ out of respect for Demmings.

            “I don’t know,” Demmings replied.  “I overheard Cameron’s name and East Rock, but that’s all.  Hopefully, it’s only mischief, but if he were my friend, I’d hoof it there as fast as I could.”  His gaze dropped under Adam’s steady scrutiny.  “I can’t interfere,” he mumbled.  “Right or wrong, they are my classmates.”

            “All right,” Adam said quietly.  “Thank you for the warning.”

            “I only recommended exercise, remember?”

            Adam nodded his willingness to keep the other man’s secret, and Demmings slipped quickly away.  Adam at once turned to Jamie.  “I’ve got to go.”

            “I’m going with you,” Jamie stated stoutly.

“No,” Adam argued.  “It’s late and cold.”

            “And I am not a conservatory plant!” Jamie hissed.  “He’s my friend, too.  Now, let’s go.”

            “All right,” Adam agreed, “but I’m going to run ahead.  Catch up when you can.”

            Snow crunched underfoot as he rounded the corner and charged down State Street.  Breathing hard, he ignored the icy air prickling his nasal passages and larynx.  Unpleasant as a run on a frigid night was for him, he worried more about Jamie, being left further and further behind.  He’d promised Josiah to look after his boy, but that was the problem.  Jamie wasn’t a boy; he was a man, same as Adam, and had every right to make his own decisions and take his own risks in a worthy cause.  For Adam, reaching Lucas before the sophomores did him any harm was as worthy a battle as he’d faced in months.

            He had to slow down when the ground began to rise outside town.  Even at the slower pace the path was treacherous., strewn with debris of rocks and dead foliage.  Twice he slipped and fell to his knees, but he scrambled up again and plunged on.  Nearing the summit, he heard loud, exultant shouts and screams of outrage and poured his remaining energy into the final ascent.

            What he saw at the top shocked him to a dead standstill.  A circle of black-hooded sophomores surrounded Lucas, who had been stripped to his under drawers, his arms bound behind him.  He was yelling and kicking at his tormentors as several pinioned his head while another snipped his hair with blunt scissors and tossed the locks into the small campfire they’d built.  “Stop it!” Adam bellowed and, lowering his head, bulled his way into the circle.

            A wild melee ensued, the outcome of which was mathematically predictable from the start.  The freshmen were badly outnumbered, even when Jamie finally arrived and threw himself into the futile fray.  Soon Adam felt his arms pulled painfully behind him.  Looking to his right, he saw Jamie being treated in the same manner, while Lucas lay at his feet, trussed up with ropes, knees drawn up to protect his belly.  One of the sophomores plucked a branch from the fire and, bringing it over, held it beneath Adam’s face.  “It’s Cartwright,” he said.

            “No business to interfere,” another shouted.

            “He’s my friend!” Adam declared.

            The sophomore with the torch chuckled.  “You should choose your friends more wisely, Cartwright, but I can’t fault you for defending him, worthless wretch that he is.”  He moved toward Jamie.  “Edwards?”  He sounded surprised and then said with obvious approval.  “Well done, lad, but I’m afraid you’ll find there’s a price to pay, even for valor.”

            “Then I’ll pay it,” Jamie said, though the tremble in his voice deflated the force of the stalwart words.

            “No,” Lucas moaned from the ground.  “If there’s fault to be found, it’s in me; let them go.”

            “At least, he’s brave,” one of the sophomores grudgingly admitted.

            “And bravery deserves its reward,” the torchbearer decided.  “We won’t shear you like a lamb, then, Cameron, and we won’t do all we planned.  We will, however, leave you with one final gift to remember us by.”

            “All three of them!” one of the more belligerent sophomores yelled.

            “All three,” the leader agreed.

            The three freshmen were pushed to the ground together and before any of them could move, a bucket of freezing water was poured over them.  The sophomores shouted with glee.  “You can go home now, Freshies,” the leader said, “and be sure to be at chapel bright and early tomorrow.  Wouldn’t want you getting demerits, now would we?”  With shouts of laughter and a chorus of similar admonishments, the sophomores departed, leaving the drenched trio behind.

            With a shiver Adam sat up.  He looked first at Jamie.  “You all right?”

            “Just wet,” Jamie said.  “See to Luke.”

            Lucas was wriggling like an earthworm, trying to get up.  “I’m all right,” he said.  Together, Adam and Jamie hauled him up, and Adam began to work on the damp rope binding Luke’s wrists.  “Thanks,” Luke said.  “How’d you know about this?”

            “Can’t say,” Adam responded quickly, lest his other friend inadvertently reveal Demming’s name.  “See if you can find his clothes,” he suggested to Jamie.

            Jamie got to his feet and began searching the nearby bushes.  “Here they are!” he cried.

            Adam untied the final knot and tossed the rope aside.  Standing, he pulled Lucas to his feet.  “Come over by the fire.  You, too, Jamie.”

            As the three huddled over the small campfire, Jamie reached for Luke’s hands and examined his wrists.  “Rope burns,” he said.  “You should let us bathe and bandage them.”

            “I’ve had enough bathing for one night,” Lucas snorted.

            Glad to hear that his friend hadn’t lost his sense of humor, Adam uttered a short laugh.  “And it’s not even Saturday night,” he teased.  “Seriously, though, you should come back to our place.  Mrs. Wiggins won’t mind, and you—uh—sort of need a hair cut.”

            “Already had one,” Lucas grunted.

            “Half of one,” Jamie pointed out, stating the literal truth, for only one side of Luke’s head showed evidence of the sophomores’ work.

            They dried out as best they could from the scant warmth of the small fire, Lucas quickest of all because his outer clothes hadn’t been doused.  Then they started back toward town after carefully putting out the fire and scattering the ashes.  They all felt achy from the pummeling they’d taken at the hands of the sophomores, Lucas worse than the others, of course.  Adam worried more about Jamie, however.  A two-mile hike in the bitter cold was bad enough, but to make the same journey in still-damp clothes was worse, especially for someone whose constitution had never been particularly sturdy.  He’s braver than I am, to knowingly risk pneumonia for a friend, Adam thought as they made their way down from the summit of East Rock.

            No one felt like running, but they kept a steady pace, each feeling the urgency of getting to shelter and dry clothes.  Only a light breeze blew that night, but it might as well have been an arctic blast for the effect it had on the three boys.  Adam—and he assumed, Jamie—could feel his clothes freezing on his body, although constant movement slowed the process.  Still, by the time they reached George Street and crept quietly into the house, to avoid disturbing Mrs. Wiggins, all their teeth were chattering.  The room, when they reached it, was stone cold, for the roommates never wasted fuel when they were out for the evening.  “Price of coal be hanged,” Adam muttered as he dumped a fresh scoop into the stove.  “I’m sleeping warm tonight.”

            Even before the chill had been knocked off the room, they stripped out of their stiff garments and into nightshirts.  Being the closest in size to Lucas, Adam loaned him the use of his spare and insisted that he and Jamie should share the bed.  “I know where Mrs. Wiggins stores the blankets,” he said to close down their protests, “so I’ll just get several and make a thick pallet by the stove.  I’ll probably sleep warmer than either of you.”

            “Probably,” said Jamie, who knew an overly generous offer when he heard one, but also knew how impossibly stubborn Adam could be.  Tonight, he was too cold and too tired to indulge in futile argument.  While Adam went to fetch extra blankets from the storage closet and make up his pallet, Jamie tried to repair the damage to Luke’s hair.  “I can’t get it even without cutting the other side down to the nub, too,” he moaned.

            “Whack away, then,” Lucas grunted.

            When the amateur barber finished his work, Adam inspected the result, cocking his head first one way and then the other.  “Not bad,” he said, adding with a wicked grin, “though perhaps a bit breezy for this time of year.”

            Lucas demanded a mirror and when shown to the small one hanging on the wall, frowned at his reflection.  “Those rowdies will pay for this outrage.”

            “Do you know who they were?” Adam asked.  “They were wearing hoods when we got there.”

            “They were sophomores,” Lucas replied bluntly.  “That’s all I need to know.  They hang together.”

            Remembering Demmings, who had given them warning but hadn’t actively opposed his classmates, Adam nodded.

            Jamie, on the other hand, urged Lucas to reconsider.  “Let it go,” he said.  “‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’”

            “Don’t preach at me tonight,” Lucas growled.

            “Speaking of preaching,” Adam broke in hastily, “we will find it hard to get up for chapel if we don’t get to bed now.  Those sophomores were right about one thing: we don’t want to earn demerits as a result of this night’s nonsense.”  He didn’t think it was possible for either him or Jamie to earn enough demerits to miss matriculation, but Lucas was already perilously close to the fatal sixteen.

            They all saw the wisdom of that suggestion, so Jamie and Lucas crawled into the bed and Adam snuggled into his thick pallet.  It had been a long and trying night; so, thoroughly exhausted, they all soon fell asleep.

 

* * * * *

 

            The floor having made a hard bed, Adam was the first to wake.  He sat up, working out the stiffness in his shoulders, and then rose and began to quietly fold his blankets.  By the time he’d finished, Lucas had cracked an eyelid.  “Morning already?” he asked gruffly.

            Adam turned toward him.  “Morning,” he said, “and if you intend to go back to your place for fresh clothes, you’d better rise and shine.”

            Rising up on one elbow, Lucas scowled.  “What would be the point?  Even if I were disposed to hide what the beasts did, this would tell all.”  He grabbed at his short, shaggy brown kinks.

            “I suppose,” Adam admitted.  “You’re welcome to anything of mine, if it’ll help.”

            Lucas sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.  “Thanks, but I’ll just wait until after first recitation and change then.  If Smith wants to give me a demerit for a wrinkled, dirty coat, so be it.”

            “Luke,” Adam chided, drawing out the name.

            “I mean it, Adam!” Lucas cried.  “I just don’t care.”

            “You will later,” Jamie said quietly, rolling over to lie facing the others.

            “Preaching again?” Lucas asked with a sneer of disdain.

            “No,” Jamie said calmly.  “Just being a friend who cares.”

            Lucas swiveled to face the other boy and his face relaxed.  “Yeah.  You were certainly that to me last night.  Sorry I’m such a grump bear this morning.”

            Jamie reached out to rub the shorn head.  “You had cause.”

            “We all have cause,” Adam said, stretching his sore arms, which now sported discolored marks left by the sophomores’ tight grip.  “We also have more important concerns.”

            “Like breakfast?” Jamie suggested with a smile.

            “Let’s splurge on a real restaurant breakfast this morning,” Lucas said.  “I’ll buy.  Least I can do after what you chaps did for me.”

            Jamie started to protest that he owed them nothing, but Adam, having perceived that Lucas was reluctant to display his new look to the Vultures, interrupted to accept the offer.  “That’ll be a real treat.  Thanks, Luke.”

            Lucas looked relieved and immediately got out of bed.  “Let’s get going, then!”

 

* * * * *

 

            By the end of first recitation the next day, the entire student body knew what had happened.  Luke’s appearance invited questions, of course, and when asked, both he and Adam answered honestly—Adam without embellishment and Lucas with dramatic flair worthy of the New York stage.  Marcus had learned of the hazing during chapel and had promptly spread the news to the men in his division.  How the third division found out, no one knew, but the gymnasium, where Adam went at the end of that first class, was buzzing with the latest gossip, and several men approached him to get the details directly.

            Rancor seemed to grow throughout the morning, and with it came calls for retaliation against the sophomores.  “Luke, please let it go,” Jamie pleaded hoarsely when they met before second recitation.  “It’ll only make things worse.”

            Lucas was freshly washed and neatly dressed now, but his attitude obviously hadn’t changed.  “No one’s asking you to get involved!”

            “Involved in what?” Adam demanded.

            Lucas just shrugged, but the glint in his eye told Adam that something was brewing.

            At the Vultures’ Nest that noon, the two sophomore members couldn’t resist snickering at the freshman’s closely cropped curls, but Alexander White quickly brought them to order and then expressed his opinion that those who resorted to this sort of hazing only exhibited their own intolerance and immaturity.  Being a senior, he was respected, and no one offered any opposing view.  Miller and Warington stumbled over themselves in their eagerness to assure their tablemates that they’d had no part in “the sorry business.”  Adam smiled his appreciation at the steward, who had chosen precisely the right tone, making his feelings clear without expressing maudlin sympathy for the man abused.

            Adam and Jamie spent the afternoon studying in their room, but Adam found it hard to concentrate.  Between wondering what Lucas had up his sleeve and worrying about Jamie’s intermittent coughing, ancient geography and Greek didn’t stand a chance of holding his attention.  When it was time to leave for the last class of the day, Adam looked gravely at his friend.  “You could cut class, you know.  It won’t hurt your standing, and you can certainly survive one demerit.”

            Jamie shook his head decisively.  “No, I don’t want to miss unless I have to.”  He looked up miserably.  “I’m afraid I might have to miss some classes later if this cold gets any worse.”

            “You might ward it off if you stay in,” Adam pointed out.

            Jamie rubbed his throat.  “Too late, I think.  Come on; let’s get to class.  I promise I’ll go to bed straight after supper, Dr. Cartwright.”

            “Indeed, you will,” Adam said as he reached for his coat.

            They walked to the college yard in silence, Jamie because he was fixed on just getting there and Adam because he was brooding with rising anger.  How dare those sophomores have so little regard for another human being that they would jeopardize his health?  Any fool should have had better sense than to dump cold water on a man on a snowy night, especially when they had no way of knowing the state of his physique.  For that matter, the sophomores couldn’t claim ignorance of Jamie’s bodily limitations.  That message had been communicated clearly enough to spare him a rough initiation into Sigma Ep, so at least half the class had to know.

            His mood didn’t improve during Greek recitation, when Adam found himself contemplating the Greek derivation of the word ‘sophomore,’ instead of Homer’s Odyssey.  A wise fool, as Lucas had earlier pointed out.  Adam nodded grimly, totally agreeing with the assessment that all sophomores were fools, wise only in their own eyes.  As the hour progressed, he increasingly forgot that the men he’d dealt with the night before didn’t represent the entire sophomore class.  They were brutes, and if the others didn’t have the gumption to oppose them, they deserved to share in the freshmen’s revenge, being discussed in whispers as the lesson went on.

            When Adam was called on to recite, he stumbled through the passage, making several uncharacteristic mistakes.  Professor Hadley frowned, but offered calm correction and went on to the next student.  When the five o’clock recitation ended, however, it was Lucas, who hadn’t recited at all that day, whom the professor asked to remain after class.  Concerned for their friend, Adam, Jamie and Marcus waited for him, huddled outside the doorway to the Athenaeum.  “Was it about . . . what happened?” Adam asked anxiously when Lucas joined them.

            “Yeah,” Lucas shrugged.

            “Well?” Adam demanded.

            “Old Had’s the best,” Lucas said with feeling.  “Didn’t scold; didn’t demand names or ask about any plans to retaliate, as I was afraid he would; just wanted to make sure I was all right.  Said his door was always open, if I needed to talk.”

            “He is the best,” Adam agreed.

            “Plans to retaliate?” Jamie asked with an anxious look.  “Are there any?”

            “Oh, yeah,” Marcus, having just come from his mathematics class, responded.  Although no one appeared to be close enough to overhear them, he lowered his voice to a whisper.  “There’s talk of a rush.”

            “Good,” Lucas said.

            “Oh, no,” Jamie moaned.  He turned his head and coughed, covering his mouth with his hand.

            “No one’s asking you to join in,” Lucas said irritably.  Then, taking note of the other boy’s bleary eyes and red nose, he relaxed.  “In fact, you’ve no business joining in anything except a hot toddy and an early night.”

            “I don’t drink,” Jamie pointed out.

            Lucas rolled his eyes.  “All right, Saint James.  A hot supper and bed, then.  On to the Vultures’ Nest, eh?”

            Adam and Marcus agreed at once, but Jamie said that he was going back to the room.

            “You need to eat,” Adam chided.

            Jamie smiled wanly at the motherly tone of his friend.  “I’ll ask Mrs. Wiggins for a cup of broth or something.  Sounds better than a solid meal tonight.”

            “Probably just what you need,” Adam agreed, “and she’ll be happy to do that, I’m sure.  See you back at the room.”

            “Don’t do anything foolish,” Jamie urged as they parted.

            “I won’t,” Adam promised, though in his mind there was nothing foolish about giving the sophomores a hearty thrashing.  If anything, it seemed more like an act of self-preservation.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam opened the door of the pot-bellied stove and threw in another scoop of coal.

            “Oh, Adam, don’t,” Jamie protested.  “It’s so”—his voice cracked with a raspy trio of coughs—“expensive.”

            “And worth every penny,” Adam said as he sat on the edge of the bed.  He laid a hand across his friend’s forehead, frowning at the warmth.  “Maybe—just maybe—if you take proper care of yourself, we can avoid the expense of a doctor.”

            “I’m trying, aren’t I?”  Jamie’s head rolled irritably on his pillow.

            “Are you?” Adam asked with a shake of his head.  “You went out in that cold wind this morning, didn’t you?”

            Jamie rose up on his elbows.  “I told you before: I won’t miss class unless I have to.”

            “And I told you before: you can spare a demerit or two.”

            Jamie fell back on the pillow, clearly too exhausted to argue.  “I just hope they don’t fine me for missing tonight’s meeting,” he groaned.

            “I’m sure they won’t,” Adam assured him.  Attendance at the meetings of Sigma Epsilon was required, of course, but the society did recognize extenuating circumstances such as illness.  In fact, as Adam well knew, the membership would be only too happy to excuse Jamie from tonight’s proceedings.  A sick man was no asset to the evening’s amended agenda.

            Lucas had leaned close to whisper the news to him during Latin recitation that morning.  “It’s on.  Rush tonight—after the meeting.”  Then he’d added, “Don’t tell Saint James.”

            Adam had concurred with that advice.  Jamie probably would have refused to participate, anyway, but especially in light of his illness, it was wiser to leave him completely in the dark.  If he knew, he’d spend the night in worry, when what he needed most was untroubled rest.

            After the noon meal Adam had changed into his country clothes—for comfort, he told Jamie.  Fortunately, he’d done that on occasion before, so Jamie didn’t suspect the real reason this time: Adam didn’t want to risk his good clothing in the rough and tumble of a rush on the sophomores.

            He made his way through the snowy streets to the Brewster Building at the southeast corner of State and Chapel.  The meeting hall was buzzing with anticipation of the coming fray, and as he entered, he was greeted with a shout.  As one of the men whose abuse had triggered the quest for revenge, he, along with Lucas, was something of a celebrity tonight.  He spotted Luke’s cropped head across the room and waved at him, but first he approached the president of the society and gave Jamie’s regrets.  “He’s really too ill to be out,” Adam explained, “and hopes you’ll excuse his absence.”

            “Consider it excused,” the president said gravely.  “He was obviously ill when I saw him this morning.  No need for him to endanger his health with tonight’s business.  He’s already proven his loyalty to the class.”

            Adam could have pointed out that Jamie’s loyalty on the night in question had been to his friend Lucas, not the freshman class, but seeing no reason to share that, he merely nodded and made his way over to Lucas.

            Soon the president called the meeting to order and announced, “Out of fairness to those originally scheduled to orate or debate tonight, we will postpone their participation until next week, so that we may give them our full attention as we would be unable to do now.  You all know that tonight the foul and fetid sophomores will meet their comeuppance.”

            Shouts of “That’s right!” and “We’ll show them!” punctuated the hall until the president gestured for silence.  “Show them, we will,” he reiterated, “but before our agreed-upon confrontation at ten this evening let us rehearse our reasons.  We will have order, gentlemen, but each man in turn may state his grievances against our ancient foe, and to sustain us as we discuss the matter . . . bring on the peanuts!”

            Cries of satisfaction met this announcement, and as at the earlier peanut bum, a bag of the nuts was dumped onto the floor and everyone dug in.  While they cracked open the shells and munched the nutmeats, one after another of the freshmen rose to expound on the ill treatment he had personally received or witnessed from the sophomores.

            With his fine sense of the dramatic, Lucas held back, allowing the rancor against their adversaries to swell.  When he finally rose to his feet, uncovering his shorn head, the audience was primed and ready to react to this most atrocious example of sophomore barbarity.  Luke’s description of that night on East Rock proved that he had fine skills as an orator, when the topic excited him.  “And all this in payment for refusal to bow to their supposed superiority,” he scoffed in conclusion.  He waited for the uproar at that statement to die down and then continued, his voice soft, but his face flinty.  “Yet I don’t demand retribution for my ill treatment.  I’m sturdy enough to withstand it, as is my friend Cartwright.  One of us, however, lies tonight in a sickbed because of the brutish behavior of those ‘superior’ sophomores, and that I will not tolerate.  In the name of Jamie Edwards, I call for revenge!”

            The freshmen jumped to their feet and screeched their agreement, Adam loudest of all, for Lucas had hit on the one thing that made all this personal for him.  Somewhere at the back of his mind was the niggling knowledge that Jamie would be appalled to be used as instigation for vengeance, but he pushed it down.  It was the defenseless in any society who needed protection, and the strong who must provide it.

            Along with his classmates Adam charged out of the Brewster Building and down State Street.  They merged with the Delta Kaps, the other major freshman society, and together they marched toward the arranged place of confrontation.  The sophomores were already there, ranged along one side of the street, so the freshmen took the opposite side.  Adam and Lucas again placed themselves in the front rank.  For a few moments the two forces stared each other down, hurling the typical insults of one class toward another.  Adam caught a glimpse of Percival Demmings on the other side and made a personal pledge to strike no blow against that man.  On the other hand, Warington and Miller, whom he also spotted, were fair game and eminently deserving of whatever they got, even if they were fellow Vultures.

            With a mighty yell the freshmen rushed forward, and shouting back, the sophomores stormed across the street.  They met in the middle: pushing, shoving, punching and pummeling.  The first rush of the year had been a sporting match, but this was a blood feud.  Tonight the atmosphere was charged with animosity, and fists flew with fury.  Blood spurted from noses, men were knocked to the ground and left to dodge the tangle of tramping legs as best they could.  Accustomed to the rough-and-tumble of western scuffles, Adam held his own better than most, but someone’s fist opened a cut above his right eye that left him literally seeing red.

            Then, as before, came the shout of “Faculty!” and the flight for safety.  Adam swiped the blood from his face, but before he could determine which way to run, someone grabbed his collar and shouted his name.  Through the red haze he looked up into the face of Wilder Smith.  “Stop at once!” commanded the Latin tutor.  All along the street similar confrontations were taking place, for the faculty, forewarned of impending trouble, was out in force and determined to catch all they could into the dragnet for disciplinary action.

            The captured were herded into a ring, with faculty surrounding them.  A stern-faced tutor acted as spokesman.  “Line up, gentlemen, and give your names to Mr. Gilman.  Each of you will be assessed four demerits for your part in this night’s disturbance of the peace.”  He narrowed his eyes.  “I would strongly advise you to spend your free time this weekend in diligent study, as your names will be distributed to all of your instructors with the recommendation that you each be called upon to recite and held to the highest standards of performance with the maximum penalty levied for the slightest failure.”

            Adam moved into line and waited his turn to give his name to the college librarian.  He felt embarrassed, but not concerned, at least not for himself.  He could afford the four demerits, so long as he didn’t add to their total, and he always held himself to ‘the highest standards of performance’ in recitations, so he wasn’t worried about that, either.  He was, rather, concerned for his friends and leaned out of line to search both ahead and behind to see if either Lucas or Marcus had been caught in the roundup.  He didn’t see Marcus, but with a groan he spotted Lucas about a dozen men behind him.  Four demerits put him at sixteen, which meant he wouldn’t matriculate.

            Red-faced, Adam gave his name to Daniel Gilman and waited for Lucas just down the street.  Luke saw him and trotted over after giving his name.  “Well, that does it,” he said with a shrug.

            “I’m sorry, Luke,” Adam said with a shake of his head.  “You can still matriculate later, of course.”

            “Of course,” Lucas said lightly.  “Nothing to worry about.”

            Adam exhaled in a sputtering gust.  “There will be if you don’t change your ways.”

            “I will,” Lucas promised.  He leaned closer, as if concerned about being overheard, even though the crowd was dispersing quietly.  “Did you see Marc?”

            Adam shook his head.  “I think he got away.”

            “Thank goodness for that!”  Lucas laid a hand on Adam’s shoulder.  “Sorry to lead you astray, chum.”

            With his other hand Adam clasped the one on his shoulder.  “Doesn’t matter.  I have demerits to squander.”  He peered anxiously into his friend’s face.  “They’ll send a letter home about this, won’t they, now that you’ve reached sixteen demerits?  Will that make more trouble for you?”

            “With pater?” Lucas chuckled.  “Oh, he’ll growl like a bear, but he doesn’t bite.”

            One corner of Adam’s mouth lifted wryly.  “Better you than me, then.  I can assure you that Ben Cartwright does bite.”  With a shiver he pictured his father’s reaction had a letter from Yale arrived at the Ponderosa, detailing his son’s misbehavior.  He pushed the gruesome image from his mind.  “Want to come by our place to clean up?” he offered gently, tapping his friend’s battered face, his fingers coming away sticky.

            Pursing his lips, Lucas shook his head.  “Don’t want to disturb Saint James,” he said.  “I’m afraid, spoopsey, that we’re both going to be a sad disappointment to him.”

            “Yeah.”  Adam had to smile, though, at the realization that being a disappointment to Jamie actually mattered to slaphappy Lucas.  Two more different friends he couldn’t have found; nor, he concluded, two more valued ones.  “See you tomorrow,” he said in farewell, adding a stern admonition, “Don’t be late to chapel.”

            “Count on it,” Lucas said.  “I’m going to be so angelic the rest of the term that soon you’ll be calling me Saint Luke.”

            Grinning, Adam shook his head.  That would be the day!

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam winced with the effort to keep from groaning aloud as he rolled onto his left side and slowly sat up.  He instinctively put his hands to his face, to scrub the sleep from his eyes and gasped as his fingers touched the tender flesh.  He stumbled to the mirror, scowled at the livid bruises reflected there and shook his head in disgust.  Even if he hadn’t been caught, there’d be no hiding his participation in last night’s fray now, either from the faculty . . . or from Jamie, whom he could hear stirring behind him.

            “Good morning, Adam,” Jamie called from his pillow.  “I hope I didn’t keep you awake with my coughing.”

            “No,” Adam said, although that wasn’t the truth.  Between his own aching muscles and Jamie’s intermittent coughing, he hadn’t had much sleep that night.  “You’d—uh—better get up, if we’re going to make chapel on time,” he suggested, still with his back turned.  “I’d really rather not be late this morning.”

            “I think I may skip it,” Jamie said reluctantly.  “I know it’s a demerit, but I really don’t feel very well, Adam.”

            Adam spun around.  “Are you worse?” he asked anxiously.

            But catching sight of Adam’s bruised face drove all thoughts of his own health from Jamie’s mind.  “What happened?” he cried.  He started to clamber out of bed, but Adam forestalled him by sitting on its edge.

            “Rush . . . last night,” Adam answered laconically.

            Even with so few words, Jamie needed no further explanation.  “Oh, Adam,” he moaned.  His eyes narrowed.  “Did you know before you left,” he asked in sudden enlightenment.  “You did, didn’t you?  That’s why you changed into your oldest clothes.  Oh, Adam!”

            “I know, I know,” Adam muttered.  “I’m an idiot . . . with the demerits to prove it.”

            “Oh, Adam.”  Jamie’s groan was one of commiseration, not condemnation.  Then his brow furrowed with concern.  “Luke?” he asked.  “Marc?”

            Adam sighed.  “Luke was caught.  I think Marc got away, but I’m not sure it’ll matter.”  He pointed to his face.  “There’s evidence, you see, of who was there and who was not.”  He reached over to pat Jamie’s shoulder.  “Which is why, my friend, you had better get to chapel this morning and show your angelic, unbattered face, unless you’re ill enough to need a doctor.  We guilty souls have already been told that we’ll be given extra scrutiny in recitations.”

            Jamie coughed, but shook his head sturdily.  “No, not that ill,” he said at once, “and as you say, we need to be on time.  Tardiness earns the same demerits as absence, and you can no longer afford them.”

            “I’m still in good shape,” Adam insisted.  “I just don’t want to incur any more this quickly with that extra scrutiny looming over my head.”

            “Oh,” Jamie groaned again.  “Poor Luke.”

            “Poor us, you mean,” Adam said with a scowl.  “We’ll have to ride him harder than ever now.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ Notes ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Ah, the catalog!  These are actually available online for the years of Adam’s tenure at Yale in this story and have been an invaluable asset for term schedules, faculty members, student lists, courses studied each term and fees for various services.

 

The poem, “The Muster of the North, A Ballad of ’61,” was printed in the New York Times on January 1, 1862.

 

Williams and Borden won the sophomore prize debate of the Brothers in Unity in January, 1862

CHAPTER TWENTY

Reaping Rebellion’s Results

 

 

            Hands stuffed in his coat pockets, Adam trudged alone toward Dwight Street that afternoon with a sour expression.  It wasn’t fair.  All week he’d looked forward to teaching at the mission, with the attentive assistance of the lovely Elizabeth Allen, and now he’d rather be almost anywhere else.  His face was in no condition to win any fair damsel, and his body protested every aching step through the slush of melting snow.  He would have preferred to spend the afternoon luxuriously sprawled in bed, but since Jamie was too unwell to come himself, he’d begged Adam to take his place.  Lucas, of course, had excused himself on the grounds that his battered face and butchered head would frighten the youngsters, and even Marcus reneged, saying that someone should stay behind to nurse Jamie.  “I’m better at that, and you’re better at teaching,” he’d insisted when Adam had protested that he could take care of his roommate.  That the argument was well founded in fact did nothing to improve Adam’s disposition.

            Still, if Miss Allen were here today, as she’d promised to be, a bad attitude was no way to win her affection, either.  When he reached the mission, Adam took a deep breath, put on a brave smile and entered.

            Looking up at the sound of the creaking door, Elizabeth smiled in recognition, but then her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of his face.  “Mr. Cartwright,” she greeted him—a bit stiffly, Adam thought.

            “Good afternoon, Miss Allen,” he responded, and that was all the conversation that passed between them before lessons began.  Afterwards, Adam thanked her for her help and asked if he might again have the pleasure of seeing her home.

            “I’m . . . not sure,” she said hesitantly.

            Adam decided he might as well face the problem head on.  “Is there something that concerns you?”

            “Well . . . yes,” she murmured, eyes veiled.  Then, as if she, too, had decided that directness was the only reasonable approach, she raised her head and, looking into his brooding eyes, said, “I hadn’t taken you for a brawler, Mr. Cartwright.”

            Adam smiled weakly.  “I’m not . . . normally . . . and I will admit that I was involved in an altercation last night, but not without cause, I assure you.”

            Lips pursed—beautifully, Adam thought—she pondered his answer.  “I suppose there are some causes worth fighting for,” she murmured, still sounding somewhat unsure.  Her countenance brightened suddenly.  “Like our brave soldiers resisting the rebellion!”

            Adam shook his head.  “I won’t claim my cause to be as worthy as that.  I was merely supporting a friend.”  Which might be shading the truth a bit, he admitted to himself, but loyalty had been his main motive.

            Elizabeth’s lips softened into an alluring smile.  “Perhaps you could tell me about it on the way home,” she suggested.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam took his seat in the gallery after the choir sang its anthem on Monday morning and watched as President Woolsey gravely ascended into the pulpit.  Saturday’s fracas had not been mentioned at either of yesterday’s services, but perhaps that was because of the frequent presence of visitors on Sunday.  If anything was going to be said publicly, it would be this morning, and the way the President had read the Scripture just before the choir sang seemed significant to Adam.  He was almost certain that the President’s emphasis on the word “character” in Romans 5:4 was purposeful.  He could not have been more right.

            “‘We also glory in tribulations,’” Woolsey quoted again, his eyes scanning the back pews of all three sections of the chapel, where the freshmen sat, “‘knowing that tribulation produces perseverance and perseverance, character, and character, hope.’”  When he came to the second “character,” the President shifted his solemn gaze to the first few pews on the north aisle, and from his perch in the gallery, Adam saw a number of the sophomores there flinch.

            “Character,” Woolsey continued, “is expected of the men of Yale.  Character is forged by tribulation; however, it is not the province of any man to fuel those flames.  Certainly, no man of character brings tribulation into the life of another”—he looked with steadfast disapproval at the sophomores—“and no man of character responds to tribulation with vengeful retaliation”—and the freshmen were the objects of his disappointed gaze.  “As you all know, however, events of the previous week have done little to evince the type of character we hope to instill in the young men of Yale.  We will be speaking privately to a number of you and taking whatever steps we feel are required to preserve the character of this institution.  Perhaps that knowledge will be ample incentive to enhance the sincerity of your prayers this morning.”  As usual, the college officers rose in their pews and the students bowed their heads on the seats in front of them while President Woolsey offered prayers for wisdom for the students and guidance for the faculty as they dealt with the weighty matters before them.

            “What did that mean?” Marcus asked urgently as the four friends met outside after chapel.

            “A raking over the coals, I’d say,” Adam said wryly.

            “But for whom?”  Fear that he would be among the raked was painted in broad strokes over the other boy’s face.

            “They don’t have your name,” Lucas grunted.

            “They have eyes,” Marcus insisted, pointing at his bruised face.

            Lucas nodded.  “I don’t suppose any of us are safe . . . except St. James here.”

            Jamie smiled weakly.  “Somehow, I feel equally responsible.”

            “Your feelings are as flawed as our characters,” Adam snorted.

            “Not at all then, you’re saying?” Jamie tossed back at him.  “There’s nothing wrong with your character!”

            “We don’t have time to debate that now,” Adam pointed out.  “I assume no one here wants to earn another demerit by being late to Latin recitation?”

            “Can’t afford one!” Lucas announced and took off at a trot for the Athenaeum with the others close behind.

 

* * * * *

 

            By the end of the day, the answer to Marcus’ question had become clear, and Adam’s conjecture that what the President’s words had meant was a raking over the coals seemed prophetic.  A few freshmen, Adam and Lucas among them, had been handed a folded note at the close of their final recitation of the day.  Each tearing his open as soon as he exited the building, they found themselves invited to a discussion with the faculty at a given time on Wednesday afternoon.

            “Two days to stew on it,” Adam muttered.

            “Probably their intent,” Jamie commiserated.

            “Different times,” Lucas commented, comparing his note with Adam’s.  “That means it’s an inquisition, not a ‘discussion.’”

            “Yeah,” Adam grunted in complete agreement.

            Coming out of his separate class to meet them and seeing the glum faces, Marcus asked, “What’s wrong?”

            Adam waved his “invitation” toward the other boy.  “You didn’t get one?” he queried after Marcus had read its contents.

            “Not yet,” Marcus replied.

            “Nor I,” Jamie said.

            “Why would you?” Lucas grunted.  “You weren’t part of it.”

            ‘I was in the beginning,” Jamie insisted.

            Lucas shook his head.  “Only as an innocent bystander—or, more accurately, a defender of the helpless.  They don’t expel you for that.”

            Marcus looked alarmed.  “You don’t think it’ll come to that, do you?”

            “Not for you,” Adam assured him quickly.  “I doubt that even I’m in danger, unless they’re going to turn out the entire membership of the lower two classes.”

            “But you’re worried, aren’t you, Luke?” Jamie probed.  “Because of the demerits?”

            Lucas nodded grimly.  “Put in a word for me at your class prayer meeting, okay, St. James?  I think I may need divine intervention.”

            Or perhaps, Adam thought with sudden resolve, it’s practical intervention that’s called for.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam sat cooling his heels on a hard bench in the second floor hall of North College.  Lucas, who had the appointment directly after his, sat beside him, but neither boy spoke to the other after a hushed exchange of greetings.  Each was lost in contemplation of what awaited him beyond the door of #117, the President’s office.  The faculty met there each Wednesday afternoon, but neither boy had ever been inside this dormitory, which housed only seniors; neither, thankfully, had had reason before and both frankly wished they had no reason now.  Adam, with his nearly pristine record, was fairly certain he would get off with a stern warning—at least, that’s what he kept telling himself—but demerit-laden Lucas was visibly shaking.  For him, expulsion was a very real threat.

            Hearing footsteps coming up the stairs, both looked up in expectation of seeing another freshman or sophomore as reluctant as they to be here.  Instead, Robert Raines, their fellow Vulture, came by and gave them a kindly smile.  “Buck up, youngsters,” he said.  “They bark loudly, but rarely bite.”

            “I think they might this time,” Lucas moaned softly.

            “Be contrite,” the senior advised.  “They’re preachers, remember?  Strong advocates of repentance and forgiveness.”  With a bracing clap of the outer shoulder of each freshman, he proceeded up the stairs to his room, or so Adam assumed.  He’d never thought to ask where the other Vultures, except his own classmates, resided.  Elbows on his knees, he cupped his chin in his hands.  Be contrite?  Sound advice, time-honored advice.  Ben Cartwright, another strong advocate of repentance and forgiveness, had always responded favorably to honest contrition, but it had to be honest and therein lay the rub.  Some of the actions Adam had taken the previous week he honestly regretted; of others, he was not so sure.

            The door to #117 opened and a student walked out.  Had it been one of their own class, Adam might have hoped for a quick, whispered word of what to expect, but it was one of the sophomores, who merely cut the two on the bench a quick glance, neither malevolent nor beneficent, and hurried down the stairs.

            Wilder Smith, the freshmen’s Latin tutor, appeared in the doorway and said, “Mr. Cartwright, please come in.”

            Swallowing the boulder-sized lump in his throat, Adam stood and followed him in.  The room was packed with faculty members, seated around a long, rectangular table.  One empty chair stood at the end nearest Adam, and when cordially requested by the President to have a seat, he sat there, folded his hands on the table in front of him and waited.

            “You come to us from a great distance, Mr. Cartwright,” President Woolsey began.  “Has Yale College thus far met your expectations?”

            Adam choked down his nervousness and answered with great feeling, “So much more than I can say, sir.”

            The President nodded briefly.  “Your record indicates that, as well.  It is exemplary, Mr. Cartwright.”  He paused significantly.  “Or should I say ‘was’?”

            “Well . . . perhaps,” Adam murmured.  He forced himself to meet the President’s steadfast gaze.  “I know my participation in Saturday night’s rush is against school policy and, therefore, is a mark against my record, but as it is my only such infraction, I hope it will be weighed against my better conduct on all other occasions.”

            Professor Hadley’s eyes seemed to twinkle as he asked, “You’ve never participated in a rush before?”

            Though he didn’t see how it was possible, Adam felt almost certain that Old Had already knew the answer to that question.  “Well, yes,” he admitted, flushing.  “Once before, but that was . . . different.”

            “How so?” inquired William Larned, the rhetoric and English literature professor, whom Adam knew only from seeing him walk about the college yard.

            “That was a frolic,” Adam explained.  “This was . . . warfare.”  A murmur of disapproval circled the table.

            “We don’t want warfare among our students,” President Woolsey said gravely.

            “It’s sufficiently evil that we see it between the states of our great nation,” Reverend Timothy Dwight, professor of sacred literature, observed.

            “Indeed,” Woolsey reiterated, cutting short the diversion of subject.  “It’s my understanding, Mr. Cartwright, that you have personal knowledge of how the ‘warfare’ in question began.”

            “Yes, sir,” Adam admitted reluctantly, wondering whether someone had told them that or if all teachers and parents came equipped with a certain degree of clairvoyance.  “It began as a rather severe incident of hazing.”

            “Against Mr. Cameron?” Woolsey probed, and Adam responded in the affirmative.

            “We’ve all seen the results of that,” Professor Hadley stated plainly, “but we haven’t heard a narration of what actually happened.  Can you provide that, Mr. Cartwright, as well as the names of the perpetrators?”

            Adam exhaled gustily.  He didn’t think he could have brought himself to turn tattletale.  Schoolboys from time immemorial had considered that a mark of dishonor.  Fortunately, in this case ignorance provided his best defense.  “I can’t provide you their names,” he said, “because they wore black hoods, but I can tell you what was done.”  He did so as briefly as possible, making light of his own mistreatment, while vividly describing what was done to Lucas, who he figured could use all the sympathy expressive words could muster.

            “Most unfortunate,” Professor Thacher put in when Adam finished, “but I cannot help wondering what Mr. Cameron did to bring this on, as we’ve heard of no such incidents in several years.”

            Adam took a deep breath before saying, “With all due respect, Mr. Thacher, it isn’t the sort of thing students share with faculty.”

            Thacher frowned, but it was Hadley who asked, “Are you saying that there have been other such incidents?”

            Adam shrugged.  “Minor incidents, compared to this, but, yes, sir.  Nothing serious, you understand, just petty pilfering of our rooms, demands for deference to sophomore authority, that sort of thing.  To answer Mr. Thacher’s question, all Mr. Cameron did to bring on this more serious example of hazing was to repeatedly refuse to show that deference.”

            “Giving honor to upperclassmen is a time-honored tradition,” Larned argued.  “Respect for one’s elders is a virtue we encourage.”

            “But there is nothing virtuous about demanding it, especially through physical force,” Hadley countered, and Larned nodded his agreement.

            “I understand the instigation, Mr. Cartwright,” the President said, “but nothing excuses the exercise of vengeance that took place Saturday night.”

            “No, sir,” Adam responded, “and I make no excuse for my behavior during the rush.  I was angry, and I let that anger rule me, which was a mistake.  I have thought much about your remarks in chapel about character, and I regret that my character, especially in regard to self-control, did not live up to your expectations—and I might add, those with which I have been reared.”

            “‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord; I will repay,’” the reverend Dwight intoned solemnly.

            Adam smiled ruefully.  “Yes, sir.  I was so advised before the incident, and I wish I had listened to better purpose.”

            “By Mr. Edwards?” Professor Hadley guessed.

            “Yes, sir,” said Adam, surprised, as he often was, by Old Had’s instinctive insight into his students’ very thoughts.  “Please understand that he had nothing to do with this business, other than to come to Mr. Cameron’s aid during his mistreatment and to end up sharing it himself.  As a result, he was too ill to have participated in the rush, although he would not have, even had he known.  We deliberately kept it from him.”

            “The anger you spoke of,” Woolsey asked, “was it in response to the endangerment of your friends’ health and wellbeing?”

            Adam stared at the table for several moments and then raised his head.  “Primarily,” he said, ‘but I know that doesn’t excuse my actions, which did nothing to insure their health and wellbeing and, rather, endangered that of others.”

            “You appear to have learned a lesson from this, Mr. Cartwright,” Thomas Thacher observed.

            “I hope so, sir,” Adam responded simply.

            “I believe the demerits you have been assessed for this affair will be sufficient penalty,” the President concluded, “and I trust that we will not again see you before us in such a matter.  You are excused, Mr. Cartwright.”

            Adam felt enormous relief as he stood, but also some degree of trepidation as he asked, “May I say one more thing, sir?”

            “Certainly,” Woolsey said encouragingly

            “You will be visiting with Mr. Cameron next,” Adam began.  “I know that he has a regrettable tally of demerits and that he was a focus of this affair; however, I wanted to say that he is as good-hearted a man as I have met at Yale, and if you will be patient with him, I’m certain that he will exhibit the character you hope to instill in men of Yale.”

            “Have you considered a career in law, Mr. Cartwright?” Henry Dutton, professor of that subject, asked, and his chuckle was echoed by a few of the other professors.

            Adam was shaking too much to catch the man’s humor.  He gave a simple, “No,” in response and was relieved to escape that chamber of inquisition.  Seeing Lucas rise as he exited, Adam said, “I’ll wait here for you.”

            Lucas, wide-eyed with terror and clearly unable to speak, nodded grimly and followed the professor who called his name into the President’s office.  The minutes dragged past as Adam sat on the bench, fingers interlaced and thumbs twiddling around each other in an incessant circle.  The next victim of the inquisition, a sophomore this time, arrived and after giving Adam a cursory look, began pacing the hall rather than condescend to sit next to someone of the lower class.

            Lucas finally emerged and collapsed onto the bench next to Adam.  Seeing how wrung out he looked, the sophomore paled and appeared ready to bolt for the stairs.  Almost immediately, he was called into the office, however, and the two freshmen were alone.

            Adam’s fingers closed tightly around Lucas’s biceps.  “What happened?  Are you dismissed?”

            “No,” Lucas said, wonderment in his voice.  “They’re going to write my father, but they’d have done that anyway, just because of the demerits.  I don’t know what possessed them to let me off that lightly.”

            “Perhaps a display of contrition, as Raines advised?” Adam suggested with a wry smile.

            “I did that . . . and it was no act,” Lucas said earnestly.  “By the time President Woolsey finished apologizing for the very ‘un-Yalensian’ way in which I’d been treated, I was close to blubbering out that it was all my fault.”

            “You didn’t,” Adam groaned.

            Lucas grinned weakly.  “No, I managed to hang on to that much of my good sense.  I still can’t believe they acted so . . . so . . .”

            “Human?”  Adam chuckled.

            “Yeah . . . human.  Makes a fellow want to mend his ways, you know?”

            Adam jabbed his friend’s ribs with his elbow.  “Well, if ever a man needed it . . .”

            “Hey!”

            Adam shushed him.  “Come on, let’s get out of here, and if we can find Candy Sam anywhere about, it’s my treat.”

            “No, it’s mine,” Lucas insisted.  “Thacher said I should be grateful to have a friend like you, so I know you had something to do with their sudden charitableness.”  He put up a hand to silence Adam’s protest.  “Deny it all you like; I’ve taken your measure, Adam Cartwright, and I am thankful to have you as a friend.”  He pulled Adam to his feet.  “Now, no more dilly-dallying.  Let’s find Candy Sam!”

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam entered the room quietly, in case Jamie was napping, but the harsh cough that greeted him told him he shouldn’t have bothered.  Huddled in a blanket, Jamie turned in his desk chair and immediately croaked, “How did it go?”

            “It went fine . . . for all concerned,” Adam assured him.

            “Even Luke?”

            “Even Luke.  He’ll have a letter sent home, but as he says, that would have happened anyway.”  Adam hung his outer wraps on the pegs beside the door.  “You look ghastly—and sound worse,” he said.  “Why aren’t you in bed?”

            Jamie only tapped the Latin text spread open before him and, cradling his aching head, returned to his study.

            “Stubborn, purely stubborn,” Adam rumbled beneath his breath.

            Having heard, Jamie grunted, “Takes one to know one.”

            “Oh, hush,” Adam scolded.  “Keep your mouth closed, if not your eyes.”  Snapping his fingers, he went back to his coat and dug a paper-wrapped package from the pocket.  “Almost forgot.”  He handed the package to Jamie and added with a wicked grin, “Maybe this will help you keep your mouth closed.  Present from Luke.”

            The other boy’s eyes brightened, especially when he saw what was inside the small parcel.  “Divinity!”  He broke off a small piece and put it in his mouth, his eyes closing in dreamy satisfaction.

            Well, that worked better than hoped for, Adam thought with an amused quirk of the corner of his lip.  “Not sure how good that is for what ails you,” he felt obliged to say.

            “Miracle . . . cure,” Jamie alleged breathlessly.

            “No doubt,” Adam returned wryly.

            For the remainder of the afternoon, the only sound in the room was the turning of pages and Jamie’s increasingly persistent cough.  Finally, Adam closed his book and stretched his arms wide.  He took the blanket that had been wrapped around his own shoulders and laid it across Jamie’s lap.

            “Thanks,” Jamie said breathlessly.

            “You don’t have to whisper,” Adam chuckled.

            Jamie grimaced and squeaked out his reply, “Yes, I do.”

            “Oh, for goodness’ sake, go to bed,” Adam scolded.  “If you can’t talk, you can’t possibly recite tomorrow, so you might as well skip class.”  As he stood, he laid a hand on his friend’s shoulders and, recalling what Lucas had said earlier that afternoon, added, “The professors are human, you know; they’ll understand.”

            “Maybe,” Jamie conceded.  With a sigh he closed his text.  “I suppose I might as well quit; nothing’s sinking in.”  With a shiver he pulled the blankets tighter.  Even though, at Adam’s insistence, the fire was well stoked, Jamie just couldn’t seem to shake his chill.

            “How could it?” Adam asked, slipping his arms into his coat.  “Don’t bother coming to supper.  I’ll bring something back . . . soup, maybe?”  He held up a hand.  “Don’t say anything; just nod your well-advised consent.”

            Jamie nodded, but then disobediently whispered, “You off to Beethoven Society?”

            Before Adam could answer, a rap on the door drew his attention.  Opening it, he saw a well-dressed gentleman with a carefully groomed salt-and-pepper beard and a distinguished look.  “Yes, sir?” he inquired.

            “Do I have the honor to address Mr. Edwards or Mr. Cartwright?” the stranger asked.

            “I’m Mr. Cartwright,” Adam said hesitantly.  For a moment he had a wild fear that this visit was somehow related to the faculty inquisition from which he’d come earlier, but the visitor’s next words quickly dispelled that irrational concern.

            “And I am Dr. Abraham Havershaw of the medical department here at Yale,” the gentleman stated.  “I’m here because I understand Mr. Edwards is in need of a physician’s attendance.  May I come in?”

            Though puzzled, Adam politely stepped aside and gestured for the doctor to enter.

            “Mr. Edwards?” Dr. Havershaw asked, approaching the boy still sitting at his desk, though he had turned to face the others.

Jamie suddenly doubled over in a paroxysm of coughing.

            “Yes, well, I see that you are,” the doctor said with a kindly smile.  “I’ve come to help you with that nasty cough, my boy.”

            Jamie shook his head, his eyes pleading with Adam to explain, as he struggled to get his cough under control.

            “He’s concerned about your fee,” Adam said plainly, “but I think he’d better stop worrying about that.”  It was a debate they’d had earlier, and while Adam felt that he’d had the stronger argument, Jamie’s stubborn refusal to consider the expense had, thus far, carried the question.

            “My fee is taken care of,” Dr. Havershaw assured them.  “Your benefactor prefers to remain anonymous, but if I tell you that he learned the value of a physician’s care after a boyhood accident, perhaps that will be hint enough.”

            The two boys exchanged a knowing glance.  That could describe only one person they knew here in New Haven, a man whose limping gait still showed the effects of that boyhood accident.

            “Dear Old Had,” Jamie croaked, finally finding his voice.

            “Professor Hadley,” Adam amplified, in case the nickname was meaningless to the doctor.

            “I can neither confirm nor deny,” the doctor said with a conspiratorial smile, “and you certainly didn’t hear it from me.  Now, may I examine you, young man?”

            Jamie nodded; then, looking at Adam, he added, “You’ll be late to rehearsal if you don’t leave now.”

            “Yes, I’m afraid I must.”  Reaching for the doorknob, Adam paused.  “If there are any instructions, Doctor, perhaps you could leave me a note?”

            Opening his black bag, Dr. Havershaw looked up.  “What?  Oh, yes, certainly, if that’s needed.  Run along now, my boy.  Mr. Stoeckel does not strike me as a man to countenance tardiness.”

            “No, he’s definitely not,” Adam admitted.  He was verging on late now; he’d have to run if he hoped to avoid raising Herr Stoeckel’s hackles.  With one last solicitous look at his roommate, he left, took the stairs at a run and loped toward campus.

 

* * * * *

 

            “Any instructions from the doctor?” Adam asked the moment he entered the room later that evening.

            Jamie, in bed, rose on his elbows.  “None I can’t deliver myself.  He dropped off a prescription at the apothecary’s, and they sent it around about forty-five minutes ago.”  He gestured toward the amber bottle on his desk.  “Every four hours, unless I’m asleep.  I took the first dose, and it does seem to be quieting this infernal cough.  Other than that, rest—no classes for the rest of the week—and plenty of fluids.”

            “Good,” Adam said, taking the nearest chair and drawing it up to the bed.  “The professors will understand,” he insisted, “and I’ll bring you all your assignments.  You won’t fall behind.”

            “Thanks,” Jamie said, though he still sounded morose.  “Did you forget my soup?” he asked as Adam sat down.

            “No, Mrs. Wiggins is reheating it,” Adam explained, “but I would consider giving you dessert first.”  He reached into his coat pocket and, drawing out an envelope, waved it under his friend’s nose.” 

            “Mail,” Jamie croaked, his eyes lighting.  “From Father?”

            Holding it out of reach, Adam laughed.  “Yes . . . if you mean mine.”

            Jamie settled back on the pillow.  “Oh . . . well, that’s almost as good.  What’s the news at the Ponderosa?”

            “Probably snow,” Adam snickered as he broke the seal.  “I just hope this letter is a little more interesting than the last one, which was nothing but a weather report!”

            “Oh, it was a little more than that,” Jamie chided.  “Don’t make me ask again; I’m supposed to rest my poor, aching throat.”

            “Do that, then, instead of challenging my descriptions,” Adam scolded.  He held the letter between his fingers.  “Umm, nice and thick . . . probably juicy.  I’d hate to deprive you of it because you couldn’t overcome your temptation to abuse your poor, aching throat.”

            Jamie moaned softly and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

            “I’ll take that as a promise to behave yourself,” Adam said with a mischievous grin.  “Therefore, I shall reward you posthaste . . . before you can break it.”

            Jamie groaned and croaked, “Read . . . now.”

            Adam clucked his tongue.  “I see I wasn’t fast enough.  Well, fortunately for you, I’m feeling generous.”  He raised his hands, palms out, in defense against the glare with which his roommate favored him.  “All right, all right . . . I’m reading.”  He unfolded the letter and read, “Dear Adam, The weather here has been as dismal as you might expect for this time of year.”  He paused and smirked at his friend.  “What did I tell you?  A weather report!”

            Jamie said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes.  Adam quickly dropped his gaze to the letter and again began to read:

 

The conditions haven’t been fit out for man or beast . . . but you’ll notice I said nothing about little boys . . . a very little boy, in fact, who somehow thought that he could make it all the way to New Haven, regardless of the weather.

 

            “What!”  Jamie bolted upright.

            “Be still,” Adam demanded, rapidly scanning the next few lines with a wildly beating heart.  “It’s all right,” he finally gasped with relief, “but if Pa’s hair isn’t snow white by the time I return home, it won’t be for lack of worrying over that boy!”

There was a rap at the door, and Mrs. Wiggins bustled in with a steaming bowl of soup.  “You poor dear,” she cooed at Jamie as she handed the tray to Adam.  “Now, eat up every drop and be sure to take that medicine the doctor sent over.”

            “Yes, ma’am,” Jamie promised meekly.

            “Thank you, Mrs. Wiggins,” Adam said.  “You’re very kind to heat this for him.”

“The least I can do,” Mrs. Wiggins said.  “Now, I know just the sort of fare an invalid needs, so if you’ve no objection, I’ll see to the boy’s meals until he’s up and about, just for the cost of supplies.”

            “That’s very thoughtful,” Adam said and thanked her again.  After a few more solicitous admonitions, she left.  Adam helped Jamie sit up and set the tray over his legs

            “Read,” the patient ordered urgently.

            “Eat,” his nurse demanded, “and I will.”  As Jamie spooned in his soup, Adam read his father’s account of how Little Joe had so scrambled the meaning of the Sunday sermon that he’d decided Adam, Jamie and Santa Claus were the three wise men from the east and that they’d somehow gotten lost on their way to the Ponderosa for Christmas.

            “So he was coming here to fetch us?” Jamie asked.  “Mercy, what an imagination that child has!”

            “Incredible,” Adam muttered.  “I can’t believe my being home for Christmas could mean so much to him.”

            “You’re his big brother, Adam,” Jamie said.  “Of course, he misses you.”

            “But to undertake such a ridiculous expedition,” Adam said with a shake of his head.  “Well, he is only four.  I suppose he doesn’t know enough geography to realize how impossible it was.”

            Jamie handed his tray back to Adam.  “And if you don’t crack open Pütz and Arnold, you won’t know enough, either.”

            Adam groaned.  “I don’t know if bad jokes are a sign that you’re better or worse!”

            Avoiding that question, Jamie slid down onto his pillow and pulled the covers up to his nose.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ Notes ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The faculty met every Wednesday afternoon in #117 of North College, but rarely was any student summoned for a disciplinary hearing.  As long as a student attended scheduled exercises and maintained a certain average in class, it was assumed that his private behavior was satisfactory and no inquiries were made.  A public disturbance, such as a brawl between classes, would have risen to the level that demanded disciplinary attention.

 

With the exception of Dr. Abraham Havershaw, the faculty members mentioned in this chapter actually taught during Adam’s tenure at Yale.  He also appears in the author’s book, Centennial: Journey of Discovery.

 

Little Joe’s attempt to bring Adam and the other “wise men” home for Christmas is related in “Follow the Star,” an excerpt from the upcoming Heritage of Honor, Book Five.

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

In the Midst of Life (and Love) . . .

 

 

            Following doctor’s orders, Jamie kept to his bed for the remainder of the week.  Just as well, Adam thought more than once as he hunched his shoulders into the wind that drove snow into his face and down his collar.  As had so often proven true, however, the skies cleared on Saturday, and Adam was especially glad as he and Lucas hurried toward Hamilton Park after lunch, while Marcus obligingly kept Jamie company.  Skating in itself was pleasurable on a day like this, but more so when he was to share it with the lovely Miss Allen.  Their first arranged meeting . . . the first of many, Adam hoped.

            “Looks like I’d better make myself scarce,” Lucas laughed when he caught sight of the girl.

            “That’s right,” Adam said emphatically, though a trace of humor remained in his tone.  “She’s all mine . . . and best you remember that.”

            Lucas clasped his breast and sighed dramatically, “Ah, young love.”

            Adam’s fist calmly smashed the other boy’s bowler.

            As they had discussed on the previous Sunday, Elizabeth was waiting for him at the small shop at the edge of the park that rented skates.  Lucas greeted her with exaggerated cordiality and then, with a mischievous wink at Adam, went off on his own.

            Thankfully, Elizabeth owned a pair of skates, so Adam was spared that expense.  After he’d rented his, they made their way to a bench near the ice and sat down to lace up for the afternoon’s fun.  When they were both ready, Adam helped the girl to her feet, and they edged onto the ice.

            “I’ll try not to knock you off your feet this time,” Adam said with a self-deprecating grin.

            Elizabeth responded with a coquettish smile.  “Ah, but sometimes a girl likes to be swept off her feet.”

            “I’ll bear that in mind,” Adam said softly as he slipped an arm about her waist.  Then, clasping hands, they began stroking forward, slowly gliding down the smooth surface as they alternately chatted and gazed deeply into one another’s eyes.

After about an hour Adam suggested that they stop for coffee.  It wouldn’t cost much, and he felt that offering her a warm drink after skating was the least he could do.

            “I prefer cocoa,” she replied demurely.

            “Then, I do, as well,” he said.  In the nearest restaurant he ordered two cups of cocoa.  “Umm, perfect,” he murmured when it had arrived and he’d taken his first sip.  “Just what we need after all those spins around the ice.”

            “And you didn’t knock me over once,” she teased.  Adam had explained to her that he had never been on skates before that first afternoon they’d met so abruptly.

Adam chuckled.  “I had a good teacher today, far superior to my first instructor.”  Her enjoyment in playing teacher to a college man had been more than a little obvious, and learning from her had certainly been more pleasurable than learning from Lucas.

“Mr. Edwards?” she asked.

            “Horrors, no!”  Adam erupted with laughter.  Then, remembering that they were in public, he softened his voice.  “No, I now have twice the experience of Mr. Edwards.  I was referring to Mr. Cameron.  Not only is my current instructor more gentle and good-natured, but more beautiful, as well.”

            She blushed and veiled her eyes with her long lashes.  “Well, I would hope so.”  She looked up hastily.  “Not that he isn’t a perfectly fine looking young man, but . . .”

            “But for a lady, his looks leave much to be desired?” Adam suggested with a naughty grin.

            She laughed.  “I suppose that is what I was thinking.  You won’t tell him?”

            “Never,” Adam promised, even though he knew that Lucas would actually relish a remark like that.  “How is your cocoa?”

            “Oh, perfect,” she assured him.  Again her eyelashes dipped.  “The entire afternoon has been perfect.”

            He reached for her hand and stroked her slender fingers, the very touch sending ripples up his spine.  “I hope we may spend many such afternoons together.”

            Her eyes brightened as she looked up.  “I-I hope so, too, Mr. Cartwright.”

            “Adam,” he suggested.

            She nodded, smiling.  “And you may call me Elizabeth.”

            Slowly, giving her opportunity to withdraw if she wished, he brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed her fingertips, the tingle in his spine spreading out to warm his entire body.

            Blushing, she gradually drew her hand back, brushing the back of her fingers against her lips as if to transfer the kiss there.  “I must be going.  It’s getting late.”

            “For me, too,” Adam agreed as he signaled the waiter for the check.  “Will I see you tomorrow?”

            “At the mission?  Certainly.”  When he’d helped her into her coat, she looked up into his eyes.  “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

            “No more than I,” Adam assured her, his dark eyes piercing the depths of the lagoon in hers.

 

* * * * *

 

            Though the air was cold, the walk home Sunday could not have been more pleasant.  Adam finally related his family’s history, and while Elizabeth was surprised to hear that his father had been married three times, she seemed to credit the wildness of the West for the untimely demise of the mothers.  Adam tried to point out that his birth mother had died here in the East, but she seemed to prefer her romantic fancy to mundane fact.

            When he ended by telling the story of Little Joe’s quest for the wise men, she sympathetically squeezed his hand.  “How fortunate that the little one was found safe,” she murmured.

            “Yes,” Adam said.  He pursed his lips thoughtfully.  “I can’t help feeling responsible,” he shared hesitantly, not certain it was proper to be so open on such short acquaintance.  “If only I hadn’t come here, he wouldn’t have been tempted to such foolish behavior.”

            She pressed against him.  “But if you hadn’t come here, we would never have met,” she said with a coy veiling of her eyes.

            “Tragedy, indeed,” Adam whispered.  He bent over her upturned face and gently touched his lips to hers.

 

* * * * *

 

            Thanks to Dr. Havershaw’s care, Jamie was able to return to classes the following Monday.  While he steadily improved, however, his roommate fell victim to a malady more difficult to treat, though the early symptoms were mild.

            “It feels so good to be back in class!” Jamie enthused as he and Adam returned to their room after the noon meal on Monday.  He laughed.  “And back with the Vultures, too, of course.  I don’t think I could have taken another bowl of Mrs. Wiggins’ gruel.”

            “Umm,” was Adam’s distracted response as they passed the Green.

            Jamie shook his head.  Adam had been like this all day: stumbling over a simple translation in Latin and barely acknowledging anything said to him.  “Are you coming down with something?” Jamie asked.

            “What?”  Adam turned, puzzled, toward his friend . . . and promptly collided with an older gentleman walking toward them.  Untangling himself, Adam recognized the man and squeaked, “Professor Larned!”

            “Indeed,” said the rhetoric professor curtly, “and you, if I recall, are Mr. Cartwright.  This may be how students greet their instructors in Nevada, young man, but it’s not how we do so at Yale.”

            “No, sir; I’m very sorry, sir; I didn’t see you,” Adam babbled.

            Larned gave him a skeptical look.  “I’m large as life, I assure you, Mr. Cartwright, and quite visible to the naked eye.”

            “Of course, sir.  It’s entirely my fault.  I was . . . thinking,” Adam said, his voice fading, for even to him the excuse sounded feeble.

            “About your next recitation, no doubt,” the professor said testily.

            Adam flushed.  “No, sir, but I’m sure I should be.”

            “Unless you wish to return to Nevada soon, I’d advise it,” Larned said gruffly, tipping his hat and passing by them.  Unseen by them, a smile twitched at one corner of his mouth as he walked away.

            “Now, you’ve done it,” Jamie scolded.

            “They don’t give demerits for accidental bumps in the street,” Adam protested.  “Besides, he’s not even our teacher.”

            “You’ll have him next term,” Jamie reminded him, “and he’s bound to remember you.  Not, I might add, for the eloquence of your rhetoric.”

            Adam’s mouth twisted as if he’d eaten a sour lemon.  The catalog had listed lectures in rhetoric for the third term.  That was only about three months away, so there was little hope that, by then, Professor Larned might have forgotten the lout who’d almost knocked him down.

            They continued on toward George Street, but instead of turning in at the post office to check for mail from home, as he did each afternoon, Adam walked right past the building.

            “What is wrong with you today?” Jamie demanded after pointing out the mistake to his embarrassed friend.

            “Nothing,” Adam said.  “Besides, there probably isn’t any mail this soon.”

            Jamie shook his head at the sorry excuse.  “You’ve been completely distracted today—in class and out.”  He lowered his voice and asked quietly, “Could I help?”

            Adam laughed.  “I don’t think so.  You have less experience with love than I do.”

            “Love!” Jamie squeaked, for his voice still broke when he pushed it.  “Miss Allen?”

            “Umm,” Adam affirmed dreamily.  “A veritable Venus.”

            “Oh, boy,” Jamie moaned.  “You are smitten.”

            “Hopelessly,” Adam sighed, “and I don’t even care.”

            Jamie grasped him by the biceps and dragged him up the steps to the post office.  “Come on.  I’m just praying there is another letter from home.  Maybe that will take your mind off the lady’s considerable charms.”

            Adam laughed.  “Only if it says that Little Joe is on his way to New Haven again.”

            Jamie rolled his eyes heavenward, as if imploring assistance.  Barring that not-to-be-thought-of eventuality, he felt that the responsibility of refocusing Adam’s attention on his studies rested solely on his inadequate shoulders.

 

* * * * *

 

            It was the incident that happened Wednesday morning that convinced Jamie to enlist help to bring Adam around.  When called upon to recite in Wilder Smith’s Latin class, Adam used the verb amare, to love, when ardere, to burn, was required.

            “While romantic poets may speak of the flames of love,” the tutor suggested sarcastically, “that interpretation scarcely fits the context of this passage.”  The entire class snickered, for though they bore Adam no particular ill will, they relished seeing one of the giants of the class topple off his pedestal.

            “This is getting serious,” Jamie whispered to Lucas and Marcus as they met at the Elm of Assembly, while Adam, at the tutor’s request, remained behind—for a good talking to, the others assumed.  “We have to take him in hand or he’ll soon face rustication.”

            “With a corresponding isolation from the fair Miss Allen, which might well prove fatal,” Lucas added with a grin.

            “It’s no laughing matter, Luke!” Jamie said sharply and then twisted his neck to see if Adam had joined them yet.  He hadn’t, so Jamie asked, “Will you help?”

            Lucas sighed.  “I do hate to nip young love in the bud, but in this case, I suppose we must.  Yes, I’ll help.”  Marcus promised the same.

            Oddly enough, it was Lucas who proved most useful in keeping Adam on the straight and narrow of academic excellence.  After Adam had incurred a totally atypical demerit for his performance in mathematics, Lucas took him aside.  “How am I expected to keep my demerit total in check, when you are setting such an abysmal example?  You’re supposed to be helping me, remember?”

            Adam apologized and promised to do better, but a dig from a sharp elbow whenever he drifted off in dreamy contemplation of a certain fair face provided the strongest encouragement to pay more attention in class, out of sheer respect for his aching ribs.

            Jamie and Marcus took over sentry duty as they walked around campus or through the streets of town, and if Adam appeared to be woolgathering, one of them would call out loudly, “Why, hello, Mr. Larned!”  Fear of again literally running into the rhetoric professor always made Adam jump, so all three of his friends adopted the strategy at will.  Adam generally bit their heads off for tricking him, but since they met Professor Larned on his walks about town frequently enough to make the threat real, it always worked.

            Their combined efforts saw Adam through the week, but after they’d eaten the noon meal at the Vultures’ Nest on Saturday, he pointed his long arm at his trio of guardians and barked, “Be gone, the lot of you!  I intend to spend the afternoon at the skating pond with Elizabeth, and if I so much as catch one glimpse of any of you—”

            Jamie’s laugh interrupted his tirade.  “With her there, I think we’re safe from any glimpses thrown our direction.”

            “I mean it,” Adam growled.

            “Oh, don’t worry,” Lucas assured him.  “We don’t want within ten feet of that; it might be contagious!”

            “Contagious,” Marcus agreed.

            Though Jamie had never met the girl who could take his attention off his books, he nonetheless chimed in, “Contagious.”

            Adam’s eyes narrowed and his fists clenched.  “Keep it up and I might show you what else can become contagious.”

“He’ll be besotted again by dinner,” Lucas moaned as Adam stalked off.

            “It’s your fault,” Marcus accused.  “You’re the one who told him there were lovely ladies helping at the mission.”

            Lucas, however, pointed a condemning finger at Jamie.  “That’s the one who demanded he go.”

            “Well, I certainly don’t have to demand now, do I?” Jamie laughed.

            “Oh, my word, St. James.  I didn’t think you capable of such unsanctified scheming,” Lucas said with wide-eyed stare.  “You’re a man after my own heart after all.”

            “Heaven preserve us,” Marcus put in.

            With a smile Jamie corrected, “Heaven preserve Adam.”

            “Heaven and us,” Lucas grunted.

 

* * * * *

 

            The new school week began with Adam making a more diligent effort to confine his lovesick dreams to non-academic hours.  Though nowhere near Lucas’s total, his demerits could not continue to rise at their current rate, without his also having a letter sent home.  Contemplating Pa’s reaction was gruesome and a strong incentive to do better, as was the thought of Elizabeth’s disappointment in him if he turned out to be a less sterling specimen than she apparently believed.

            “Dreadful weather,” Marcus complained with a shiver as they all headed toward the Vultures’ Nest for supper that evening.

            Adam, however, only smiled at the snow swirling around them.  “All the better for skating this weekend.”

            Jamie groaned.  “He’s lost again.”

            “At the moment I don’t care,” Lucas declared.  “Let him lag behind and leave more victuals for us!”

            Marcus laughed.  “I agree!”

            “We can’t let him faint dead away in a snowstorm,” Jamie chided.

            “No, I suppose we wouldn’t want that on our consciences,” Lucas affirmed with a grin.   He took one of Adam’s elbows, while Jamie hooked the other, and over his protests they hustled him away as Marcus took the lead toward Temple St.

            Depositing him at the door to the Vultures’ dining hall, Lucas inquired with a forbearing tone, “Think you can make it from here, spoopsey?”

            Arms akimbo, Adam blocked their way in.  “I’m warning you . . .”

            Lucas just pushed him through the door.  “If you must attack something, let it be your dinner.”  Laughing and jostling one another, the four freshmen went inside.

 

* * * * *

 

            Thanks to the timely prodding of Lucas’s elbow, Adam made it through the final recitations of the week with his scholastic honor intact.  “However, my ribs may never be the same,” he informed his friend after exiting George Nolen’s mathematics class.

            “If you’re worried about your ribs, you should certainly avoid the skating pond,” Jamie snickered.

            “He’ll pine away, if he avoids the attractions of the skating pond,” Marcus chimed in as he came up to them at the Elm of Assembly.

            “So long as the three of you avoid them,” Adam warned.

            “Here now, my good fellow,” Lucas protested.  “It’s a public park, and you’ve no right to dictate who can or cannot skate there.”

            “Oh, I don’t mind,” Jamie said quickly, and the others, even Adam, laughed at his eagerness to avoid skating.

            “It would do you good,” Adam said, “and I admit that you all have as much right as I to be there.”  Though he still smiled, his face grew flintier.  “Just keep your distance.”

            Lucas never knew when to let a matter lie.  “If it’s privacy you’re wanting,” he suggested, “then you should find a shady bower, instead.”  He snapped his fingers and added saucily, “Oh, that’s right: there isn’t one to be found this time of year.”

            “Oh, come on,” Adam chided, having had enough teasing for one day.  “Let’s get to the Vultures’ Nest so you can stuff your mouth, instead of our unfortunate ears.”

            Enjoying the jest, Lucas threw an arm around Adam’s shoulders, and the two of them led the way toward Temple Street.  As they walked, however, Adam found his thoughts drifting dreamily toward a place to enjoy Elizabeth’s sweet company by himself without a score of people skating past them.  He shook his head.  Lucas was right about one thing: there wasn’t a shady summer bower to be found in New Haven in February.  And he could scarcely invite her to sit down in a snow bank and hope to exchange tender words and—dare he hope?—another tender kiss.  If he’d had the funds, dinner in a quiet restaurant might have been an option, though still in the public eye.  He didn’t, though.  He was lucky that Elizabeth owned a pair of skates, so his only expenses for his time with her were the rental of his own skates and the price of two cups of cocoa.

He still had some of his Christmas money from Pa, so he could manage that, but he’d already had to purchase one new textbook and, looking at the catalog, knew that there’d be more of that sort of expense for the third term, especially if he were allowed to add the course in architectural drawing.  Special pencils and drawing paper, skate rental, an occasional bite of divinity or a cup of coffee or cocoa on a cold day.  Small expenses, but they all added up.  He certainly couldn’t ask Pa for more; he had to be careful.  Still, a man could dream, and he spent far too much of his study time gazing out the window, imagining ways to get Elizabeth alone.

 

* * * * *

 

            From his perch in the gallery with the choir, Adam gazed down with amusement as his classmates scurried into their seats to the music of the final chapel bell on Tuesday morning.  The room quieted quickly as the President rose to read the day’s Bible passage, John 3:15.  Knowing that Woolsey would read the Scripture again before his brief message, the students barely paid attention.  Adam concentrated during the singing of the anthem, always his favorite part of the daily chapel exercises.  That duty completed, however, his mind drifted back to pleasant memories of his time with Elizabeth that weekend, only coming out of his reverie when he noticed the hush that had fallen over the room.

            Woolsey gripped the sides of the pulpit with taut fingers, his head down as he stood wordlessly before the student body.  Students, their attention drawn by the silence, began to look at one another uncomfortably.  Something was wrong, they sensed, and that sensation was confirmed when the President finally began to speak.  “Today is a sad day in the life of Yale College,” he said.  “One of our own yesterday afternoon went to his eternal reward.”

            Shocked, Adam leaned over the parapet of the gallery, while below, low rumbles rippled down the rows of young men.  Who could President Woolsey mean?  A teacher?  A student?  He sent his eyes running down the rows of freshmen.  Everyone seemed to be in place, but he couldn’t be sure in the brief time before Woolsey again began to speak.

“Our beloved Professor of Rhetoric and English Literature, Mr. William Augustus Larned, passed from this mortal coil as he was returning home from his customary walk yesterday,” the President continued.  An audible gasp rose from the front pews of the central aisle, where the seniors sat.  They had known Mr. Larned longer than the other students, and they were obviously shaken.

            Many of the students’ faces reflected genuine grief, while others still seemed in shock.  Only the freshmen had never sat under Professor Larned’s teaching, but even they were affected by the raw emotions palpable around them.  Turning to practical concerns, Woolsey said, “Mr. Hutchison and Mr. Whitney will cover Mr. Larned’s classes today and tomorrow.  All classes will be dismissed on Thursday afternoon, in order that those of you who wish may attend the memorial service at the Center Church on the Green.”

            Then, as was his custom, the President again read his text and made a few remarks about the blessing of eternal life, reminding the students that ‘We sorrow not as others who have no hope’ and that those who chose the path of salvation would see Mr. Larned again.  He closed by asking the students to stand and pray with him for the comfort of the Larned family.

            “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Jamie said as the quartet of freshmen walked toward their first recitation.

            Adam nodded.  As freshmen, none of them had known Professor Larned well, but as President Woolsey had said, he was part of the Yale family, and it would seem strange not to see him walking about town or to hear his friends call out the man’s name to jolt him back from his dreams of Elizabeth.

            “Any of you plan to attend the services?” Marcus asked just before he split away to go to his class.

            “I will,” Jamie said.  “I always enjoyed his messages, the Sundays he spoke.”

            Adam couldn’t make the same claim, as he had thought Larned’s sermons rather dry, but he said that he’d go, as well, out of respect for both the teacher and his old friend.  Marcus, of course, agreed to accompany Jamie, as well, and rather than be left out, Lucas decided to join them.

 

* * * * *

 

            As it turned out, Adam had no choice but to attend Professor Larned’s memorial service, for the Beethoven Society had been requested to sing.  Wednesday evening’s rehearsal was spent in preparation.  One of the songs came from their established repertoire, but the second was a favorite of Professor Larned’s.  Most of the choir had sung the anthem before, but not since Adam had joined them, and he was completely unfamiliar with it.  “It has to be sung from memory, and I only have one night to conquer it,” he bemoaned to his friends when they met at dinner afterwards.

            “And your memory is so poor,” Lucas scoffed.

            “We have complete confidence in you,” Jamie assured him.

            Adam, however, did not share that confidence, so he insisted on singing the song to them all the way from the Vultures’ Nest to Alumni Hall for the Brothers in Unity meeting.  Jamie was treated to the same vocal recital all the way home, too, and everywhere he went with Adam the following morning.

            “I keep falling into the melody, when I’m supposed to be harmonizing,” Adam lamented as he and Jamie were changing clothes after dinner on Thursday, in preparation for the service.  His countenance brightened.  “You should know the tune by now.  You sing that, so I can concentrate on my part.”

            “I don’t have your voice,” Jamie protested.

            “Nonsense,” Adam insisted.  “You can carry a perfectly acceptable tune, and you have a sweet tone.  Besides, this is only for rehearsal purposes, and I really need the help.”

            That, of course, was precisely the right tack to take with Jamie, who felt that he had often leaned on Adam’s help and was glad to return the favor.  He took the sheet of music that Adam had been permitted to borrow and sang as best he could, while Adam harmonized.  “That was perfect,” Jamie assured his friend.

            “Not quite.” Adam shook his head in disgust at the time or two he’d hit just under the right pitch.  “And Herr Stoeckel does demand perfection.  Once more?” he pleaded.

            “Once,” Jamie said firmly, “and then we have to leave.  I presume Herr Stoeckel frowns on walking into a funeral already in progress?”

            Panicked, Adam checked his watch, breathed a sigh of relief and agreed that they only had time for one more try.  “But we can sing all the way to the church,” he suggested brightly to Jamie’s audible groan.

            They sang the song through once, but citing Adam’s need to conserve his voice, Jamie flatly refused to do it en route.  He looked at the overcast sky as they walked toward the Green and said in a hushed tone, “Heaven is weeping.”

            Adam frowned slightly at what he considered an overly romanticized view.  Heaven hadn’t wept for Marie, and she was surely as deserving as Professor Larned, good man though he undoubtedly was.  Inger had gotten even shorter shrift with her hurried trailside burial, and he had no idea what his mother’s funeral service had been like.  It was not a question he’d ever felt he could bring up with Pa, fearful, perhaps, that somehow his infant needs had deprived her of the honor she’d merited, just as his birth had deprived her of life.

            “Adam, are you all right?” Jamie asked, having noticed his friend’s solemn countenance.

            Adam forced a smile to his lips.  “Fine—just a bit worried about remembering the words,” he added as explanation for his introspection.

            “You’ll be perfect, as always,” Jamie assured him.

            “Always?  Tell Herr Stoeckel that, please,” Adam chuckled.  “I would like to get through one rehearsal without a correction of some word, note or tone I’ve abused.”

            Jamie gave his friend’s shoulder a shove.  “I believe ‘caressed’ is the word you mean.”

            “In the same way you just caressed my shoulder,” Adam scoffed, “but I’ll try to give the notes a little more tender touch today.”

            Both boys sobered as they walked up the steps of Center Church.  Jamie spotted Lucas and Marcus and made his way toward them, while Adam joined the choir.  He breathed a sigh of relief when they finished their anthem.  He’d remembered all the words to the new song, and had been able to rely on those in his section more familiar with the harmony part whenever he felt uncertain of a note.  He thought they had done well, and the best confirmation of that was the simple nod of approval with which Stoeckel favored them as they sat down.

            President Woolsey rose to present the sermon on the life and service of William Augustus Larned.  Adam found his attention wandering as the professor’s illustrious rise from Yale student to tutor to minister to full professor was recounted.  He grew more alert, however, when Woolsey talked about the day of Larned’s death.

            “He died as he lived,” Woolsey declared, “in the service of others.”  Then he recounted how the professor had gone out on that snowy afternoon to visit a poor woman who had been hired to care for the home of an absent friend.  Ever the teacher, Larned had listened to the Sunday school lessons of her children and was returning home when an attack on his brain caused him to lose consciousness and fall on the track of the railroad.  “A teacher and a man of God can ask nothing better than to be active in his calling until the final moments of his life and to depart in the sure and certain knowledge of a warm welcome in heaven,” Woolsey concluded.  “Can there be a higher goal for any life?”

            The choir sang once more, and then everyone present filed past the family to offer their condolences.  Adam couldn’t imagine what he could say that would be of any comfort to her, but he remembered after Marie’s loss that it wasn’t the words people said that brought comfort.  He’d long since forgotten their exact words, but the touch of caring hands and the love they conveyed lingered long past the moments of actual contact. 

            He needn’t have worried, for when he approached Mrs. Larned, she extended her hand and said, “Mr. Cartwright, how good of you to come today.”

            Adam stared at her, dumbfounded at her use of his name, and instead of offering any appropriate response, simply blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “I had to.”  Then he flushed furiously and apologized, explaining hastily, “I mean, I would have come anyway, out of respect for Mr. Larned, even if the choir weren’t singing, but I didn’t know him well, and I’m sure he was barely aware of me.”

Mrs. Larned laughed lightly.  “Oh, I’m well aware of you, Mr. Cartwright, as was my husband.  Music is a particular interest of mine, and we often attended Sunday services at the chapel, specifically to hear the choir.  I know a good voice when I hear one and, therefore, noticed yours and inquired your name from Mr. Stoeckel, whom I’ve known since he first came to New Haven.”

            Adam blushed again, not only at the praise, but at the realization that his voice must have stuck out in the choir’s songs.  Blend again, his nemesis—and she knew Herr Stoeckel personally!  Adam suppressed a groan at the thought of his music teacher’s reaction to her well-intended notice of his voice.  “I’m truly sorry for your loss,” he was finally able to say.

            “Thank you,” Mrs. Larned replied simply and with a smile turned toward the next person in line.

            He joined his three friends outside and grasped Jamie’s arm in an iron grip.  “Heaven help me,” he sighed.

            “Heaven always does,” Jamie said.  “What’s wrong, Adam?”

            He quickly told them about Mrs. Larned’s compliment to his singing and then moaned, “I’m doomed.  Not only did I make a buffoon of myself in front of a grieving widow, but she’s already told Herr Stoeckel that my voice sticks out like a sore thumb.”

            “You are being ridiculous,” Jamie chided.  “In the first place, she said no such thing, and even if she had, that was undoubtedly weeks, even months ago, when she first noticed you.”

            “You think?” Adam asked.

            “Of course,” Marcus chimed in.

            “Maybe,” Adam conceded, and a small bubble of hope rose within him.  “I have been doing better, I think—at least, no recent lectures . . . so”—he drew out the word, allowing that bubble of hope to expand—“yes, maybe you’re right.”

            “Are we ever not?” Lucas teased, ducking when Adam swung a half-hearted fist in the general direction of his chin.

 

* * * * *

 

            The following Tuesday Adam was just finishing his hot breakfast when Robert Raines leaned across the corner of the table to hand him a folded copy of the New York Times.  “This should interest you western lads,” the senior said as he pointed to a short article.

            Jamie pressed in close to read along with Adam.  “Oh, that is good news,” he said, but then he snickered.  “Not that you’ll need it anytime soon.”

            “Too true,” Adam said with a wry smile.  Of course, he was glad that the bridges along the Hannibal and St. Joseph Railroad were now repaired and operational, but as Jamie had said, he wouldn’t be traveling that way again for almost four years.  “Do you suppose you’ll ever need that railroad again?” he asked Jamie as they walked toward the college a little later, with Lucas and Marcus tagging after.  “I mean, do you think  you and your father will go back to St. Joe once the war is over?”

            Jamie pursed his lips studiously.  “I don’t know.  St. Joe still feels like home, but four years is a long time.”  He turned to Adam and smiled.  “I suppose I’ll go wherever God calls me, and right now I have no idea where that might be.”

            “As I suggested once before, we could always make you the resident parson of the Ponderosa,” Adam teased.  “I can offer you a small, but certifiably heathen congregation.”

            Jamie laughed.  “Somehow I doubt that!  I remember your father, and I doubt that any household he heads could be ‘certifiably heathen’!”

            “Ah, but you haven’t met my little brothers,” Adam pointed out with twitching lips.

            Jamie stroked his chin with his index finger.  “True, and that youngest one did manage to thoroughly garble the Christmas sermon, according to your father’s letter.”

            Behind them, Lucas and Marcus, who had been told the story of Little Joe’s adventurous trek after the wise men, burst out laughing.

            Adam groaned.  “Don’t remind me!  When I think what could have happened . . .”

            “But it didn’t,” Jamie put in quickly.  “Be thankful for that and trust God for the future, Adam.”

            “And pray earnestly that a certain small heathen’s guardian angels don’t fall asleep on their never-ending job!” Adam snorted as they arrived at the chapel steps.

 

* * * * *

 

 

            Sprawled on the bed, stocking feet aimed toward the ceiling, Jamie had his nose buried in a red-brown periodical with a full-length portrait of Governor Yale on its cover.  Having stopped by the College Bookstore at 34 South Middle, to pick up his and Adam’s subscription to the Yale Literary Magazine, he had thereby earned the right to first peek at its contents.  He had turned first to the end of the issue to read the account of Professor Larned’s death and funeral and continued on to the Editor’s Table, which always offered an amusing look at college life.  He was smiling at the witty barbs, when one in particular made him ominously mutter, “Uh-oh.”  He immediately bit his lip, but Adam had heard.

            Busy putting the finishing touches on another architectural sketch for Mr. Bracebridge, Adam glanced up and caught the rueful pucker of his roommate’s mouth.  “What?” he demanded.  “What could there possibly be in the Lit. capable of producing such a dour aspect on a lowly freshman’s face?”

            “Oh, nothing,” Jamie said.  He paused dramatically and said in a portentous whisper, “Unless he’s a member of the choir.”

            Adam sprang from his chair and snatched the magazine from his friend’s hands.  “Where?”

            Jamie pointed to the troublesome paragraph, and Adam scanned the lines with mounting misery.  He read the conclusion aloud: “The efforts of most of the choir to out-sing each other merits our candid approval.”  With a groan he flopped down on the bed.

            “There’s—um—an interesting article on John Keats,” Jamie offered.  He winced as Adam fixed him with a baleful glare.  “Oh, Adam, don’t worry,” he urged.  “Mr. Stoeckel probably doesn’t even read the Lit.”

            Adam scowled.  “Care to bet?”  Herr Stoeckel struck him as the type of man who noticed everything.

            “I don’t bet,” Jamie reminded him, “but—well—didn’t you say you’d been doing better with your blend?”

            “I thought so,” Adam sighed, raking his hand through his hair, “but having been told twice in a week that my voice is, to put it generously, noticeable—”

            “The Lit. doesn’t mention you,” Jamie interrupted sharply with a rare display of impatience.  “Really, Adam, it’s the height of conceit to assume that you’re the choir member meant.”

            Adam cracked a short, gasping laugh, and then his face eased into a genuine grin.  “Ouch,” he said.

            “Oh, Adam, I didn’t mean . . .”

            Adam silenced his apology with an upraised palm.  “No, no . . . guilty as charged.”  He shook his head.  “The trouble is, Herr Stoeckel will rant at the lot of us as if we were all responsible for that comment.  For the first time since I joined the Beethoven Society, I am definitely dreading tonight’s rehearsal.”

 

* * * * *

 

            “Well, was it as grisly as you feared?” Jamie whispered as Adam slid into the seat next to him at the Vultures’ supper table.

            “Very nearly,” Adam returned in an undertone.  “I wasn’t wrong about the rant, but at least he didn’t single me out.”

            “Anyone else?” Jamie asked.

            Adam answered with a silent nod and turned his attention to his steaming bowl of clam chowder.  He considered himself lucky not to have been the focus of that rant.  It wasn’t quite as thunderous as one of Ben Cartwright’s best, but it had definitely inspired him to try even harder to improve his singing.

 

~ ~ ~ ~Notes~ ~ ~ ~

 

Irene Battell Larned, wife of the professor who died in this chapter, established the first endowment for music at Yale.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Gentlemen and Scholars

 

Lucas whooped and threw his hat into the air as the freshmen poured down the steps.  “Three cheers for Adam Cartwright!” he announced.

            “Oh, don't be ridiculous,” Adam scolded.  “I'm pleased to serve, but it's a small office.”

            “Not to us,” Jamie insisted.

            “No, choosing the debate topics for the society is vitally important,” Marcus declared.

Lucas laughed.  “Especially since you haven't taken your turn at debating yet.”  He leaned close to Adam's ear and said in a stage whisper, “Pick an easy topic for the lad, won't you?”

            “And the hardest I can think of for you,” Adam promised with a wicked grin.

            Lucas scowled, turning his gaze on Jamie.  “I suppose I must forgive him for such sauce?”

“You must,” Jamie intoned solemnly.  “In fact, as a penance, I think you should hoist him on your shoulders—we'll help—and carry him in honor from the scene of his triumph.”

            “You're Protestant, remember?” Adam snorted.  “You don't practice the levying of penances.”

            Jamie grinned.  “But I do practice giving honor where honor is due.”

“Don't you dare!” Adam ordered, but the other three had already taken hold of his legs and were lifting him up.  “Put me down!” he demanded.  “If you must honor someone, pick on Morse; he's the new president of the Brothers in Unity.”

“Don't give them ideas, Cartwright,” called Richard Morse himself, who was passing by at that moment.  Some of his friends, however, agreed that their highest officer should be shown, at least, as much honor as someone of lower position, and soon the protesting president was being born aloft across the campus.

“See what you've started,” Adam scolded.  “Now, put me down!”

            “I suppose we should,” Jamie chuckled, as the trio lowered him to the ground, “and since we want you to live to celebrate your birthday tomorrow, we'll even do it gently.”

Marcus and Jamie tried to set him down gently, as promised, but Lucas, struck by a vital piece of new information, just let go.  The result was a virtual collapse, since the other two boys were both slighter and less well muscled than Adam.  “Birthday? Tomorrow?” Lucas demanded.  “Why have you kept this a secret, spoopsey?”

            “I didn't,” Adam protested, standing and dusting off his trousers.  “Just didn't have any reason to advertise it.”

            “No reason!” Lucas barked.  “How are we to mount a celebration if you keep it to yourself, sir?  I ask you that!”

            Adam laughed. “The only celebration I anticipate is a chapel service and three recitations.  No time off for good behavior.”

            “Pathetic,” Lucas declared with a roll of his eyes.  “Shall we let the occasion pass in such base depravity, gentlemen?”

“Never!” Marcus proclaimed, while Jamie shrugged.  He would have relished a true celebration of the occasion, of course, but his perennially empty pockets vetoed any idea he could come up with, other than the same small gift Adam had given him on his own birthday.

Lucas saw the shrug and immediately guessed the problem.  “Listen, there’s a great place on Wooster Street that an upperclassman told me about.  Let’s meet there tomorrow evening and sample their fare—my treat.”

“No,” Adam protested. “It's generous, Luke, but not fair to you.”

“Not fair at all,” Jamie agreed, and Marcus nodded mute concurrence.

“What's not fair,” Lucas insisted, staring at Jamie, “is your depriving me of a good time, just because you're squeamish about strong drink.”

            “That isn't it,” Jamie protested.  “I don't drink, but I wouldn't stop the rest of you.”

“Prove it,” Lucas challenged.

“Luke,” Adam said, laying a hand on his shoulder, “that isn't the reason, and you know it.”

“No,” Lucas admitted in fairness, “but the real reason isn't valid, either.  So what if I have more ready cash than you?  Birthday gifts aren't meant to be repaid, you know, just accepted with gladness of heart.”

Adam, Jamie and Marcus exchanged questioning glances, and finally Adam smiled at the fourth boy.  “You're right.  Maybe someday I'll have the funds to treat you on a special occasion, but for now I'll accept your gift with the same gladness of heart with which it's given.”

“That's the spirit!” Lucas cried.  “Meet me on the Green at eight tomorrow night, and I'll lead the way.”

 

* * * * *

 

As he and Jamie waited on the Green the following night, Adam huddled inside his wool coat.  Though the sun had shone all day, the temperature had been barely above freezing, and now that night had fallen, it was even lower.  “We'll have snow by morning,” he predicted.

“Sooner than that,” Jamie prophesied.

“Just our luck,” Adam admitted with a wry grin.  “You may wish you were a drinker by the time we get to this tavern Luke's picked out.”

            Jamie laughed.  “I may be frozen, but I'll stick to my convictions, thank you.  I hope they serve coffee, as well.”

            “We'll soon find out.”  Adam pointed down the street.  “Here they come.”

            Lucas and Marcus trotted up to meet them, both reiterating their congratulations to Adam on his nineteenth year.  “Now, for a fine feast and a tankard of warming ale,” Lucas promised as he led them down Court Street toward the harbor.  They didn't go that far, but they were close enough to feel the wind off the water, and by the time they entered Moriarty's Tavern, they all felt thoroughly chilled.

It was an unpretentious place, but the atmosphere was welcoming.  From behind the bar, the proprietor, Frank Moriarty, greeted them and suggested a pint of ale to warm their innards.

            “We'll have three,” Lucas said, adding as he turned to Jamie, “unless you've

changed your mind.”

            Jamie shook his head.  "Do you have coffee, sir—or tea?"  He'd noticed the man's English accent and thought that tea might be the likelier choice on this menu.

            “Whichever you wish, lad,” Moriarty said, “though we'll have to brew the tea.  Don't get much call for it here."

“Coffee, please,” Jamie said.

“And we'd like a table,” Lucas added.  “We plan to eat.”

“Eat?” Jamie squeaked as they moved toward the table the proprietor had pointed out.  “How can you eat again after the supper we had at the Vultures’ Nest?”

“Oh, it's easy,” Lucas assured him with a grin.

“Easy,” Marcus agreed, nudging Jamie with his elbow.

“Decidedly easy,” Adam put in.  “I'm a growing boy—and you should be.”  They all chuckled, those close enough poking Jamie’s rail-thin ribs with sharp elbows.

            “Oh, stop it,” he protested.  “It's Adam’s birthday; save your kind attention for him!”

“Thanks a lot!” Adam laughed.

When Frank Moriarty served them their drinks, three pewter mugs of brown ale and one cup of steaming coffee, he asked if they'd decided what they wanted.

“What's on the menu?” Adam inquired.

The Englishman chuckled.  “Your first visit, is it?  Aye, I didn't remember seeing you before.  The food’s simple, but hearty.  You can have grilled sardines or eggs on toast, but our specialty is Welsh rarebit; and if you're hungrier than that, try our Golden Buck. That’s the rarebit with a poached egg on top.”

            “That's for me,” Lucas declared enthusiastically, “and the coffee-drinking lad will have that, as well.”

            “Oh, no,” Jamie protested.  “Really, that’s too much.”

            “Your bones need padding,” Lucas insisted, “and, Adam, as the birthday boy, you should definitely have the best the house can offer.”

            “No argument here,” Adam agreed.  “Golden Buck for me, too.”

            “I'll have the rarebit plain,” Marcus said.  “Eggs sound too much like breakfast.”  The others hooted at that idea, but let him have what he wanted.

The food was delivered shortly by Moriarty's wife and almost as quickly devoured by the three boys, in spite of the filling supper they’d consumed only two hours before.  Lucas leaned back, patting his stomach.  “That was prime.”

            “Indeed, it was!” Jamie enthused.  “I think that would have cured my cold quicker than either Dr. Haversham’s tonic or Mrs. Wiggins’ gruel.”

            “It ought to, with all that ale in it!” Lucas chortled.  “Now, if you'd just learn to take it straight . . .”

            “Don't tease him,” Adam said.  To Jamie, he added, “The alcohol cooks out.”

            “I hope so,” Jamie laughed, “because I could become a connoisseur of Golden Buck—if only I had the cash to support the habit.”

            “I could, too,” Adam agreed.  “Thank you, Luke, for a very special treat on my birthday.”

“My pleasure,” said their host, “and I’ll hear no more on the subject.  Another ale for the road?”

The offer was eagerly accepted, except by Jamie, who declined even another cup of coffee, lest it keep him awake.  When the others had finished their drinks, the quartet of friends left, with promises to Mr. Moriarty to return.  Arm locked in arm, they walked back to the Green through the falling snowflakes and parted with final calls of “Happy birthday, Adam.”

“It has been . . . thanks to you,” Adam called back.  He threw an arm around Jamie’s slim shoulders as they hurried back toward George Street.  “You were right about the snow,” he said.  “By morning we'll be walking through a carpet of it.”

“Ah, but still warmed to the bones by the bonds of friendship,” Jamie returned.

“And Golden Buck!” Adam added.

Laughing, they headed back to the boardinghouse, unaware, as was most of the country, that far to the south, in the highest home of the nation, the chill of something colder than snow was hovering near.  When dawn came and the rest of the country began its celebration of Washington’s birthday, the first family was, instead, mourning the death of young Willie Lincoln.  Most sympathized with the President's "affliction," as the newspapers termed it, but in a few homes, mothers and fathers who had lost sons to the gaping maw of War, though shamed by the thought, felt it poetic justice for the Commander-in-Chief to share the same grief that wrenched their hearts.

 

* * * * *

 

In chapel on Monday, prayers were said for the Lincoln family, who would be burying their young son that afternoon, but after the moment of solemnity, it was business as usual at Yale.  The President’s loss hit Adam, perhaps, harder than most, as he couldn’t help realizing that young Willie was eleven, the same age as Hoss, and Adam had seen loss often enough and recently enough to know that tragedy could strike without warning and leave devastating grief in its wake.  To think, as he momentarily did, that it could strike Hoss—or Joe or Pa, death being no respecter of youth or age—while he was away, too far even to make it home for the funeral, was troubling.  Like the other students, however, he was soon caught up in the routine of recitations and college activities.

Adam worked diligently during the week, having finally determined that weekends with Elizabeth could be savored more fully if nothing were left hanging over his head.  He longed to take her to dinner and the theater, as she had hinted a few times, but all he could afford was trips to the skating pond, followed by a cup of cocoa.  Even that stretched his resources further than was comfortable, but it seemed ungracious not to offer her at least that much.  Of course, Sundays were still spent at the mission, and they were a trial at times, when the youngsters demonstrated a distinct lack of appetite for instruction.  However, Adam felt amply rewarded by the chance to walk Elizabeth home and hold her mittened hand.  So far, nothing more than a chaste kiss at her door had followed, but even that seemed like the nectar of the gods to Adam.

What he’d do once the weather improved, he wasn't sure.  Picnics, perhaps, or long strolls through the woods.  As February gave way to March, however, sunny days seemed far away.  There were a few, but most days were cloudy and overcast, at best; and while the daytime temperatures were consistently above freezing, nighttime lows were as consistently below, and rain or snow still inundated them every few days.

On Monday, March 10th, Adam and Jamie arrived for breakfast at the Vultures’ Nest in expectation of the usual grousing about the weather, but the room rippled with excitement as heads bent in avid perusal of the morning newspaper.  “What's happened?” Adam called.

“Naval battle at Hampton Roads,” Milton Bradford called.

“Clash of the ironclads,” the more poetic junior, James Goodman announced.  “The Monitor defeated the Merrimac.”

            Alexander White shook his head, though a smile touched his lips.  “It’s against our rules, but I suppose nothing will suffice but hearing it read over breakfast.”

“Hear, hear,” his senior cohort Robert Raines chimed in his encouragement.

“Not by me,” George MiIler declared.  “I want to eat my breakfast!”

“Let one of the freshmen read it,” Edgar Warington suggested with a snide curl of his upper lip.  “They undoubtedly need the practice.”

White silenced the roar of outrage that met the sophomore’s taunt and then turned to Adam with a smile.  “I’m sure you don’t need the practice, Mr. Cartwright,” he said, “but you have a pleasant speaking voice, so I wonder if you’d mind doing the honors.”

Adam gave the senior a slight bow.  “It would be my pleasure.”  Eagerly, he took the paper and began to read, “‘Fortress Monroe, Saturday, March 8.  The dullness of Old Point was startled today by the announcement that a suspicious looking vessel; supposed to be the Merrimac, looking like a submerged house, with the roof only above water, was moving down from Norfolk. . . .’”

With mounting excitement he read of the engagement of three Confederate vessels against the Union ships, the Cumberland and the Congress.  The wooden ships were no match for the ironclad Merrimac; and after running the Cumberland aground, the Merrimac had captured the other Union ship.  Night fell, however, before the Confederate ironclad could return to finish off the Cumberland.  The dim hopes for that sailing ship’s survival changed entirely when the Union's new ironclad, the Monitor, arrived that night, and a five-hour battle the next day saw the Confederate's Merrimac limp away from harbor, defeated by the much smaller, but more maneuverable Monitor.

After reading the account of the naval engagement, Adam continued with a description of the Monitor’s construction, but when he came to the list of the vessel’s specifications, Edgar Warington said, “Oh, bother that nonsense.  It’s only the results that matter.”

            Adam looked up, startled.  “Aren’t you interested in how those results were achieved?” he asked.  “I’m just getting to the engineering of the ship.”

Warington snorted.  “Do I look like a Scientif?  Of course, Cartwright, I’ve always suspected you belonged in Sheffield, rather than with the scholars and gentlemen of Yale.”

A hush fell over the table, for while it was not considered a disgrace to attend the Sheffield Scientific branch of the college, a certain stigma hung over the students who sought to put their education to practical use in the more mechanical fields.  Everyone recognized that the sophomore had fully intended to insult the freshman by stating that he belonged there, as well as insinuating that Adam was no gentleman.  “I believe that will be quite enough,” White said quietly.

“Exactly as I said,” Warington smirked.

“I wasn’t referring to the article,” the steward declared tersely.  “However, I think we’ve imposed on Mr. Cartwright’s good nature long enough.  Please eat your breakfast before it grows stone cold, Mr. Cartwright, and I’ll be glad to let you take the newspaper with you, so that you may further your interest in the engineering of the Monitor.  Would anyone like to have it after Mr. Cartwright?”

At first no one responded, perhaps wishing to maintain their own status as “scholars and gentlemen of Yale.”  Then Robert Raines, whose reputation as a senior was strong enough to withstand any such slur, said that he would appreciate reading the rest of the article after Adam.  “In my time at Yale,” he said pointedly, “I have observed that those who cultivate learning in many fields fare best in their chosen one.”  The two juniors both made a point of commending Adam for his fine reading, while the sophomores found that emptying their plates required all their gentlemanly attention.

            “I've had about all of that Warington I can take,” Adam fumed as the freshmen hurried toward chapel after the meal.

            “I’m proud of you, Adam, for holding your temper,” Jamie said.

            Adam exhaled with exasperation.  “You wouldn’t be, if you could read my uncharitable and unrepentant mind.”

Jamie laughed.  “All the more reason for pride, then, that you held it in.”

With a shrug and a grin Adam let his friend win the point.

“St. James, you are beyond belief,” Lucas declared with a jab in the ribs, but there was warm respect in his gaze, which also took in Adam.  There was a time when he would have volunteered to bash in the sophomore’s thick skull himself if the others were too craven or too sanctified, but though he scarcely realized it himself, Adam’s and Jamie’s more reasoned responses were tempering his own hot head.

 

* * * * *

 

March continued much as it had begun, although as the days flew past, they were more frequently rainy than snowy.  The students made their regular rounds of recitation, meals and society meetings, with the addition of rehearsals with the Beethoven Society and stolen afternoons with Elizabeth for Adam.  When the ice was no longer safe for skating, they resorted to walks through the elm-canopied streets or the cemetery, although a petulant pout often graced the girl’s lips when muddy water splashed her hemline.  Almost before they knew it, however, reviews for second term exams began, and even time with Elizabeth had to give way to that.  Adam was determined to stand near the top of his class . . . for her, for Pa and, perhaps the greatest motivation of all, for his own self-respect.

On the final day of their Latin review, a messenger arrived, requesting that the gentlemen whose names he called follow him.  Tutor Smith nodded his permission and continued on with the review, while about a dozen students, Jamie among them, filed out of the room, looking totally bewildered.  Fifteen minutes later they returned and took their seats, the tutor making no more of their return than their departure, and a second dozen young men were asked to leave with their escort.  “What's going on?” Adam whispered out the side of his mouth to Lucas, often a good source of information on college activities.

            “No clue,” Lucas muttered back, “but St. James doesn’t look upset.  Can’t be anything bad.”

            “Mr. Cameron,” Wilder Smith said loudly, “did you have a question regarding this passage from Livy?”

            “Uh, no, sir, not about that,” the hapless Lucas stammered.

            “That is the only topic presently under discussion, Mr. Cameron,” the tutor said firmly without the slightest trace of the humor he felt, “and considering your average in this class, I would recommend that you give it your undivided attention.”

            “Good idea, sir,” Lucas said, sitting up straighter and giving his best imitation of a diligent scholar.

“Excellent,” Tutor Smith said, and a smile finally touched his lips.  “Do that with all areas of endeavor, and I can assure you that all will be revealed to you at the appropriate time.”

Sorely tempted to roll his eyes, Lucas, instead, nodded in submission.  Adam flicked him an apologetic look, for he felt that it was his question that had led his friend astray.  At least, the tutor hadn’t assessed another demerit.

Finally, the second group of Latin students returned, and the third dozen called included Adam, but not Lucas.  “All will be revealed at the appropriate time,” Lucas quipped under his breath as his seatmate stood, and Adam nodded his promise to reveal the mystery when he returned.  He followed the senior down the hall and up the stairs to the third floor.

They entered a recitation room there, where one of the senior tutors was waiting for them. “Welcome, young gentlemen,” the tutor said, “and congratulations.”  Seeing their bewildered looks, he laughed.  “Haven’t you guessed?  Today you matriculate and become full-fledged students of Yale.”

Looks and sighs of relief met this announcement that their probationary period had ended; then the tutor continued, “It’s a simple ceremony.  I will read the oath, and if you agree to abide by it, you’ll sign this book.”  He pointed to a table at his right hand.  “Ready, gentlemen?”  Being assured that they were, he read, “‘I promise on condition of being admitted as a member of Yale College, on my faith and honor, to obey all the laws and regulations of this college; particularly that I will faithfully avoid intemperance, profanity, gaming, and all indecent, disorderly behavior, and disrespectful conduct to the faculty and all combinations to resist their authority; as witness my hand.’”

One by one, the students signed the book.  After Adam had written his name neatly, he hesitantly asked the senior tutor, “Please, sir, can you tell me what happens to the students who didn’t matriculate this time?”  Since that last freshman-sophomore rush, he’d known that Lucas had too many demerits to matriculate, but didn’t understand what could be done to change that.

            “Why, nothing,” the tutor responded.  “‘They continue with their studies, as before, and when they’ve earned the honor, they, too, will matriculate.”

            “When they’ve lowered their demerit tally, for instance?” Adam inquired.

            “Precisely,” the older man said and then asked softly, “A friend?”  At Adam’s nod, he said, “I wouldn’t worry.  Only about two-thirds of the class will matriculate this first time.  Unless your friend is a persistent troublemaker or a true dunderhead, he’s sure to follow . . .  eventually.”

Adam thanked him and hurried back to class, although only minutes remained.  He didn’t want to miss any of the review, for exams would begin within a week.  As he slid into his seat, he whispered, “Tell you later” to Lucas, and as soon as class ended, he did.

            “Figured it might be that,” Lucas said with a shrug, “when I saw whose names didn’t get called, namely us ne’er-do-wells.”

            “You’re doing much better of late, though,” Jamie encouraged.  “I’m sure you’ll matriculate with the next group.”

            “I plan to,” Lucas said and then he groaned.  “Hate to hear what Pater will say.”

            “Tell him you have a group of friends who’ve taken you in hand,” Adam suggested, “and assure him that you’re already improving and intend to continue to do so.”

            “It might work,” Lucas said.

            “The truth always works best with my pa,” Adam chuckled.  “I doubt that yours is much different.”

            Lucas shrugged, belying the concern he felt.  “Oh, well.  If ever I needed a good workout at the gym, it’s now.  With me, Adam?”

            “Certainly,” Adam agreed.  Back home, he’d often seen the value of sweating out his troubles over a pile of kindling, and he figured swinging a set of Indian clubs would garner the same benefit for his friend.

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

Moriarty’s Tavern, affectionately known as Mory’s to Yale students, was discovered by the Class of 1863, and became a popular hangout for college men from that time on.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A Month’s Vacation

 

 

Review finished, exams began.  Adam faced them with greater confidence this term.  He knew what to expect and had, with occasional lapses of moon-eyed lovesickness, applied himself to his studies.  Some natural nervousness remained, but he was certain he’d pass.  That certainty relaxed him enough to do well on touchier subjects, like those endless rivers and mountains he regurgitated for the geography exam.

College activities seemed designed to take the students’ minds off the pressure of their exams.  Wednesday of that week, the Brothers in Unity again called for elections of new officers, which changed five times each year.  Adam would have dearly loved to be elected president, not for the prestige or the responsibility, but for the exemption from the next term’s society tax.  Though only two dollars, he and Jamie were on such a tight budget that any opportunity to cut expenses was welcomed.  As always, however, that top office went to a senior, Charles Sumner this time, and since no man could hold the same office twice, Adam relinquished his brief jurisdiction as a selector of debate topics.

The following day the entire college took a vacation from concern over their marks to attend the Junior Exhibition.  The New York Seventh Regiment Band was in attendance in the afternoon session, and their performances between the orations, poems and dissertations presented by those juniors who had placed highest after their just completed exams were highlights for Adam with his love of music.  From the opening rendition of the William Tell Overture to the closing Potpourri by Flotow, he soaked in melody and harmony like a thirsty man gulps water from an isolated pool in the desert.  He reminded himself that it was only back home that such opportunities were isolated pools; here in the East a man could drink in culture . . . well, as often as his pocketbook allowed, Adam admitted ruefully.  The same format was followed for the evening performance, although that one was better attended than the earlier one.

“I want to place high in the class,” Jamie admitted to Adam as they strolled home after the Finale by Verdi, “but I don't know if I could bear speaking to that many people.”

Adam laughed.  “Since fully two-thirds of the class was named as speakers tonight, I assure you that you’ll be on that platform!”  He rested a reassuring hand on Jamie’s slight shoulder.  “Don't worry; by the time we’re juniors, I’m sure it will be second nature.”

            “From speaking in the societies, you mean?” Jamie shrugged.  “I haven’t done an oration yet, you may have noticed, just that one debate.”

            “You're too quiet, too self-effacing,” Adam chided, “so people overlook you.  Your time’s coming, and then there’ll be no hiding your talents under the proverbial bushel.”

            “You are prejudiced, sir,” Jamie laughingly charged.

            Adam threw an arm around his friend.  “Of course, I am!  But truth will out, as our dear friend Shakespeare said.”

            “In that case, what will ‘out’ is my abject fear of the whole process!”

            Adam twisted his chum’s cap sideways and ordered Jamie to wear it like that until he starting spouting sense.  The desired transformation took about thirty seconds.

 

* * * * *

 

As soon as exams ended, Adam gathered up his best architectural drawings and made his way again to the office of Louis Bail.  Telling himself that the teacher could only say no did nothing to shrink the size of the lump in his throat as he lifted his hand to knock on the door.

“Come in,” called Bail.

            Squaring his shoulders, Adam entered.

Bail’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, but then he smiled.  “Ah, yes, Mr. Cartwright.  I should have known.”  He jutted his chin toward the portfolio in Adam's hand.  “You've brought me some drawings?”

“As you said I should,” Adam reminded him.

“Yes,” the teacher said, taking the portfolio and opening it.  He looked at each drawing in turn, a slight smile curving his lips when he saw how many there were.  “You’ve been busy.”

Adam interlaced his fingers to still their nervous movement.  “I wanted to demonstrate that I could keep up with your assignments in addition to my regular studies.”

Bail chuckled.  “And how have you done with them?”

“Quite well, I believe,” Adam said, “although I haven’t seen my second term marks yet, of course.”

            “Of course,” the drawing instructor said as he continued to study Adam's sketches of buildings around New Haven.  “These show a marked improvement,” he observed.

“I’ve been sending them to Mr. Bracebridge,” Adam explained. “He sends them back with suggestions for improvement.  These are corrected copies, which I have yet to return to him.”

            “And you still feel you need my help, as well?” Bail asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh, yes, definitely, sir,” Adam declared.

The teacher closed the portfolio and sat back in his chair.  “Good.  I agree.  As a matter of fact, Mr. Cartwright, I have already discussed your request with the rest of the faculty.”

Adam leaned forward excitedly.  “What did they say?”

Bail laughed.  “My, you are the eager one, aren’t you?”  Seeing Adam flush, he quickly added, “Nothing to be ashamed of, my boy.  Quite the quality we look for in students.  Now, I have seen your second term marks, and I can assure you that you stand near the top of your class, and you have, of course, matriculated now, so we can be a little lenient, I think.”  He opened his desk drawer and drew out a sheet of paper.  “The course covers topographical and isometrical, as well as architectural drawing, and while those would be useful, you cannot take the full series of lectures without entirely missing one of your other classes.  Therefore, I recommend that you meet with me only once each week, for the architectural lecture.”  He handed the paper to Adam.  “That is a list of the times I will be covering that subject.  Pick the one that coincides with the class you can best afford to miss, and if that professor approves, I will accept you as a special student.  You’ll get no credit for this course, you understand?”

“Just the knowledge,” Adam said with a smile.  “That's what I want, sir.”

Bail stood and shook the young man's hand.  “Run along, then, and see if you can obtain the necessary permission.”

Adam thanked him and left, pondering as he walked back to George Street exactly which class he could most easily skip once a week.  Mathematics was his best subject, but according to the catalog, they'd be studying spherics this term.  Since he had no clear idea what that was, skipping that class was probably not a good idea.  He smiled to himself.  Really, there was only one choice.  Tutors, it seemed to him, always took themselves more seriously than the established professors, so either Wilder Smith or George Nolen was more likely to say no than Old Had.  He had proven himself to the Greek professor and, therefore, thought that the unusual request might be entertained.  No time like the present to find out, he concluded, so when he reached the Green, he turned toward the college yard.

 

* * * * *

 

Jamie was stuffing in the last shirt his carpetbag could possibly hold when the door opened.  “There you are,” he said with relief.  “Did it take this long to convince Mr. Bail to let you sit in on his class?”

            “No,” Adam said, pulling off his coat.  “He agreed quite quickly.  Old Had took a

little longer.”

            Jamie sent a puzzled look Adam's way.  “Old Had?  What does he have to do with architectural drawing?”

“Not a thing,” Adam laughed.  Then he explained the conditions Louis Bail had laid down for admittance to the class.  “I'll be depending on your thorough notes for each Friday’s Greek recitation,” he added.

“Of course,” Jamie said, “though you’d probably pass, even without them.”  With effort he closed his carpetbag.  “There!” he declared.  “Packed, with time to spare.”  He shook his head at Adam.  “While you, sir, are being uncharacteristically tardy.”

            Adam perched on the bed.  “I suppose that’s because I still don’t feel right about going with you.”

            Jamie sighed.  “Adam, we’ve talked it all out . . .  repeatedly.”

            Adam shrugged.  “I know, but your father hasn’t had that much time to build up his assets, so I’m sure having me visit for four weeks will be a strain.”

            Jamie chuckled.  “I hope you weren’t expecting gourmet fare.  It’s more likely bread and cheese we’ll be having . . .  perhaps, sausage on Sundays.”

Adam grinned.  “A veritable feast, then.  I trust your father will let me add something to the coffer, however.  After all, I’d be responsible for my own meals if I stayed here over vacation.”

“Well, I, for one, will certainly allow you to provide our travel supplies, if you have need to express your extreme gratitude for the invitation,” Jamie teased.  “Now, get your bag packed,” he ordered, “and if you’ll hurry, perhaps we can catch Candy Sam and take some of his fine divinity to Springfield.”

“That's a great idea!” Adam declared, suddenly inspired to finish his packing as quickly as possible.  A good supply of divinity would not only sweeten the train ride north, but would make an excellent gift of appreciation for Josiah Edwards.

 

* * * * *

 

“About twenty minutes to departure,” Adam observed as he and Jamie sat down in the depot’s waiting room after purchasing their tickets.  “Do you want to eat now or on the train?”

            “On the train,” Jamie said.  “We’ve been rushing around so to get these provisions that I’d like to let my stomach just sit quietly for a while before I ask it to work!”

Adam laughed.  “We weren’t that rushed.”   Not only had they found Candy Sam easily and purchased a shareable supply of divinity, but they’d had time to stop by Bradley’s on State St. to pick up some sausage, cheese and crackers for a cheap supper.

Fifteen minutes had passed when Adam heard his name urgently called.  He bolted from his seat as a flurry of skirts rushed up to him.  “Oh, Adam, how could you think of leaving without saying goodbye?” the girl chided.

            “Elizabeth!”  Adam folded the girl into his arms.  "I—I told you I’d be pushed for time this morning.  That’s why we said our goodbyes on Sunday.”

            “Well, I couldn’t let you leave for a whole month without a proper farewell, could I?” Elizabeth asked demurely.

Adam smiled wistfully.  “It is a long time, isn’t it?  I’ll miss you.”

A pout curled her lips downward.  “I don’t believe a word of it.”

“I’ve never known Adam to lie,” Jamie put in, amused by the way the couple seemed to have forgotten him.

            “What?” Elizabeth blinked at him.  “Oh . . . of course not.  I was only . . .”

“Teasing for a kiss?” Adam suggested.

“Certainly not,” she declared airily.

“A pity,” he whispered daringly, “as I was disposed to give one.”

“Not in a public depot,” she said decidedly.  Then she sighed.  “But I will miss you, Adam, so please hurry back.”

“Our third term begins May seventh,” he said.  “We'll be back the day before.”

Outside, a whistle blew, signaling the arrival of the train.  Jamie gathered as much of both his and Adam’s belongings as he could and boarded the New Haven, Hartford and Springfield Railroad, while Adam grabbed his carpetbag in one hand and circled Elizabeth’s waist with his other arm.

“Write me,” she urged as they moved across the platform.

            “I will,” Adam promised.  He pecked her cheek and jumped aboard, remaining on the landing until her waving hand was out of sight.  Then he entered the car and found his seat next to his friend.

            “Well, if you’re through spooning,” Jamie declared, “I believe that my stomach has settled enough to entertain a bite of sausage.”

            “Only one?” Adam teased as he dug into the bag containing their trip provisions.  He sliced off a sizable hunk and handed it over.

            “Definitely, if it’s this size!” Jamie joked back.

            They crossed the Quinnipiac River and began winding through the salt meadows that stretched on the right. Through pleasant villages and the larger manufacturing center of Meriden, the train rolled until it reached Hartford in about an hour and a half.  As they approached the depot, the Capitol stood out on a hill to their right.  The train stopped here briefly, and the two college students got out to stretch their legs.  “Wish we had time to explore,” Adam commented.

Jamie shook his head.  “We won’t reach Springfield until after dark as it is.”

Adam yawned.  “We definitely won’t be exploring that tonight!”

Jamie chuckled.  “Amazing how a few exams can exhaust a man.”

Adam shook his head.  “I think it has more to do with the rhythmic rattling of the train along the track.  Definitely soporific.   Speaking of which, we’d better get back on board . . . lest they rattle off without us!”

They fortified themselves for the final hour of their journey with cheese and crackers and indulged in a single piece of divinity each for dessert.  As predicted, night had fallen by the time they arrived at the depot in Springfield, where Jamie’s father was waiting to greet them.  After giving each of them a warm, welcoming hug, Josiah said, “I’m afraid I won’t have time to do more than show you to our lodgings tonight.  The foreman at the Armory said I might come in late tonight, but I don’t want to impose on his kindness beyond what I must.”  Gesturing toward the exit, he led them out onto the street.

            Walking at his father’s side, Jamie sighed.  “Oh, Father, I wish you wouldn’t work two jobs.”

            Josiah caught him by the scruff of the neck.  “How else am I supposed to support my collegiate son in the lavish style to which he has become accustomed.”

            “Oh, Father!” Jamie cried in protest.

            “Now, now, my boy, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” his father said.  “What else do I have to do here in a city where I know no one but my primary-age students?  The Armory needs experienced workers, with a war going on, so why not put in a few hours there each week?  I’m only working there part time, after all, and I’m sure Adam sees the sense of it if you do not.”  He looked to his son’s friend for support.

Adam waved one hand before his face.  “Leave me out of this,” he ordered briskly.  “I can see both sides of the argument, and I care too much about both of you to choose between you . . . except to protest that remark about our lavish lifestyle at Yale!”

            Josiah laughed.  “Only teasing.  I’ve had opportunity to see how the two of you scrimp and save, sometimes to your detriment.  It won’t be any different here, I'm afraid, but I hope that I’ll be able to ease your way a bit next term.”

“We’ll see nothing of you,” Jamie moped.

“Not as much as I'd like,” his father admitted, “but we’ll be together for breakfast and supper and all day on Sundays.”

            “Is there anything to amuse ourselves with during these long days without you?” Adam asked lightly.

            “Oh, Springfield has a few attractions,” Josiah said, “but you may find that rest and quiet are more what you need.”

            “Right!” Adam declared.  “I plan to sleep the day away tomorrow.”

            Stopping in front of a modest two-story house, Josiah laughed.  “I doubt you’ll find the accommodations comfortable enough to encourage that.”  He led them up the steps to the front entrance and through the door to a central hallway.  Though the house had obviously been, at one time, a single-family home, a door on each side of the hall indicated that it was now divided into two lodgings on the first floor, and Adam presumed the same was true upstairs.

Josiah unlocked the compartment on the right, and Adam and Jamie followed him in.  “Just a moment, and I'll get the light,” the older man said.  The soft glow of a kerosene lantern soon revealed a small room, furnished only with the table on which the lantern sat and a padded armchair with obviously worn upholstery.  “As I warned you,” Josiah said with a rueful smile, “quite Spartan accommodations.”

“As long as there's a bed,” Adam chuckled.

Josiah grimaced.  “There is—one, precisely.  You boys will sleep there; I’ll take the chair here.”

            “Absolutely not!” Adam protested.  “A man holding down two jobs needs his sleep.  I’ll take the chair.”

“No, I will,” Jamie insisted.  “I’m shorter than either of you.”

“You’re not that short,” Adam snorted.  “None of us is.”

            “'Now, now, no quarreling,” Josiah scolded.  “I don’t have time to argue the point now, so the two of you take advantage of the bed while I’m at work, and I’ll roust one of you out when I get back.  Deal?”

Adam and Jamie exchanged questioning glances and then Adam shrugged.  “Deal . . . as long as it’s me.”

            “Whichever one wakes more easily,” Josiah said with a grin and then waved them toward the next room.  “Come on.  I have just enough time to show you ‘the manor.’”

            “Ah, Adam, you didn’t know that I was to the manor born, did you?” Jamie teased with a haughty snoot of his nose.

            “About as much as I am!” Adam chortled back.

“The manor,” they soon learned, consisted of three rooms, one behind the other.  From the front room, they passed through the kitchen, which held a small coal-burning stove on the outside wall.  A rickety wooden table held a stack of three plates, three bowls and three cups and saucers, with three sets of cutlery resting in a wicker basket.  “Three of everything, including chairs,” Josiah pointed out with evident pride.  The chairs were mismatched, but looked sturdy enough.

“You’ve thought of everything,” Adam said with awkward gratitude.  In every purchase he could see the evidence of personal privation and sacrifice and realized that one-third of those purchases would have been unnecessary but for him.

            “I know it’s not what you’re used to,” Josiah said, “but I’ve managed the best I

could in three months, and I hope to be better situated by the time your third term ends.”

            “Please don’t apologize,” Adam urged painfully.  “I slept on the ground all the way to Nevada.  This is heaven, compared to that.”  To his relief, the others laughed.

            “It’s just part of the Spartan training,” Jamie insisted.  “Father means to inure us to hard times so we’ll be prepared for any battle life sends us.”

            “Always the teacher,” Adam added to the jibe.

“Oh, how I’ve missed students like you boys!” Josiah laughed as he directed them into the next room.  “Now, by Eastern standards, of course, it’s not desirable to have the sleeping quarters on the first floor—which helps keep the rent on this apartment low—but we uncouth westerners are quite inured, as my son phrases it, to such trifling discomfort as having neighbors able to peep into one’s bedroom.

“Ah, but you’ve solved that,” Adam declared, pointing with flourish at the burlap bags that had been tacked over the windows in lieu of curtains.  The room held only an iron bedstead and two crates, one in which the teacher's clothes lay folded and a longer one at the foot of the bed that appeared to hold sheets and blankets.

“Well, that’s the grand tour,” Josiah said. “I know it seems extravagant to take more than a single room for a bachelor like me, but I wanted more for the summer, when Jamie is with me, and I was lucky to find this for so reasonable a rent.  With so many men brought in for the Armory now, there’s a shortage of housing.”  He consulted his pocket watch.  “I’m afraid I have to leave you now.”  They moved back through the apartment to see him off, and just before he left, Josiah pointed at the carpetbags Adam and Jamie had dropped just inside the door.  “Those had better not contain textbooks,” he announced.  “This is to be a true vacation.”

            “No textbooks,” Adam promised, “but I did bring my sketchbook, in case there's some interesting architecture around.”

            “I think you’ll find a number of places.  City Hall would make a good subject,” Josiah suggested.  “I'll give you directions in the morning.”         

            Adam thanked him, and then goodbyes were said, all around.

            “Oh, Adam,” Jamie sighed, slumping against the door as soon as his father was safely out of earshot.  “I can’t bear what he’s enduring for me.”

            “How do you think I feel?” Adam asked.  “I’m not even his son!”

            “Almost,” Jamie said.  He closed his eyes as if that would shut out the pain he felt.  “I should leave school.”

            “You certainly should not!” Adam declared forcefully.  “You’ll kill him if you do that.”

Jamie opened his eyes and stared at his friend.  “You don’t understand.  You’ve never—”

“Of course, I have,” Adam interrupted harshly.  “I was tiny the first time I saw my father go without food so I could eat, and I’ve seen him sacrifice for me dozens of times since. Though he wouldn’t admit it, I’m sure he’s sacrificing some things, even now, so I can be back here.”

Jamie nodded.  “1 wasn’t thinking.  I’m sorry, Adam.”

“And I’m sorry for snapping,” Adam apologized.  “Look, Jamie, it’s what fathers do . . . sacrifice for their children.  I don’t take it for granted, but I have come to understand it as what makes them happiest, and I’ve come to feel that the best way I can repay Pa for all he’s given up for me is to accept the gift gratefully and be willing to sacrifice for him—or my brothers—when it’s my turn to give.”

            Jamie smiled.  “Are you certain you plan to be an architect . . . and not a philosopher?”

Adam laughed.  “Absolutely certain.”  He yawned.  “I know it’s early, but I’m exhausted, so I think I will forego the pleasure of exploring the vast reaches of the Manor and fall into the decadent luxury of that mattress.”

            “I doubt there’s much luxury to it,” Jamie chuckled, “but I believe I’ll join you.  Oh, and I plan to be the easiest to wake when Father comes in.”

            “We’ll see about that,” Adam returned with a cheeky grin as he picked up his carpetbag and carried it toward the bedroom.

 

* * * * *

 

Adam stirred slowly, yawning and stretching his arms to the ceiling.  The armchair was comfortable, but offered no support for his long legs.  Still, he’d slept fairly well, and it wasn’t discomfort that woke him, at least he didn’t think so.  Then his nose picked up an aroma coming from the next room, and when he concentrated, he could hear someone moving around in the kitchen.  He got up and padded that way in his bare feet.  “Good morning,” he said.

            Josiah turned from the stove.  “Good morning, Adam,” he said, keeping his voice low.  Then with a shake of his head, he asked, “Where are your slippers, young man?”

            “In there.”  Grinning, Adam pointed toward the bedroom.  “In my carpetbag.”

            “Well, go in and get them,” Josiah said.  “Jamie needs to get up, anyway, unless he prefers cold oatmeal.”

            “I doubt that!” Adam chuckled as he headed into the next room.  After he roused his friend, they both dressed quickly against the chill of the rooms and returned to find their simple breakfast on the table.  “Nothing like a hearty dish of oatmeal on a cold morning,” Josiah said cheerfully.

Suspecting that the cereal formed the man’s regular morning meal, Adam answered with equal—and, he suspected, equally forced—cheer, “Just the thing.  I hope we’ll have it every day.”

“An old favorite,” Jamie declared.  “Like mornings back in dear St. Joe.”  He didn't mention that, “back in dear St. Joe,” the oatmeal was occasionally accompanied by sausage and eggs.  Here, it came only with toast and coffee, but both boys dug in with enthusiasm.

As they ate, Josiah gave them directions to City Hall.  “The library is there,” he added, “and if you’d like to check out some books, you should do that today.  It’s only open three days a week, and this is one of them.”  With a saucy wink, he added, “Nothing serious, remember?  I hope you’ll spend a good bit of time outdoors, weather permitting, but it’s a good library—over six thousand volumes.  If you find something you’d like, let Jamie sign for them.”  He grinned at his son.  “Just write ‘J. Edwards.’”

Jamie returned the conspiratorial grin, knowing that the “J.” could stand for either Josiah or James, and the son could access the father’s lending privileges.

Josiah quickly sliced bread and cheese and made a sandwich for himself.  “Lunch,” he explained as he wrapped it.  “I generally eat at my desk.  There is a bit of beef in the cupboard, as well, if you’d prefer that for your meal, and I’ll bring home a container of soup and some fresh bread for us all for supper.”

            He started to clear the table, but Jamie quickly forestalled that.  “We’ll get the dishes.”

            “I’d appreciate that,” his father responded.  He tucked his sandwich into his coat pocket and gave his son a quick hug.  “Have a good day, my boy.  You, too, Adam.”

            “And you, sir,” Adam replied.

            “Work I love and you two to come home to—what more could I ask?” the older man said, beaming.  With a wave of his hand, he headed out the door.

“Do you want to sketch City Hall this morning?” Jamie asked.  “I’m sure I won’t be able to browse all six thousand volumes at the library in the time it takes you,” he added with a chuckle, “stickler for detail, though you are.”

            “Let’s do that this afternoon,” Adam suggested.  “I have another project in mind for this morning.”

            “Oh?”

            “Surely, it didn’t escape your notice that your father is lunching on cheese, while leaving that ‘bit of beef’ for us?”

            Jamie sighed.  “Of course, I noticed, but I didn’t think it would do any good to argue.”

            “Not a bit,” Adam agreed, “but we are going to make some changes around the Manor, starting this morning.  If I’d stayed in New Haven, I’d have had the expense of eating in restaurants for every meal, and I have no intention of being a sponge on your father’s kindness here.  I told you I wanted to contribute to the coffer, and I think the best way to do that is simply to purchase some provisions this morning.  Your father may protest, but the deed will be done.”

Jamie grinned.  “It’s easier to obtain forgiveness than permission, you mean?”

“Always,” Adam laughed.  “You’re in agreement, then?”

“Yes,” Jamie replied, “so while I do up these dishes, why don’t you explore the supplies on hand?  Then we’ll decide what we need and find a grocery somewhere.  I’m sure the neighbors can direct us, if nothing else.”

The cupboard wasn’t quite bare, as Josiah had prepared for his guests to the best of his ability, but there was ample room for improvement, both boys felt.  While Adam finalized their list of desired supplies, Jamie walked across the hall, introduced himself to the lady of that household and asked her advice on the most economical place to purchase good quality foodstuffs.  Flattered to have her opinion sought, the good woman went on at length, quoting prices and comparing locations where each item could be purchased until Jamie felt as though he were again preparing for term exams.  In fact, memorizing all the rivers, mountains and capitals of the ancient world began to seem like an exercise for lisping toddlers, compared with knowing what each grocer charged for onions, sausage, suet and potatoes.  He finally managed to convince the woman that he’d taken enough of her valuable time and escaped with all the information he could possibly need and a new respect for the occupation of housewife.

“Did you propose?” Adam snorted when his friend finally returned.

“Propose?” a perplexed Jamie asked.

Adam gave him a saucy grin.  “Well, I suppose you haven’t had time to form that close an attachment, but I must presume that the neighboring household contains at least one female of the appropriate age and beauty to distract you this long.”

“She’s older than Father,” Jamie protested, laughing as he added, “and considerably more talkative.”

“Than a teacher?” Adam shook his head.  “That’s hard to believe.”

“Are you ready or not?” Jamie scolded.

“Ready,” Adam replied, “and if we don’t get going, we’ll be hard put to finish in time to visit the library later.”

They made their way from store to store, and Adam’s experience at the old Cartwright-Thomas trading post came in handy, as he instinctively sensed which shopkeepers had priced their goods too high, but would be open to persuasive dickering.  Arms laden, they returned to the Manor at noon, put the things away and prepared some simple sandwiches for themselves.  Adam insisted that they contain both meat and cheese, despite Jamie’s inclination to eat exactly what Josiah had allowed himself.  “We’ll insist that he take a better lunch tomorrow,” Adam promised, “and we’ll volunteer to prepare supper, so he won’t have to waste time or money buying something on the way home.”

“I can’t cook,” Jamie protested.

Adam laughed.  “I can.  Only simple things, of course, but I used to cook for Hoss when Pa was away from the cabin.”

            “Oh, just for Hoss?”  Jamie clucked his tongue, shaking his head chidingly.

            “Well, sometimes it seemed that way,” Adam chuckled.  “It really is cheaper to cook at home, so that will help convince your father that these extra purchases are actually a sensible investment.”

            “And if we can win that debate,” Jamie declared, “Junior Exhibition should hold no further terrors for me.”

            “That’s the attitude!” Adam praised.

As soon as they finished eating, Adam took his sketch pad, and he and Jamie headed toward City Hall.  “I’m going on into the library,” Jamie said.  “Will you be in later or should I select something for you?”

            “Do that,” Adam said.  “I trust your taste, and if I don’t finish in time to come in myself, I’ll be provided for.”

While Jamie climbed the steps to the imposing three-arched entrance, Adam found a spot beneath a towering elm across from City Hall and began to sketch the building.  The windows, he noted, were also arch-shaped, and he wondered if that defined a particular type of architecture.  Mr. Bracebridge often included such information in the notes he sent back with comments on Adam’s drawings.  Adam shaded the brick portion of the building, while leaving the trim white, to represent the sandstone of its construction, and took special pains at sketching the tall bell tower on one side of the building, to him its most interesting feature.

When he’d completed everything except the landscape surrounding City Hall, which he thought he could add from memory, Adam closed his sketch pad and went inside through the center arch.  He found Jamie in the rooms on the first floor that housed the library and approved of the book selected for him.  They looked around a little more and then returned to their lodgings, where Adam filled a pot with beans to soak overnight.  Then he drew a chair into the front room, insisting that Jamie take the more comfortable armchair, but promising to use the latter himself the next day.  “We’ll use it turn-about,” he said, and Jamie agreed that that seemed the fairest plan.  They spent the remainder of the afternoon engrossed in their new books, until Josiah returned, pail of soup in hand.

“What's this?” he asked as soon as he spotted the bean pot.

            “Tomorrow's supper,” Adam said and explained their plan to prepare the evening meals. “We’ve little enough to do, so it’s no burden,” he assured his host, “and it’s good economic sense.”

Josiah nodded.  “I can’t argue with that . . . and I thank you for the offer.”  As soon as he spotted more new supplies on the counter, however, he shook his head in dismay.  “Oh, Adam, you shouldn’t have.”

“It was both of us,” Adam said.

Josiah snorted in disdain.  “With your money.  I know that because I didn’t leave Jamie any, but he should have reined you in.”

            Adam gave him a wry grin.  “I've never been broken to harness, so if it’s blame you’re passing out, then it’s all mine.”

“No, I’ll bear my fair share,” Jamie insisted.

“That you will!” his father decreed.

“Shouldn’t we eat this fine soup before it gets cold?” Adam asked with diplomacy.

“Yes, by all means, sit and eat,” Josiah said.  He fixed both boys with a stern eye.  “But don’t think I’ll be distracted from this discussion!”  As the boys sat at the table, Adam having returned the chair from the front room, Josiah portioned the soup equally into the bowls and sat down to eat.  About half the soup, along with a slice of bread, had been consumed when he returned to the discussion.  “I didn’t ask you here to support me, Adam,” he chided.

“And I didn’t come for a free ride,” Adam said just as firmly.  “Josiah, Jamie and I have one rule at our lodgings in New Haven: share and share alike.  I see no reason whatsoever that the same rule shouldn’t apply here.”

Josiah stared at him a long time and then slowly said, “All right.  I can’t argue with your logic, so I’ll give in gracefully and only ask that you not squander your funds on needless luxury.  I’m used to living simply.”

Too simply, Adam thought, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut.  “Don’t worry,” he assured his former teacher.  “I’m well acquainted with stretching dollars and pinching pennies, as you should remember from our days in St. Joseph.”

            Josiah laughed then.  “You weren’t the one pinching them then.  That was primarily Inger’s talent at work.”

            Adam smiled wistfully at the memory of the first mother he’d ever known.  “Yes, but I watched carefully . . . and learned.”

            Josiah nodded.  “Always the student.  All right, my boy, we’ll put you in charge of household expenses while you’re here.  Make them go as far as you can.”

When they finished the soup, Adam brought out the divinity he and Jamie had purchased from Candy Sam for dessert.  “If this is how you pinch pennies,” Josiah chuckled, "we’ll be bankrupt in a week.”

            “It was an extravagance,” Adam admitted, “one we don’t indulge in often.”

            “Every man should . . . occasionally,” Josiah agreed, “especially when it tastes this good!”

            As they drooled over the candy, Jamie mentioned that he'd seen Springfield Museum of Natural History engraved on a door at City Hall, though he hadn’t been able to investigate since the door had been locked.

            “It’s open to the public Saturday afternoons and evenings,” Josiah told him.  “Just two rooms, but you might find it interesting.”

            “We’ll plan on that, then,” Adam said.  “I wish you could go with us, sir.”

            Josiah shook his head.  “I’m working then, but if you’d like, we could visit Armory Hill together on Sunday.”  Both boys eagerly agreed.

 

* * * * *

 

They stayed close to home the next day, so Adam could keep an eye on the beans.   He kept them simmering all day long while they enjoyed their library books, primarily in the shade of a wide-spreading maple outside their door.  Since he and Jamie would be visiting the museum in the afternoon, he selected a simpler supper for Saturday, and Josiah declared, on both nights, that they were the finest meals he had consumed since he’d been in Springfield.  “That doesn’t say much for the skill of cooks in Springfield,” Adam had joked in response.

The trip to the museum had been interesting, although it hadn’t taken long to peruse the two rooms at City Hall allotted for it.  The library at Yale probably housed more and rarer exhibits.  Still, with two hundred fifty species of birds and nine hundred of seashells featured, as well as lesser amounts of reptiles, quadrupeds, minerals and Indian antiquities, there was plenty to occupy a pleasant afternoon, and both Jamie and Adam agreed that they’d like to visit it again before their vacation ended.

The sky was overcast as Adam and his friends walked to church Sunday morning, but by the time they exited after the service, the sun was shining in its glory.  They’d brought a picnic lunch with them, so they walked straight from church to Armory Hill, the highest point in the city and enjoyed the panorama while eating their meat-and-cheese sandwiches and munching cookies picked up at a local bakery the day before.

Taking them, by special permission, into areas from which the public was generally excluded, Josiah led them on a tour of the Arsenal itself.  Jamie commented that the stacks of standing rifles, one above another, almost gave the appearance of a pipe organ. Adam nodded, although the idea seemed overly poetic to him.  There was a military rigidity about the place that seemed alien to music, but he admitted with an inner smile that music, at least some forms of it, resounded with militaristic flavor.  As they walked through the Arsenal, he couldn’t help feeling as if his every move were being scrutinized.  It probably was, he conceded.  You didn’t just let people roam around unwatched with this many tempting firearms at arm’s reach.  Adam himself could barely resist the urge to pick one up and test its balance, and he could only dream of one day owning a rifle as worthy as one of these.  If he hadn’t been raised with Ben Cartwright’s values, he might well have grabbed one and run, given the chance.  They ended with a climb up to the tower for an even better view of the city of Springfield.

The remainder of the boys’ vacation fell into a quiet and restful routine. While Josiah prepared breakfast each morning, Jamie put together a sandwich for his father’s lunch, as well as one each for himself and Adam; and Adam planned the evening meal, determining whether any extra items, such as fresh meat or produce, needed to be purchased that day.  After Josiah left, the two boys quickly washed up the breakfast dishes and put the rooms to rights and then set out on whatever adventure they’d chosen for the day.  It might be a visit to a local park, taking their sandwiches with them, or a trip to the library, if they needed new books, or just a brisk jaunt along the quiet streets of Springfield, where the trees and gardens budded with signs of spring.

After lunch, Jamie often remained at the Manor, reading, or took on the responsibility of doing the shopping, while Adam spent almost every afternoon sketching some attractive public building or residence.  He returned early enough to cook whatever he’d selected for supper, while Jamie assisted and tried to learn all he could.   He, regretfully, wouldn’t have Adam’s help that summer, and he wanted to be able to provide for his father with equal satisfaction, having been thoroughly convinced that Adam’s management and cooking skills had, as promised, produced meals that were both better and more economical than those at any local boardinghouse or restaurant.  The final week of their stay in Springfield, Adam had Jamie take over the responsibilities of cooking, while he assisted and offered help whenever needed.  By the end of the week, he told Jamie that he had now matriculated as a cook and was well prepared for his summer duties.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

For the Betterment of the House

 

 

Adam all but jumped from the train before it rolled to a stop.  Eagerly scanning the platform outside the depot, he actually did jump when he heard someone call, “Over here, Adam!”  He spun around and his face fell.  Only then did he realize that the voice had been male.

            “Well, that’s a fine reward for coming out to meet you,” Lucas scolded.  “If you’re that disappointed to see me, perhaps I should just show you my heels.”

            “No, I’m sorry,” Adam said, hurrying forward to greet his friend.  “I was just . . . well . . . thinking you might have been someone . . . different.”

            Lucas laughed.  “Someone in lavender and lace, I presume?  Where’s St. James?”

            “Here,” Jamie called, struggling toward them, lugging both his and Adam’s carpetbag.

            “Oh, sorry,” Adam said, taking his at once.  “I forgot it.”

            “Besotted,” Lucas sighed with a roll of his eyes.  “Has he been pining like this the whole month you’ve been away?”

            “No,” Adam growled.

            “Testy, isn’t he?” Lucas asked.

            “Not until now,” Jamie said.  “It must be your agreeable countenance that brings it out.”  He turned to Adam.  “You were expecting her to meet you?”

            “Well . . . I suppose,” Adam admitted.  He hadn’t been as faithful to write Elizabeth as he had intended, but they’d led such a quiet life in Springfield that he’d been hard put to find things to say, other than how much he missed her.  Still, he’d written several times, the last letter telling her when he expected to arrive, and judging by her behavior when she saw him off, he had thought that she’d be as eager to see him as he to see her.  Evidently not, he ruefully concluded.

            “Never mind, old chum,” Lucas said.  “Her loss, not seeing you in your finery.”

            “Looking quite spiffy yourself,” Adam said.  All three freshmen now sported plugs and bangers.  Lucas had told them that it was traditional to don that attire, normally worn by the sophomores, after completing second term exams, so Jamie and Adam had purchased both cane and top hat in Springfield a day or two before leaving.  An extravagance, to be sure, but one necessary to uphold one’s pride in the accomplishment.

            “Thanks,” Lucas said, spinning around to show off.  “Come and have a bite at Mory’s and forget that foolish girl for a while.”

            “Oh, that sounds good,” Jamie declared, “and I think we can manage the price, right, Adam?”

            Adam nodded and then chuckled.  “Maybe if I have another taste of the real thing, I can do a better job of replicating it.”

            “Adam made Golden Buck for us in Springfield,” Jamie told Lucas.

            “You cook, too, spoopsey?” Lucas twitted.  “There is absolutely no end to your talent, is there?”

            “Isn’t Marcus in yet?” Jamie inquired when Adam had jerked Luke’s new top hat down over his nose in retribution.

            “He’s here,” Lucas reported, righting his hat, “but he’s got a beastly head cold, so he decided to make an early night of it.”

            “Too bad,” Adam said.  He threw an arm around Luke’s shoulders.  “Now, come along and tell us all about your holiday.”  He hooked elbows with Jamie on the other side, and the three headed toward Wooster Street.

 

* * * * *

 

            At Jamie’s insistence they stopped by the post office before heading home to George Street.  Having just come from Springfield, he knew there’d be no mail for him, but he insisted that there were surely letters waiting from the Ponderosa.  Feeling guilty after the way he’d neglected his family and friends back in Nevada, Adam almost hoped he was wrong, but there were actually two letters, one from Pa and a second, surprisingly, from Billy Thomas.  Curiosity aroused by that unheard of event, he opened Billy’s letter as soon as they returned to their lodgings.  Scanning the first few lines, he gasped as he sank down on the bed.  “Billy’s married,” he told his roommate.

            Jamie paused from his unpacking.  “Oh?  He must have found work, then.”

            “What?”  Adam looked up, eyes still dazed.

            “The last I recall, you were concerned about what he’d do when the Pony Express closed down,” Jamie explained.  “Surely, he wouldn’t take a wife unless he could support her, so he must have found work.”

            “Yeah, I guess he must,” Adam agreed.  “He doesn’t say anything about that, though.  Doesn’t say much, really, except that he’s married and hopes I’ll wish them well.”  He chuckled.  “I do, of course.  I just never thought . . .”

            “That he’d settle down?”

            Adam shrugged.  “Not this soon . . . and not with her.”  He grinned.  “Don’t know why it should surprise me, though.  Now that I think of it, they’re perfect for each other.”  Realizing that Jamie didn’t know what he was talking about, he added, “It’s Marta, a girl from the wagon train we came west on.  We were all friends, of course, but I thought that was all.  She’s a sweet girl, with just the right amount of spunk to handle Billy.  I’m glad he had sense enough to pick someone like her.”

            “Jealous?” Jamie teased as he hung a shirt in their shared wardrobe.

            “Of Marta?  No,” Adam chuckled.  “To me, she was always just a friend.”

            Jamie turned and grinned at him.  “I meant of the notion of marriage.  Don’t let them give you any ideas.  It’s hard enough to keep you fixed on your studies when darling Elizabeth is in the same town.  The same house would be impossible.”

            Adam snatched the pillow from behind him and aimed it perfectly at Jamie’s head.

            Jamie ducked just in time.  “What does your father write?” he asked.

            “Probably the same news,” Adam said, breaking the seal of his second letter.  He was right, but his father’s letter went into more detail, describing the ceremony, which had taken place at the Ponderosa.  “Odd they’d travel there from Placerville,” he mused.  “Aren’t weddings usually held in the bride’s hometown . . . when they’re not from the same locale, I mean.”

            Jamie held up his hands, palms out.  “I have no experience with weddings.  Your father doesn’t explain?”

            Adam shook his head.  “No, just tells what it was like, who was there, that sort of thing . . . and . . . he says they’re expecting a baby in September.”

            Jamie’s brow wrinkled.  “When did you say they married?”

            “Apparently around the middle of March.”  Doing a quick calculation, Adam whistled.  “Well, that might explain why it happened so suddenly.”

            “It happens,” Jamie said sympathetically.

            “Yeah.”  Adam folded the letter and set it aside.  His father had been discreet, giving only the facts and passing no judgment, but with only six months between the marriage and the anticipated birth, it wasn’t likely that Billy and Marta could pass the baby off as premature.  Others would judge, perhaps harshly, and he wished he could be there to give his friends the support they were likely to need.

 

* * * * *

 

            From his place in the choir loft, Adam had a perfect view of all the students rushing into chapel at the last minute.  Apparently reluctant to return to duty after their vacation, the students lagged in more slowly than usual, and the hall was noisier, too, as greetings were exchanged by friends who hadn’t seen one another for an entire month.  The freshmen strutted down the aisles at a snail’s pace, preening like peacocks in their new plugs and bangers, while the upperclassmen pointedly ignored them.  Adam was happy to be back and looking forward to whatever challenges the new term held in both class work and extracurricular activities.

            President Woolsey welcomed them and expressed the hope that they felt refreshed and ready to renew their educational pursuits.  Just before beginning his brief sermon, he advised the freshmen that, in lieu of their regular recitation, they should meet in Alumni Hall at noon.  Adam was disappointed, for that meant he’d miss his mathematics recitation today, and he’d been looking forward to beginning his study of the mysterious spherics listed in the catalog.

            It was unusual for the entire freshman class to meet together for a recitation.  They filed in and took their seats at the small octagonal desks where they’d sweated through their entrance exams.  Adam remembered how nervous he’d been that day, how fearful that he’d be taking the next train out of New Haven, a complete failure.   Now he sat here completely at ease, eager to experience the next step of his education.  At first, he was surprised to see Professor Thacher enter, for he’d already had his Latin recitation for the day.  Then he remembered another pertinent line from the catalog, and it made sense.

            A few groans met Thomas Thacher’s remark that they would be meeting with him every Wednesday at this time for Extempore Latin Composition.  “Now, young gentlemen, how will you ever compose your salutatory address if you do not hone your skills in writing Latin?”  He smiled wryly.  “Or did you all presume you would be the valedictorian and, thus, be able to share your fathomless wisdom in English?”

            “Neither one, sir,” Lucas called out.

            “You're an honest man, at least, Mr. Cameron,” the professor said.  Clearing his throat, he added, “As well as a reliable prognosticator of your academic standing.”

            The other freshmen laughed.  All of them liked Lucas, but by this time every man had a general idea of the others’ stand in the class, and they all knew that he ranked closer to the bottom than the top.  There were still three years to go until their commencement, but most of them would have laid odds that the valedictorian would be either James Brand, Jamie Edwards or Adam Cartwright.

            Following dinner at the Vultures’ Nest, Adam and Jamie stopped by 34 South Middle to purchase their new textbooks, which included a Greek New Testament, the odes of Horace and, of greatest interest to Adam, An Elementary Treatise of Spherical Geometry and Trigonometry by Anthony Stanley, a former professor of mathematics at Yale.  Back in their room, Jamie took one look at it and groaned audibly.  “It’s worse than ancient geography,” he complained.  “At least, I knew what mountains and rivers were.”

            Adam shrugged.  “You know what spheres are, too, and I’m sure by the end of term all these definitions will make sense, as well.”

            “If you say so,” Jamie said, sounding unconvinced.

            “We’ll figure it out,” Adam promised.

            “You’ll figure it out,” Jamie predicted.

            “And drum it into you,” Adam tossed back with a chuckle.  “Fair exchange for your help with those Greek classes I’ll miss.”

            Jamie smiled then.  “Fair enough, although I expect you’ll have the harder task, drumming the mysteries of mathematics into me.”

            Unveiling those mysteries had to await the morrow, however, for that night was the term’s first meeting of the Brothers in Unity, which included an announcement of interest to the freshmen.

            “You’ll try, won’t you, Adam?” Lucas suggested as they left the hall after the meeting.

            “It would be nice to win a prize,” Adam acknowledged dreamily.  “Even third place would give me some badly needed pocket money.”

            “Hear, hear,” Jamie agreed heartily.

            Adam gave him a cunning smile.  “So, you’ll be debating, too.”

            “Against you?”  Jamie shivered.  “Certainly not.”

            “Oh, yes, you will!” Adam insisted.  “There are three prizes, remember?  By entering, you double our chances of taking one home . . . for the betterment of the house.”

            “Ah!”  Jamie nodded soberly, recognizing the reference to their share-and-share alike policy.  “Well . . . for the betterment of the house, I suppose I must.”  He looked first at Lucas and then Marcus.  “I think we all should enter.”

            “Oh, no, not me,” Marcus protested.  “I’m no speaker.”

            Lucas threw an arm around the slighter boy’s shoulders.  “That’s just it, Marc, my boy.  They want competitors they’re certain to defeat!”

            “It’s not that at all!” Jamie declared huffily.

            “Certainly not,” Adam echoed.  “Win or lose, it’s good experience for all of us.  So, what do you say?”

            Lucas only laughed and said that he didn’t need money that badly, and while Marcus wavered, he finally decided that he wanted his first public speech to be in front of a smaller group.  So, at the next meeting of the Brothers in Unity, only Adam and Jamie would declare their intention to debate and have their names registered on the list of prize candidates.

 

* * * * *

 

            The first week back gave evidence that the third term would be the busiest yet for the freshmen of Yale.  Thursday brought their first introduction to spherical geometry, and while the text began simply enough, even Adam had to admit that this new subject, quite different from the plane geometry he’d studied before, would require study.  To him, however, it was fascinating, as all mathematics were.  Friday, of course, brought his first session with Louis Bail in architectural drawing.  Having consulted the instructor earlier, he had purchased and given a brief glance at the required textbook.  Like the geometry text, it began with definitions that were mostly familiar to him.  In fact, some of them went hand in glove with those he was memorizing for his class in spherical geometry.

            Confident he would have no problem keeping up, Adam entered the classroom for his third recitation Friday, only to discover that, if anything, the scientific students were even more proficient with mathematics than he.  Not an easy ride, then.  Good.  He preferred a challenge, and it appeared that third term would present him with plenty.  He’d barely taken a breath before yet another new subject faced him at the noon recitation on Saturday.

            “Who do you suppose will teach it?” Marcus asked as he, Lucas, Jamie and Adam hurried toward Alumni Hall again.

            “That is a question,” Jamie said.  “It should have been Professor Larned, but with him gone . . . well, I don’t know.  Who else knows rhetoric?”

            “All of them,” Adam snorted, “especially the preachers.  It’s probably a question of who had the lightest schedule.”

            “I wish it could be Old Had,” Marcus put in dreamily.

            The others hooted, knowing their luck couldn’t stretch that far.

            “It’ll be a tutor,” Lucas moaned.  “The professors are all loaded already.”

            “And ready to fire?” Adam snickered.

            “Just hand me a blindfold,” Lucas advised.

            They scurried up the steps and again found their places at the octagonal desks.  A swarthy man with a full black beard entered at noon, straight up, and introduced himself as the Reverend William Hutchison.  He spoke energetically as he described the material they would cover in their weekly meeting.  “I will give lectures on the structure of language, beginning today, and you will, of course, respond with recitation and occasionally through compositions.”  A low rumble of moans met the announcement of compositions.  “None of that,” the teacher said crisply.  “What you will learn in these lectures is how language performs its function of communication, and I assure you, young gentlemen, that that understanding will enhance all your future efforts at Yale.”

            “He is a tutor,” Lucas advised his friends as they headed for the Vultures’ Nest after class, “but he seems to know his stuff.”

            “I liked him,” Adam replied, “especially his vigor.  I thought rhetoric might be a rather dry subject, but I don’t think we’ll be tempted to fall asleep during his lectures!”        “And he’s right about it helping us with all our other work,” Jamie inserted.

            “Especially yours, preacher boy,” Lucas declared, knocking off Jamie’s hat with a sweep of his banger.  Jamie scooped it up, brushed it off and chased after Lucas, flourishing his own cane.

            “You’re supposed to turn the other. . . .”  Luke’s voice faded as he rounded a corner with Jamie at his heels.

            Adam grinned at Marcus.  “Apparently, the Scripture says nothing about giving a

rowdy fellow another go at your chapeau.”

            “It says nothing about giving them first go at the table, either,” Marcus laughed back.  “Come on!”  He and Adam took off after the others and managed to catch up with them, just as they reached their eating hall.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam had intended to see Elizabeth on Saturday afternoon, but with all the new courses, each with its separate preparation, he felt he couldn’t spare the time that first weekend.  Since Saturday always meant a meeting of Sigma Epsilon in the evening, he had only the afternoon to read all his assignments, as well as beginning his first composition for Wednesday’s special class.  He reasoned that if he finished all his work, he’d then be able to devote Sunday afternoon to her.

            By the time he left for the Sigma Ep meeting, he was fully prepared for Monday’s recitations and had a good start on his Latin composition, but as he walked with his mates toward the mission the next afternoon, he found himself of two minds.  He wasn’t sure whether to be irked with himself for not making time for Elizabeth the day before or put out with her for neglecting to meet his train on the one day this week that they might have shared a welcome-home kiss, something that certainly couldn’t happen at the mission, under the gaze of their young pupils.  Yes, she’d certainly robbed him of his romantic rights, he concluded as he entered.

            When he approached the area where the two of them taught together, however, Elizabeth looked up at him with a bright smile, and his heart was lost once again.  She was flawless, and he was definitely to blame for any deprivation of romantic rights, his or hers.

            “Oh, Adam, how good to see you again,” she said enthusiastically.  “We’ve missed him these last few weeks, haven’t we, children?”

            “Yes, Miss Allen,” the students dutifully replied.

            “I looked for you at the station,” Adam said, striving and not completely succeeding at keeping a chiding tone from his voice.

            She frowned for a moment.  “I was . . . occupied,” she said curtly.

            “Of course.”  He hoped for a fuller explanation later, but understood her reluctance to say more in front of the eager-eared children.  As he walked her home, however, he found that he was the one busily explaining his behavior, when she pouted about how infrequently she’d heard from him during his vacation.  “I tried,” he said.

            She harrumphed.  “I didn’t realize that writing to me required such effort.”

            “It didn’t require undue effort,” he protested.

            “Oh?  Just undue time,” she scoffed.

            “No, not that, either,” he sputtered.  “There . . . there just wasn’t much to say.  I mean, we lived so simply, so quietly that I had little news to share.”

            “Oh, Adam, you silly boy,” she tittered with a shake of her pretty head.  “It wasn’t news I craved . . . just hearing from you . . . whatever you said.”  She veiled her eyes as she added, “I thought . . . you’d lost interest.”

            “No,” he assured her.  “I’m so sorry if my negligence left you with that impression.  I was looking forward to seeing you . . . and then, when you didn't meet the train, I . . . well, I assumed the worst, too, I fear.”

            “Did you really want to see me that much?” she asked, stopping at the corner of the street where she lived.

            “To see you . . . and to taste the sweet honey of your lips,” he whispered.

            “You’re very bold, sir,” she said, tilting her head and gazing up at him from the corner of her eye.

He grinned.  “I learned that from a certain bold young lady, who saw me off at the depot.”

            “I feel quite helpless in the grip of such a bold young rogue,” she said, lifting her chin and puckering her mouth in open invitation.  He, of course, accepted immediately, holding her close and pressing his lips to hers.  So satisfying was the honey of which he drank that he forgot until he had left her at her door that she never had told him what urgent occupation kept her from meeting his train.

 

* * * * *

 

            The meeting hall was rowdy, as usual, when Adam, Jamie, Lucas and Marcus entered and found seats as near the front of the room as possible.  Though their own prize debate would take place tomorrow, both Adam and Jamie felt that watching the men of Linonia in competition would enhance their chances of doing well.  Though the questions under consideration were different, they’d have the opportunity to evaluate what sort of approach was favored by the judges.  “Although it’ll be a completely different set tomorrow,” Jamie reminded his friends.

            “Good rhetoric is good rhetoric, whoever judges,” Adam asserted.  Though he’d had only two sessions with the Reverend Hutchison, that class at noon on Saturdays was the one he most looked forward to each week, for the man quickly becoming known as “Old Hutch” was a master teacher.  Mathematics remained a favorite study, of course, but he had twice as many opportunities to enjoy it.

            A dozen candidates argued the question: would it be good policy for the United States to undertake to control the political movements of this continent?  Two-thirds of them came from the same division as Adam, Jamie and Lucas, so they knew those men well and made wagers, to be paid in pieces of Candy Sam’s divinity, on which would win.  None correctly picked J. A. Bent as the winner, although Adam insisted that he should get at least one piece of divinity, since his choice, James Brand, had tied for second.  Predictably, no one agreed with that piece of logic.

            The main thing both Adam and Jamie gleaned from watching the other open society’s debate was the acknowledgement that the competition would be stiff.  They, too, were arguing a political question: is the course which England had pursued toward the United States, during our present war, justifiable?  They had to present both sides of the question, of course, and they did not have the usual advantage of being able to discuss their arguments with one another.  Since they were competing against each other, as well as nine other freshmen from the Brothers in Unity, they needed to keep their thinking completely independent.  Both had haunted the library between classes, consulting newspapers for accounts of the Mason and Slidell incident, as well as classic references for precedents to cite.

            Adam thought he had compiled compelling arguments, but as he sat on the platform, awaiting his turn to speak, every one of them began to seem specious.  Wiping his sweating palms on his trouser legs, he wondered why he had ever presumed to set himself up against these other scholars, all of whom, with the exception of Jamie, had had the benefit of an eastern preparatory school.  He was certain they had all participated in debates numerous times to his . . . well, none, unless you counted arguments with Little Joe or Hoss.   Those weren’t particularly good preparation, since Hoss was so congenial that he generally agreed with his older brother, anyway, while the stubborn little four-year-old apparently thought it his mission in life to challenge anything he was ever told.

            To date, the largest group Adam had ever spoken before was Sigma Epsilon, and that didn’t even comprise the entire freshman class. The room here was packed, not only with most of his fellow freshmen, but upperclassmen and faculty, as well, and, most importantly, the three judges.  It would be a slaughter.  Why had he not realized that before putting himself to public shame?  Why had—suddenly he heard himself announced as the next speaker and lurched to his feet.

            The speaker’s podium seemed to have developed a haze, and as he walked what felt like a mile to get to it, he was certain that he was about to faint dead away.  Only the vision of what a ridiculous spectacle he’d make, spread-eagled on the floor, kept him upright.  Reaching the podium, he clutched its sides, like a drowning man a floating spar after a shipwreck.  Ignoring the roaring in his ears, he cleared his throat and wondered why it suddenly felt so dry, as he stared at the sea of faces.  Finally, his voice just above a whisper, he spoke the first words of his carefully prepared speech.  Having something to hold onto seemed to steady him, and his confidence gradually grew until he finished the final few paragraphs with the vigor he’d planned to exhibit throughout his debate.

            To the  roar of thunderous applause, which he was certain was in celebration that he’d finished tormenting them, Adam collapsed into his chair, but he could scarcely relax.  Since the candidates were being taken in alphabetical order, that meant that Jamie was up next.  Though Adam wouldn’t have thought it possible, his friend’s face looked pastier than his own had felt and his hands visibly shook.  While Adam’s voice had started soft, Jamie’s was barely audible, and unlike Adam’s, its volume didn’t increase much as he plowed through what was probably a good speech, if anyone could have heard it.  The two friends exchanged a look of commiseration as Jamie finished and sat down; the look clearly said that country boys didn’t stand a chance against the honed skills of eastern men.

            Having given up on his own chances, Adam relaxed and enjoyed the final few speakers.  One of them, a fellow he didn’t know well because he was in a different division, seemed head and shoulders above the other speakers, in Adam’s opinion. When Allen Mclean took first prize, Adam nodded with satisfaction in having that opinion confirmed, but he nearly fell out of his chair when the winner of the second prize was announced: “Adam Cartwright.”  Pure astonishment on his face, he stood and stumbled forward to accept the ten-dollar prize.

            He was still in a daze as he left Alumni Hall to the loud cheers of fellow freshmen that he passed.  “Oh, no,” he protested when, on the building’s steps, he felt himself hoisted aloft and carried down and across the campus in triumph, but no one paid him the slightest attention, any more than the other winners, suffering similar exuberant congratulations.  The three victors were finally deposited on the lawn before the chapel and with three hearty hip-hip-hurrahs the freshmen dispersed, for tomorrow was another full day of classes.

            “Well, at least, you did your part for the betterment of the house,” Jamie observed as they walked home.  “I’m sorry I failed to do mine.”

            “You did your part, just by trying,” Adam assured him.  “Your reasoning was sound, but . . . well, rather quietly stated.”

            Jamie laughed.  “You couldn’t hear it, you mean.  My throat was so dry I’m surprised anything came out.”

            “Mine, too,” Adam admitted, “and my biggest surprise was that anyone heard me over the knocking of my knees!”

            “It’s a good beginning, though,” Jamie said, “and sure to be the forerunner of many future successes . . . at least for you.”

            “For you, as well,” Adam insisted.  “It only takes experience to get over those troublesome nerves, so”—he drew out the word—“we’ll have to see to it that you enter every competition and volunteer for every speaking opportunity.”

            “And you’ll pay the funeral expenses out of your prize money?” Jamie suggested.

            Adam flourished his banger with the finesse of a swordfighter.  “Any more of that sort of talk, young fellow, and I shall knock that plug from your hapless head!”

            Jamie held onto his top hat with both hands and took a step away from Adam, who merely laughed, reached out a long arm, drew his friend back and locked elbows with him the rest of the way home.

 

* * * * *

 

            The next day Adam found that, overnight, he had become one of the best known freshmen on campus.  The Vultures all applauded him at breakfast, and as he moved from class to class throughout the day, even upperclassmen—Demmings for one—stopped to congratulate him on his performance.  His moment of highest satisfaction, however, came at the end of the noon recitation on Saturday, when the Reverend Hutchison requested that he remain after class.  Wondering at first if he’d made some egregious error in recitation, Adam found himself flushing at the tutor’s praise of his rhetorical style in the open society debate.  “Had not your nerves overcome you early on,” Hutchison said, “I am confident that you would have taken first prize.”

            “Mr. Mclean was a formidable opponent,” Adam replied with as much honesty as modesty.

            Hutchison smiled.  “He did very well, but I found your arguments more convincing, Mr. Cartwright.  You have the makings of a fine public speaker.”

            Adam hadn’t known how to respond to that, except to say thank you.  He wanted to do well in all he attempted, of course, but he doubted that he’d have many speaking opportunities once he left college.  Architecture was a field where what a man did with his hands counted more than whatever he might say, and that was even more true of ranching.  As he walked out, he imagined himself talking a recalcitrant steer into a holding pen, and he was laughing aloud when he joined his friends, who had waited outside for him.

            “Old Hutch can scarcely have eaten him alive,” Lucas opined, “if this is his reaction.”

            “I was thinking about rhetoric . . . and cattle,” Adam stated, relishing the bewildered looks that greeted that remark.

            “He’s officially taken leave of his senses,” Marcus suggested, “and without the excuse of a girl this time.”

            “Probably from breathing the rarified air at the top of the mountain of academic achievement,” Jamie put in solemnly.

            Lucas groaned.  “Anyone that verbose has obviously been breathing the same air.”  He leaned toward Marcus.  “Do you suppose either of them would be interested in anything as humble as dinner?”

            “If you think otherwise, you’re the one who’s taken leave of his senses,” Adam snorted.  “Come on, before those voracious sophomores take more than their share!”

 

* * * * *

 

            One final surprise brought Adam’s adventure in rhetoric to a fitting close, when he discovered that the planned program of Sigma Epsilon that night had been canceled in favor of a peanut bum in honor of the triumphant scholar of the house.  After much munching and even more backslapping, he walked home, feeling unabashedly glad that he’d taken the challenge of the freshman prize debate.  Not only had he gained financially, but in his standing among his peers and the esteem of those who would judge his academic efforts for terms to come.

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

The Mason and Slidell Affair, which Adam studied in preparation for his debate, was an international diplomatic incident that occurred late in 1861.  When the North removed two Confederate envoys to Great Britain and France from a British ship, the threat of war with Britain loomed for seven weeks.  Though Mason and Slidell were ultimately released and continued on their journey, they were unable to secure the diplomatic recognition and aid they had sought for the Confederacy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Young Love

 

 

            Adam could barely wait for the next afternoon, so that he could share his triumph with Elizabeth.  As he walked her home after their work at the mission, however, her response to his achievement seemed tepid.  “I suppose it isn’t any great accomplishment,” he said.  “I only came in second.”

            She smiled at him.  “I’m sure you’ll do better next time, Adam.  There’s certainly no shame in coming in second.”  She twirled the drawstrings of her reticule around her fingers.  “I can’t help wishing you had been first, though . . . for the sake of the prize money.”

            “Well . . . yes,” Adam said slowly, not certain why she was bringing up finances.  “Twenty-five dollars does stretch further than ten, but Jamie and I can certainly put ten to good use.”

            “Jamie,” she hissed.  “What does it have to do with him?  He didn’t place at all, you said.”

            His brow furrowed as he strained to determine what was disturbing her.  “We share everything.”

            “Well, forgive my selfishness,” she sputtered, cheeks reddening, “but I had hoped you might share some things with me!”

            He stopped abruptly, staring at her.  “Do you need money, Elizabeth?” he asked.  Having seen the quality of her home, he couldn’t imagine that she had need of anything. It wasn’t a mansion, of course, but neither did it display the austerity of genteel poverty.  “If you do,” he began slowly.

            Elizabeth laughed sharply and without mirth.  “Don't be ridiculous, Adam,” she scoffed.  “As I said, it’s probably selfish of me, but I had hoped that we might do something together.”  She stared steadfastly into his face.  “Something a little more exciting than a walk home from the mission.  Ever since the skating pond thawed, we haven’t done anything else!”

            “I-I’m sorry," Adam stammered.  “I haven’t really known what else we could do.”

            She faced him, arms akimbo. “Dinner, a night at the theater, a concert,” she suggested.  “I understood that you didn’t have money to spend on such things before, but I had hoped . . . with the prize money. . .”  She bit her lip.  “Never mind.  I shouldn’t have said anything.”

            “Of course, you should have,” Adam insisted.  “Elizabeth, I want you to feel free to say anything to me.  I am sorry that I haven’t been able to escort you to that sort of event.”  He hesitated.  “I suppose I could use the prize money for that, but it really isn’t fair.”

            “To Jamie,” she snorted, the expression no more attractive on her than on a bull back in Nevada.

            “Yes, to Jamie,” he said tersely.  “That’s the reason we both competed, Elizabeth, to add to our joint till for college expenses.  Frankly, I’ve spent more than he already, because of the extra text and supplies I needed for my architectural drawing class.”  He had, of course, paid for those from his own funds, but the expenditures had left him less able to help with others that they shared.

            “You didn’t need to take that,” she complained.  “It takes up all your time.”

            He took her hand and gently stroked it.  “It’s not just that,” he explained.  “I have two other new classes, as well, this term, and keeping up has been a challenge.  I’m beginning to get a grip on things, though, so I hope that we can share some Saturday afternoons together.”  He lifted her hand and brushed his lips across her fingertips.  “It will have to be simple things,” he said, “but surely it’s each other’s company that we want, regardless of what we do.”

            “Of . . . course,” she said.  She drew her hand back and gazed demurely at the ground.  “What sort of ‘simple things’ did you have in mind, Adam?”

            Adam had, of course, not had anything at all in mind, so he scrambled to come up with some idea that might please her.  “Well, we could walk up to East Rock,” he said tentatively.  Seeing her frown, he added hastily, “Or West Rock.”  The frown deepened.   “Or . . . or”—suddenly, he brightened—“the championship flag race!”

            She looked up, eyes sparking with interest.  “Flag race?”

            He took a breath and talked fast.  “Yes, on Saturday.  The college boat clubs will be racing down at the harbor.  We could watch them together . . . perhaps share a picnic lunch . . . or have a light bite elsewhere later, if you prefer.”

            “That sounds . . . charming,” she said with a smile, “and I’d be happy to bring a picnic lunch.”

            “That sounds . . . delightful,” he said, his head bending over her.  His lips hovered for a second-long eternity and then gently touched her own.

 

* * * * *

 

            Saturday dawned bright and clear, a perfect day for sailing.  As much as Adam normally looked forward to his rhetoric recitation, today he longed for its end, giving him more in common with the rest of the class.  When the Reverend Hutchison dismissed them, all the freshmen raced down the steps, most off for a quick dinner at their various eating clubs.  Since Elizabeth was bringing their lunch, Adam hurried to meet her.  Citing the need to save time, she had suggested meeting him on the Green, so they were soon together.

            “Do you want to eat here,” Adam asked, “or go on down to the harbor and get a good place?”

            “Let’s do that,” the girl said, adding with a twinkle in her eye, “unless the aroma of my fried chicken is so tantalizing that you simply cannot wait that long.”

            Adam chuckled.  “It will be hard, as I can assure you that rhetoric recitation always gives me an appetite.”

            “Because it always comes directly before dinner!” she laughed.  “For that foolishness, sir, and for refusing to say that it was my chicken that tempted you, you certainly shall wait!”

            He took the hamper in one hand and her hand in his other.  Swinging it forward and back between them, he guided her toward the harbor, as happy and carefree as if they were grammar-school sweethearts on their first date.  But for his freshman dignity, he’d probably have started skipping through the streets.  Reaching the site of the flag race, they found a few other spectators had already arrived, and after a quick consultation on the best spot, they staked out their ground with a spread blanket.

            “Oh, isn’t it a perfectly lovely day?” Elizabeth enthused as she opened the hamper and began to lay out the riches of its depths.

            “Almost as lovely as you,” Adam offered smoothly.

            She tittered.  “Flatterer.  It won’t win you a single extra wing from this bird.”

            He leaned close. “I'd rather have something sweeter . . . from another bird entirely.”

            She drew back demurely.  “If you don’t behave more circumspectly, sir, you’ll get nothing from any passing birdie.”

            He laughed and eased back on one elbow.  “It wasn’t passing birdies I was interested in, either, but I’ll behave.”  He lowered his voice and added, “For now,” in a sensuous whisper.

            She placed a chicken breast on a dish she’d brought from home and dished out a mound of potato salad and another of pickled cucumbers and onions beside it.  “That’s for now,” she said.

            He leaned dangerously close to her lips.  “And for later?”

            She laughed.  “Cherry pie . . . if you behave.”

            He took the plate, but waited until she’d served herself before beginning to eat “It’s delicious,” he said after the first bite.  “I see we must add cooking to your many fine attributes.”

            “And flattery is obviously the finest of yours,” she replied with a slightly rebuking shake of her head.  “You’ll have to hold it in check if we hope to finish dinner by the time the race starts.”

            “What race?” Adam asked with a deliberately dreamy grin.

            Elizabeth waved a threatening drumstick at his nose.  “The one you’ll be running if you keep this up,” she declared with a flounce of her curls.

            “I think I’d rather watch the boats . . . and you . . . watching the boats,” he said, dutifully biting into the chicken.  Though he politely kept his mouth closed as he chewed, his eyes still twinkled with unexpressed mischief.

            When they finished, he helped her stow away the dishes and remaining food; then they settled back on the blanket, glasses of tea in hand.  “The water’s very smooth,” Adam observed.

            “What?”  Elizabeth pulled her attention back to him.  “Oh, the water.”

            He laughed.  “Apparently, you were looking at something else.”

            She blushed prettily.  “Yes, I was looking at the boats.”

            He wagged a chiding finger beneath her nose.  “Not to mention those muscular young men sitting at the oars.”

            Seeing that he was teasing, she giggled.  “They do look attractive and—well, yes—muscular.”  It was an understatement.  The men of the Yale navy were wearing tight pants, one team in blue and the other in white, that left little to the imagination, while their sleeveless undershirts left nothing at all.  “I imagine you’d outshine them all,” she added with a smile.

            It was Adam’s turn to blush.  “I'm somewhat out of shape,” he said.  “Not enough exercise.”  With the extra workload this term, he was frequenting the gymnasium less often.

            “You should go out for the navy, then,” she suggested.  Her cheeks reddened again.  “For the exercise, I mean.”

            It wasn’t what she meant at all and Adam knew it.  She was clearly dreaming of seeing his muscles bulge in a sleeveless undershirt and tight pants.  Much as he’d like to oblige her, he didn’t have the funds for that sort of extracurricular activity, nor the time for it, either.  “Perhaps next year,” he said, thinking of the funds he might set aside from his summer job, “although it would take time away from you.”

            She frowned thoughtfully and deftly changed the subject.  “The water’s smoothness, that makes it good for racing, doesn’t it?”

            “For rowing, yes,” Adam replied.  “It should mean a good steady pull, with the stronger team winning.”  He pointed out over the water.  “They’re getting into position now.  It looks as though Varuna has drawn the outside lane.”

            “The ones in blue?”  At his nod she asked, “Is that your favored team?”

            He shrugged.  “It doesn’t matter to me.”  He turned to smile at her.  “I’m not nearly as interested in the race as in the company watching it with me.”

            “You’re sweet,” she said.  “This is exciting, though—a real college competition.”

            The start was signaled, and Varuna quickly leaped into the lead, pulling steadily toward the turning point.  “I guess it won’t be much of a race,” Elizabeth sighed.  “Varuna is so far ahead of . . . what’s the other team?”

            “Nixie,” Adam replied.  “Don’t give up on them yet, though.  Their long, steady strokes may yet win the day.”  For a short while his words seemed prophetic, but for no apparent reason the Nixie began to fall behind again.  By the time she reached the turning buoy, she was obviously out of the race.  The red caps of Varuna charged on and soon shot past the wharf.

            “Varuna wins!” Elizabeth cried.

            “Not yet,” Adam said.  “They’ve passed the wrong end of the judges’ boat.  They’ll have to come around again.  Come on, Nixie!”

            Elizabeth doubled her diminutive fist and pounded his arm.  “Ooh! You bad boy!  You told me you didn’t care who won.”

            “I didn’t . . . then,” Adam chuckled.  “I guess I feel obliged to pull for the underdog.”

            “Well, I will, too, then,” the girl declared.  “Come on, Nixie!”  The couple cheered loudly, but the Nixie continued to limp toward the finish line.  Though it took the Varuna an extra minute and forty seconds to rectify her mistake, she still easily won and was soon proudly accepting the triangular blue silk, bordered with heavy gilt fringe and inscribed with the word, “Champion.”  The Nixie, it was soon revealed, had broken a tiller wire early in the race, but had pluckily plunged on, despite knowing she had no chance of victory.

            “Well, it was a gallant effort, nonetheless,” Adam said.

            “We’ll be sure to cheer for them next time,” Elizabeth vowed.

            “Yes,” Adam said, smiling at the thought that there would be a next time.  Not, however, until next year, so he’d have to come up with some other excuse to spend a pleasant Saturday afternoon with Elizabeth.  “Would you like to stop for some lemonade before I walk you home?” he suggested.

            “Shouldn’t you consult Jamie?” she asked with a trace of petulance.  She scanned the crowd.  “Surely, he’s around somewhere.”

            Adam laughed.  “I wouldn’t count on it, dutiful scholar that he is, but it doesn’t matter.  We don’t consult over every penny, and I think the common till can surely support a couple of glasses of lemonade.”

            “Well, then,” she said, “I think that sounds . . . most refreshing.”

            Adam grinned.  “Refreshment it is, then.  Here, let me help you fold up that blanket.”  Their hands touched as they brought the two sides together, and they stood there for a moment, smiling into each other’s eyes.

 

* * * * *

 

            Though Adam had hoped to spend more time with Elizabeth, he once again had to ask her to understand that his Saturday afternoons had to be spent in study.  “The freshman scholarship exams are looming on the horizon,” he told her after their work at the mission the next day, “and I really need to win one.  More people are bound to enter than did for the prize debates, because the prize is so much greater.”

            “How much is it?” Elizabeth asked, her lips turning down.

            “The Woolsey, which is the highest, earns sixty dollars per year for four years,” Adam explained, “so if I could win that, it would make it much easier for us to have special times together next year.  The Hurlbut, which goes to the man in second place, earns the same prize, but only for one year.”

            She frowned thoughtfully.  “Yes, I can see that that would be a help to you.  So, how long is it until the exam?”

            One side of his mouth quirked ruefully.  “Not nearly long enough, considering how much review I need, but though we’ll only miss one Saturday together, that seems entirely too long.”

            The sunshine of her smile burst out from behind dark clouds.  “Only one Saturday?  I guess I can give you up for one Saturday, if it means I’ll see more of you later.  You do promise?”

            “I do,” he said and sealed his vow with a kiss.

 

* * * * *

 

            Though they were both competing for the same prize, Adam and Jamie studied together, and each assisted the other in the area where he was weaker.  Jamie was stronger in Latin, while Adam surpassed him in algebraic solutions.  They considered themselves virtual equals in Greek, but each of them was able to point out some intricacy the other had overlooked and both, therefore, felt better prepared.  They would have to write a Latin composition during the exam, but since neither knew the topic in advance, they didn’t have to keep their thoughts private, as they had for the freshman prize debates the previous month.  They alternated drilling each other on vocabulary and algebraic equations, until both began to dream in the classic languages and to work the mathematical problems in their sleep.

            Since the scholarship exam had to be worked into the normal schedule of recitations, it took place over three days, beginning on the ninth of June, during the interval between second and third recitation.  As he had before the entrance exams, Adam insisted that they eat dinner, as usual, although both of them tended to partake lightly of Mrs. Swanson’s fine cooking.  They made up for it at supper, however, for with the tension temporarily over, they were ravenous.

            Monday afternoon’s exam was in Greek.  Adam and Jamie entered Alumni Hall to find roughly two dozen competitors for the prize, all among the top students in the class.  Comparing notes afterwards, Adam and Jamie concluded that they had probably given the exam a dead rush, since their answers, at least those they could remember, were identical.

            Tuesday, to Jamie’s horror, was devoted to algebra.  Thanks to Adam’s tutoring, he thought he’d correctly solved all but one or possibly two of the equations.  “You’re bound to have hit every one dead on,” he told Adam.  Adam only shrugged, but he was pretty sure he had, too.

            Both agreed that the Latin composition they wrote on Wednesday afternoon would be the exercise that separated the winners from the also-rans.  “Unless algebra has cut me out of contention already,” Jamie moaned as they came down the steps of Alumni Hall.

            “Jamie, if you would just stop telling yourself that mathematics are hard, you’d find it perfectly simple,” Adam chided sharply, a sure indication that the tension of three days of testing had unnerved him, too.

            “Well, excuse me!” Jamie snapped back.

            Adam started to throw back a strident retort.  Then he caught himself and grinned sheepishly.  “Well, I will, if you’ll excuse me, too.  I shouldn’t have rebuked you for fretting when I’m doing the same myself.”

            Jamie laughed, too, then.  “Aren’t we a pair?”

            “Edgy as long-tailed cats in a roomful of rocking chairs,” Adam admitted, pulling out a time-honored, if folksy, simile.  “Too bad the only cure is a two-week wait for the results.”

            Jamie groaned.  “Don’t remind me.  For now, though, I think the only palliative I can think of is a piece of divinity.  Now, where’s Candy Sam when I need him?”  As he looked around, hoping to catch sight of the blind black man, something on the trees caught his attention.  “What are those?” he asked, cocking his head inquisitively.

            Adam laughed.  “Those tests must have drained everything from your fact-befuddled brain if you don’t recognize the posters of Linonia and the Brother in Unity.  The trees sprout those every Wednesday, remember?”

            Jamie fixed him with a scornful eye.  “Not the red and blue ones.  Someone’s tacked up some white ones, and they’re smaller than the usual posters listing the table of contents for the Lit.”

            “You’re right,” Adam said.  “Well, one way to find out.”  He walked over to the nearest tree and called back, “Come over here.”

            Jamie hurried over.  “What are they?”

            “Advertisements . . . for furnishings for dorm rooms,” Adam explained.  “Evidently, the seniors are offering theirs for sale, collectible at the end of term.”

            “Oh, we’re going to need that,” Jamie said.

            Adam smiled wryly.  “And what are we supposed to pay for it with?”

            “We’ve got the ten dollars you won at the debate,” Jamie said, “and I have some that Father gave me for expenses this term.”

            “That won’t go far,” Adam muttered, “not when you consider everything we’ll need.”

            “If one of us wins a scholarship . . .” Jamie suggested.

            Adam shook his head.  “By the time we find out the results, the pickings may be slim.”

            “We both have a good reputation,” Jamie insisted.  “If we make a down payment, I think the seniors might trust us for the remainder . . . at least until Presentation Day.  I can write Father and see if he can send us something.”

            Adam nodded.  “Tell him he’ll be repaid for my share.  There’s no way I can get a message to Pa and receive a response within two weeks, but I know he’ll help with any legitimate expense.”

            “Right.  Let’s get back to the room, and I’ll get the letter written,” Jamie said.

            Adam clamped a hand on his shoulder.  “First things first.  Let’s read some of these posters and decide what we’ll need and who to buy it from.”

            “And then supper,” Jamie said with a grin.  “Another thing that must come first.”

            “Amen to that!” Adam heartily agreed.

 

* * * * *

 

            “How was your exam?” Elizabeth asked as she handed Adam the picnic hamper and took his free arm.  “As gruesome as you feared?”

            “Gruesome?”  Adam laughed.  “I don’t think I ever used that word, but it was daunting and difficult.  I think I did well, though.”

            “Good,” she said, giving him an approving smile.  “Oh, Adam, I’ve so been looking forward to this afternoon, and I’m sure you’re beyond ready for some rest and relaxation yourself.”

            “I am,” Adam admitted, “and I wish it could be longer, but—”

            She pulled away and stood facing him, arms akimbo.  “Adam Cartwright, you promised me this afternoon.  Don’t tell me you’re trying to weasel out of it already!”

            He circled her slender waist and drew her back to his side.  “No, I’m only saying that we will need to make it a short jaunt today, much as I wish it could be longer.”

            “'Not another exam,” she pouted petulantly.

            “No,” he chuckled, “but I’m still dealing with the aftermath of this one.  Testing three afternoons straight meant giving less attention to my daily work, and I do need to make that up before Monday.  We’ll have a pleasant time together this afternoon, and I promise you a longer excursion next Saturday.”

            “You promise?”  Her voice was tinged with disappointment and, perhaps, a hint of doubt, having heard that pledge before and been less than satisfied with its fulfillment.

            “I promise,” he said.  He placed a light kiss behind her ear.

            The blush of her cheeks only made her prettier.  “Well, then,” she said with a trace of forced cheerfulness, “if we’ve only time for the picnic and little else, I know the perfect place.”

            “Lead on, then, lady fair,” he declaimed dramatically.

            Smiling more openly now, she led him through quiet streets to the edge of town and beyond.  They followed a path through the woods and crossed a salt marsh, where sea gulls soared overhead; then they climbed a low mound and spread their picnic blanket at the edge of a small orchard.  Pink-white blossoms covered the trees, although some had dropped away, leaving small green apples in their place.  The hill was not high, but they could still see sunshine bathing the waves of the Sound and the billowing sails of vessels headed for New York.  “You’re right; it’s perfect,” Adam said.

            “Just ham sandwiches today,” she said as she opened the hamper.  “I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

            “Incredibly,” he said and then laughed at the look on her face.

            She blushed prettily again, exactly the effect he’d hoped his teasing would produce.  “I guess I had that coming,” she admitted.

            “Um hmm,” Adam murmured, eyes still twinkling.  He whispered, “Come here,” as he took her by both arms and drew her toward him.  “The sandwiches can wait.  I’d rather feast on this.”  He put his arms around her and gave her a long, lingering kiss.  He could cheerfully have foregone the sandwiches altogether and, perhaps, even the cookies which followed for more of that sort of feasting, but much as she seemed to enjoy it herself, she was the one who pulled back and insisted that they should eat.

            “After all, you only have this tiny bit of time to give me,” she chided softly.

            “And you’d rather spend it eating?” he queried, an enigmatic smile raising one side of his mouth.

            “You can’t expect to study well on an empty stomach,” she insisted with a determined nod.  She looked up at him as she handed him a sandwich.  “And I do insist that you study well . . . today and all this week, so that you can give yourself to me completely next Saturday.”

            Stifling the inappropriate suggestions those words inspired, Adam raised a hand to his eyebrow and saluted her.  “Yes, ma’am!” he declared sturdily and as if to demonstrate his commitment, he took a huge bite of the sandwich.

 

* * * * *

 

            Elizabeth squealed with delight when Adam led her from her front door on Saturday afternoon.  “Adam, where did you get a carriage?” she cried.

            “At the livery,” he said dryly.

            She gave him a push toward the vehicle.  “Ooh, you impossible man!  I know that.  I mean, how . . .  that is . . . oh, never mind.”

            Adam knew perfectly well what she wanted to ask and was glad that courtesy had prevented the question.  He didn’t want to explain how he’d gotten the money for this afternoon excursion.  Not that there was anything shameful about it, although his father would probably have thought otherwise, feeling the way he did about borrowing money.  Adam himself had balked when Lucas first made the offer after listening to him bemoan his inability to do anything with Elizabeth except eat picnics that she had supplied.  Lucas, however, had pointed out that Adam would soon be gainfully employed for the summer and could easily pay back the loan from his earnings, so Adam had gratefully accepted.

            “A whole afternoon together . . . I can’t believe it!” Elizabeth bubbled as Adam assisted her into the carriage.

            “And I want to pack it full,” Adam declared, “because with the third term review beginning on Monday, it will be our last opportunity until I’ve finished exams.”

            She pouted a moment to chide him for future neglect, but then her sunny smile flashed.  “As you say, we must pack this afternoon full of memories . . . if they’re all I’m to have of you for so long.”

            He circled behind the rig and climbed up beside her.  Taking the reins, he said, “I hope you enjoy the excursion I have planned, but don't ask: it’s a surprise.”

            She laughed.  “All right, I won’t.”  As he guided the horse to Whalley Street, at the northwest edge of town, she gazed up into a cloudless sky.  “The weather is delightful for a drive.” She dropped her gaze, long lashes veiling her eyes.  “And the company enchanting.”

            He reached over and lifted her chin with two fingers.  “I couldn’t agree more,” he whispered.

            She glanced away demurely.  “You’re a very skilled driver.”

            It was his turn to laugh.  “Well, we westerners do quite a lot of it, you know.  No hired hacks for us.”

            She smiled.  “I keep forgetting your . . . unique talents.”  As he turned toward the small hamlet of Westville, she clapped her hands.  “Oh, I know where we’re going, and I’m so glad!  It’s been a perfect age since I visited West Rock.  Oh, please say we’re going to see Wintergreen Falls.”

            He nodded, his smile skewing sideways.  “Foolish of me to hope we were seeing it together for the first time.”

            She shook her head, smiling at his foolishness.  “Adam, I’ve lived here all my life.  Is there much of your Ponderosa you’ve never seen?”

            “Not much,” he admitted with a sheepish grin.  “Well, since you’re the expert, can you show me the best place to view them?”

            “Of course.  Keep going down this road, and I’ll show you where to turn.”

            As they approached West Rock on its eastern side, he turned the horse onto the path she pointed to and drove down a shady lane through the woods.  “Stop anywhere along here,” she instructed.  “We have to walk down to the falls.”

            He pulled the horses to a halt and helped her down.

            “Bring the picnic hamper,” she instructed.  “We can spread the blanket on one of the large, flat rocks.”

            “You seem to remember this spot very well,” Adam said, “or perhaps you’ve been here recently with some other fellow.”  He raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

            “Papa used to bring us here,” Elizabeth explained, a small catch in her voice.  “I-I haven’t been here with anyone else.”

            Adam squeezed her hand.  He’d learned early in their relationship that her father was an officer in the Union army, having enlisted soon after the President’s first call for soldiers.  While she was inordinately proud of him, she’d confessed that her heart raced every time she read the lists of casualties after a battle in which his regiment had fought.     Adam said, regretfully, “I’m sorry if I chose a place whose associations—”

            “Oh, don’t be silly,” she scolded.  “Those associations were all pleasant.”

            “I mean . . . if it makes you miss him more,” Adam tried to explain, but she shushed him again.

            “I felt loved here,” she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.  “I . . . still do,” she whispered hesitantly.

            “I hope so,” he whispered back.

            “It’s only a short way down to the falls,” she said.  Then she gave a startled cry as her foot slipped on the wet leaves covering the path.

            Adam dropped the hamper and deftly caught her.  “Well, that’s one way to get you into my arms,” he teased.

            “Confess,” she teased back.  “You came early and planted those treacherous leaves.”

            He grinned.  “Are you sure it wasn’t you, hoping for just this result?”

            “Perhaps,” she said with a coy smile.  “If I could take your arm, kind sir, hopefully I can avoid another such tumble.”

            “Are you sure you want to?” Adam chuckled, though he dutifully offered her his arm and then bent to pick up the hamper.

            With a slight tip up of her nose, Elizabeth ignored his impudence.

            Adam could hear the rushing water as they entered the woods.  “You weren’t kidding when you said it was close.”  A few more steps brought them to the edge of a small pool, into which the water fell by a two-step cascade over black rock.

            Elizabeth clapped her hands.  “Oh, isn’t it lovely?  Does it remind you of home?”

            “Yes . . . a bit,” Adam said vaguely.  The falls were lovely, although small in comparison with some he’d seen in the West, and the trees were, of course, different from the pines of home.  Somehow, though, the setting did awaken a sense of nostalgia inside him, as well as feelings of chagrin.  With all the new activities this term and trying to carve out time for Elizabeth, he’d neglected writing home, and he’d need to rectify that before exams started or his family would think he’d fallen into the Atlantic Ocean.

            Elizabeth's voice drew him back from his reverie.  “Adam?”

            “Hmm?”

            “I asked if you’d like to have our lunch on that rock,” she said, pointing to one at the edge of the pool that would give them an excellent view of the falls.

            “Yes, that’s fine,” Adam replied.  He took the blanket from the hamper.  “Let me spread this over it, and then I’ll come back for you.”  He looked at her and grinned. “Can’t have you slipping again, can we?”

            Blushing at her boldness, she said, “Not unless your arms are there to catch me.”

            He gave her an impish wink.  “In that case, I’ll strew a few wet leaves on the path on my way back to you.”

            “I think there are quite enough already,” she laughed as he walked away to prepare their picnic spot.

            Soon they were seated side by side, their legs dangling above the rippling pool, eating the cold sandwiches and apple turnovers that Elizabeth had brought and enjoying the sight and sound of the waters splashing over the rocks.  When the food was gone, they remained on the rock, as if mesmerized by the scene.  Finally, Adam asked, “Would  you like to drive around a bit?”

            "Not yet,” she said.  “I want to show you something.”

            “All right,” Adam said, pleased.  He helped her down and held her arm as she guided him toward a trail leading up the hill.  “Whoa, wait a minute,” he said.  “Are you sure you can”—his gaze took in her ruffled skirt—“I mean . . . it looks a bit steep.”

            “Of course!  Since I expected to walk wherever we were going, I wore sensible shoes,” she said, lifting her skirt up above her ankles.  Adam had trouble accepting her high-buttoned footgear as “sensible” for climbing, but he shrugged and went ahead of her to pick the best path for her pretty feet to tread and to help her over the rough spots.

            “There!” she said, pointing to the left when they reached the top.  “What do you think of that, my handsome young architect?”

            Adam followed her finger and saw the crumbling ruins of an old stone building.  “Hard to tell much about it in this condition,” he said, “but it must have been quite a place . . . with a stunning view.”

            “The mansion of the Hubbard family, one of the finest in the state,” Elizabeth said, “or so I’m told.  Father said they used to hold grand galas here in its day.”

            “Moonlight dances, perhaps?” Adam suggested, holding out his arms in waltz position.  She stepped into place and let him twirl her around and around.

            Finally, gasping for breath, Elizabeth rested against his strong chest.  “If we stay much longer, we will be dancing in the moonlight.”

            “Let’s,” Adam suggested.

            She shook her head.  “And risk going down that path in the dark?  I think not! Besides, mother would never agree to my seeing you again if we behaved in such an intemperate manner.”

            “I won’t risk that,” Adam said, “but I do wish this evening didn’t have to end.”

            “Oh, Adam, so do I,” she whispered as his arms closed around her and his lips sought hers for a final embrace.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Presentation Day

 

 

            Adam, Jamie and Marcus all scowled at Lucas as he came running up to the chapel steps, where they were waiting.  “Late, as always,” Adam grumbled.  “We’ll be lucky if there are any seats left.”

            “I’m not late,” Lucas protested.  He consulted his watch.  “Five minutes to spare,” he insisted.

            The other three shook their heads and shoved him toward the chapel.  As they had feared, the ground floor was already packed to the seams, and when they ran up to the gallery, they found almost the same situation.  Only when a couple of other students obligingly moved were they able to finagle four seats in close proximity, Lucas and Marcus taking the ones in the row behind Adam and Jamie, who both breathed a sigh of temporary relief as they sank into their seats.  Though they had a difficult wait ahead of them, at least they had a place to do their nervous fidgeting.

            At 10:30 the seniors marched in and took their usual seats at the front of the center aisle.  In principle, this was their day, although it was a transition point for the other classes, as well.  Attendance was not compulsory, and only the juniors were there in any large numbers.  There weren’t more than, perhaps, thirty freshman there that morning; to the others, Presentation Day was just a welcome break from classes, which were dismissed for the day.

            For the seniors, though, this marked the end of their daily connection with the college.  They had finished their final exams and after today would not return until Commencement.  At chapel tomorrow morning each of the lower classes would fill the seats of the class above and from that time would be treated with the dignity due their new station.  That, of course, had greater meaning for the freshmen than for the rest, since by tradition there would be no more twitting or teasing after today.  They would be accepted as fully arrived men of Yale.

            President Woolsey stood at the pulpit as Lebeus Chapin, the senior tutor, presented the class to him and recommended them for graduation.  The President said a few words in Latin that made Adam smile, for they were basically words of congratulation to the faculty for having brought another group of young men to this point.  Next he announced the class poet, and Henry Holt favored them with three to four hundred simple lines arranged with refined taste.  Another senior, D. Henry Chamberlain, then presented the class oration on “The Scholar in the Republic,” dealing masterfully with the current political situation and the difficult problems of national existence.  His closing, mentioning the death of several classmates, brought tears, even to the eyes of those who had not known the young men.  The ceremonies concluded with the singing of the parting ode.  The lyrics had been written by a senior, of course, and were printed in the program, so that all could join in.  Everyone knew the melody, because by tradition the ode was always composed to the tune of Auld Lang Syne, and all the students sang heartily.

            The President returned to the pulpit to announce the appointments for Commencement, from the highest honors of valedictory, salutatory and philosophical orations through high orations, dissertations and disputes to the lowest colloquies.  Altogether, he read over sixty names, representing the upper two-thirds of the senior class, and had each man stand to bow his acceptance of the honor.  To the underclassmen, it seemed to go on forever.

            Finally, President Woolsey lifted twinkling eyes and smiled toward the gallery.  “And now to the portion of the program for which some of you . . . with limited patience . . . have been waiting.”

            Adam and Jamie both leaned forward.  “Settle back,” Lucas whispered from behind them.  “It’s always freshmen last; you should know that by now.”

            Ruefully, the two in the row in front of him moved back.  He was right, of course, Adam realized with an unvoiced sigh.  The seniors had already had their honors recited, but the juniors and sophomores would certainly precede the lowly freshmen.  Adam grinned to himself.  After today no one would think of them that way again.

            He was surprised, however, when the President began talking about the sophomore awards in English composition.  He leaned back and asked Lucas, “No Juniors?”

            “Hardly ever are,” Lucas whispered back.

            Adam’s brow wrinkled in thought, wondering why.  If there were awards available exclusively for juniors, he wanted to know about them, but he filed that away to ask about later and watched the presentations.  First, second and third prizes were announced in each division, and due to some ties, there were fourteen awards in all, none of them to people he knew more than by name.  He had, of course, never suspected that Warington or Miller represented the sophomores’ scholastic best—true dunderheads, if he’d ever seen them—but he had thought that, perhaps, Percival Demmings might have received one of the honors.  He hoped he wasn’t as far off in his perception of his own academic standing or that of his best friend.  In regard to the freshman scholarships, he had no expectations, just hope—and an overabundance of nerves, which only increased as Woolsey acknowledged the final sophomore.

            Adam inched to the edge of his seat as Woolsey said, “Our freshmen have shown themselves especially strong in mathematics this year.”  The President explained that there would, therefore, be a tie for both first and second place for the mathematical premiums and then began to announce the winners.  When his name was not called, Adam exchanged a quick, nervous smile with Jamie, who joined him on the edge of the seat, now that the awards he’d had no expectation of winning had been announced.

“Congratulations,” Jamie whispered, but Adam shook his head.  Since no one could win more than one award, not receiving one of the lesser prizes did mean that they were both still eligible for the two larger scholarships, but guaranteed nothing.  Perhaps he simply hadn’t done as well as he’d thought on the mathematics portion of the exam, although it was hard to conceive that that many people had bested him.  He held his breath while President Woolsey detailed what the next award, the Hurlbut, meant in terms of accomplishment and monetary reward.

            “This year’s winner of the Hurlbut award is”—the President gave a dramatic pause—“Mr. James Percy Edwards.”

            Adam burst from his seat with a shout of sheer joy.  Lucas quickly reached up and hauled him back down.  “Not you,” he hissed.  “St. James won.”

            Adam’s cheeks flamed.  He hadn’t misunderstood.  His explosion of enthusiasm had been for his friend, but he hadn’t meant to draw attention to himself when it should rightfully focus on Jamie.  He cast a regretful glance to the man on his left, who just smiled and patted Adam’s arm as he stood to bow in acceptance of his award.  Adam relaxed.  So long as Jamie understood, nothing else mattered.

            When the applause died down, the President continued, “And now for our final scholarship award, the one which I have, for some reason, always held in highest affection.”

            The student body laughed in appreciation of his mild jest.  While in today’s program and every other official college publication this award was simply—and modestly—called the first freshman scholarship, everyone knew that it had been established by the President himself when he took office in 1846.  That was why the students always called it “the Woolsey,” in appreciation of its founder.  Now it was the only scholarship left to be awarded.  “The first freshman scholarship, with a prize of sixty dollars for each of the next four years,” Woolsey said, “goes to one of our finest and, dare I say, most eager young scholars.”  Again he paused, letting the suspense build, and then called, “Adam Morgan Cartwright.”

            Applause erupted around him, but Adam sat, stunned, unable to believe he had heard correctly.

            Then President Woolsey chuckled and called, “Now, Mr. Cartwright.  Now you stand up.”

            The other students hooted and hollered toward the gallery, “Now, Mr. Cartwright.  Now you stand up.”  They were out of order, of course, but no one rebuked them, even the faculty having joined in the echo.

            With a little gratuitous help from his three friends, Adam rose to his feet and bowed to the grinning faces below.  Dismissed, the students rushed out of chapel, some pausing long enough in their headlong rush toward dinner to clap Adam and Jamie and the other prizewinners on the back.  “I can’t believe I won,” Adam said to his closest friends as they moved toward Temple Street for their own dinner.

            “We had no doubt, did we, chums?” Jamie asked the others.

            “None,” Lucas returned.

            “I thought it might have been you,” Marcus suggested to Jamie.

            “As did I,” Adam said.

            “Well, I admit I wasn’t sure which of you would come in first,” Lucas declared, “but I was certain you’d rank first and second.”  He threw an arm around Marcus’s slim shoulders.  “Just think, chum, we’ve walked with greatness all these months and never knew it.”

            “Without a trace of it rubbing off!” Adam laughed, giving the other boy a friendly shove.

            “I think it might have on Marc,” Jamie said with a grin, “but that other fellow . . . well . . .”

            Lucas, who could take a joke better than any of them, crinkled his nose in mock distaste.  “Ha, ha.  As I was saying, all these months, I’ve walked with court jesters and never knew it.”

            It seemed strange to find Milton Bradford sitting in Alexander White’s position, but both White and Raines had said their good-byes to the others at breakfast.  The faculty was providing a collation for the seniors that afternoon, and both, of course, planned to remain with their class throughout the event-packed day.  The remaining Vultures had voted the previous week to have Bradford serve as their new steward, and while they would all miss White’s calm management of any problems that arose, they were confident that Bradford would admirably fill his shoes.

            “I can’t wait to get home and write Father about our news,” Jamie enthused as they left the dining hall.

            “Tell him my share of what he advanced us will be repaid soon,” Adam instructed.  They’d picked up some of the furnishings for their dorm room next year from White and Raines, who had been more willing than most to extend credit, so the money Josiah sent had gone further than it otherwise might have.

            “I’m sure he isn’t concerned about that,” Jamie chided softly.

            “No, but I am,” Adam insisted.  “Well, I’ll see you back at the room in an hour or two.”

            “You aren’t coming?” Jamie asked.  “I thought you’d want to write your father, too.  He’ll be so proud, Adam!”

            “I think our lovesick lad is more interested in telling someone else,” Lucas suggested, laughing when the look on Adam’s face confirmed his guess.  “Just don’t get so lost in the lady’s charms that you forget about tonight,” he cautioned.  “It is a momentous occasion.”

            “Absolutely!” Adam agreed.  “And I do intend to write home, as well, so I won’t be long.”

            “All right, then.  See you there,” Jamie said.

            Adam said goodbye to him and then to Lucas and Marcus, who trotted off in search of the final items needed to complete their costumes for the evening’s festivities, and walked directly to Elizabeth’s house.  Excitedly, he rapped on her front door and, tapping his foot against the cobbled walkway, waited for someone to respond.

            Elizabeth herself opened the door.  “Why, Adam,” she said in surprise, for he’d never called on her in the middle of the week.  “I-I wasn’t expecting you.”

            “No, I know,” he said, “but I hope it isn’t an inconvenient time.”

            She frowned slightly.  “Well . . . a bit.  The Sanitation Committee is meeting here this afternoon.  Mother’s the hostess, of course, but I’m helping, and I can scarcely walk out in the middle of the meeting.”  She drew herself erect.  “Helping the soldiers is very important to me, you know.”

            “Yes, of course,” Adam murmured.  “I won’t take much of your time, then.”  Secretly, he’d hoped that they could take a brief walk together, but he didn’t have much time to spare, either.  “I just wanted to tell you the good news.”

            She looked puzzled for a moment and then her face brightened with anticipation.  “Oh!  The scholarship results.  They were today, weren’t they?”

            “Yes,” Adam whispered, eyes gleaming.

            “And it’s good news, you say?  Oh, I can see from your face that it is!”  She reached up to cup his face in her hands.  “What prize did you take?  Not the Woolsey?”

            Adam offered a twisted smile.  “You don’t think I deserve it?”

            She doubled her right fist and pounded his shoulder.  “Of course, I do, but it’s always hard to believe that your dreams can come true.”

            “Well, Miss Elizabeth Allen, sometimes dreams do come true.”  He pulled her into his arms.

            “Adam!” she hissed, pulling back.  “Not in front of the entire Sanitary Committee, not to mention my mother.”

            “They don’t approve of kissing?” he asked.  “I assure you the Union soldiers think that is the greatest help you could offer them.”  He puckered his lips and playfully thrust them toward her.

            She pushed him back, laughing.  “You aren’t a Union soldier, so you haven’t earned a Sanitary kiss.”

            He pouted eloquently.  “Not even a sloppy one of congratulations?”

            “I’m never sloppy,” she insisted demurely, but she stood on tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek.  “I’m so proud, Adam,” she said.  “I need to go back in before the ladies begin to wonder what’s become of me, but I’m truly pleased with your news and that you cared enough to come tell me immediately.”

            “It makes a world of difference in what we can do together next year,” he promised.

            “And that is another dream come true,” she whispered, blowing him another kiss as she opened the door and disappeared inside.

 

* * * * *

 

            “I feel ridiculous,” Jamie moaned as he and Adam walked toward the Green close to nine o’clock that evening.

            “I think that’s the general idea, chum,” Adam broke off whistling long enough to say.  This had been a wonderful day from beginning to end.  He’d won the Woolsey; he’d spent sweet moments with Elizabeth, and he’d still had ample time to share his news in letters home that afternoon.  Now he was ending the day by gathering with the other freshmen to celebrate their impending rise in status.  “I don’t know what you’re complaining about, anyway,” he added.  “You don’t look half as preposterous as I do.”

            Having been told by Lucas that the very least he could get by with was to turn his coat inside out and cork his face, shy Jamie had done precisely that and no more.  Adam had tried to get into the spirit of the occasion, but resources kept him from donning as elaborate costume as he knew some of his classmates planned.  He’d purchased a pair of striped trousers and a bashed-in top hat at a second-hand store, turned his coat inside out and carried an umbrella he’d found in a rubbish bin, whose fabric hung in tatters from the bare spines.  It was his best approximation of the garb of a slightly shabby sideshow tightrope walker, and when he and Jamie reached the Green, he held the umbrella frame aloft and teetered from side to side to support the image.

            Even so, one look at the costumes cavorting on the steps of the State House told him that he was dressed more conservatively than most of his comrades.  Some of the freshmen danced about in hoop skirts and wigs, while others had attached hooves and tails to simulate some woodland beast of unknown genus.  One man even wore the head of a grizzly bear, although where he’d found that here in the East Adam couldn’t have guessed.

            It wasn’t hard to spot Lucas among the revelers.  He was prancing around the columns of the State House, forked tail attached to backside and threatening all within reach with his pitchfork.  “Oh, that’s perfect,” Adam laughed, “considering how often he’s tempted us from the straight and narrow.”

            “I wonder where Marc is,” Jamie said, craning his eyes.  It took some searching to find him, for though he was dressed up as a member of a military band, there were so many others tooting on tin horns that he blended into the general cacophony.  “Go rein Luke in,” Jamie told Adam.  “He’ll have the peelers after us.”

            Shaking his head, Adam grinned.  He was pretty sure the police would turn a blind eye to whatever ruckus went on at the State House tonight, but since he did want all his closest friends with him for the festivities, he dutifully ran up the steps of the State House and dragged Lucas back to join the others.

            For the next few hours the night air was punctuated with silly speeches, songs and poems lauding their own class and lambasting the one above them.  In one of them Lucas distinguished himself with clever repartee.  Adam offered a few lines he’d made up on the spot that brought a chorus of laughs, while Jamie and Marcus were quite content to watch the fun and offer shouts of approval and wild applause for their bolder classmates.

            The sophomores formed a circle outside that of the revelers and, whenever lampooned, hooted and hollered in a vain attempt to drown out the speakers.  Every freshman with a horn would turn and blast them in the face until the mockery ceased, and the speakers would continue for another minute or two before the next interruption.  Near midnight fireworks were set off to climax the ceremonies, and the sophomores began to shout, “Time for you to be in bed, freshies!”

            “Time for you, old codgers!” Adam shouted to the ones nearest him.  Where once such an exchange of insults might have led to a shoving match and enduring enmity, now there was only laughter and playful pushing.  With a few parting taunts and calls of “Don’t stay up too late, Freshie,” the sophomores headed back to their dorms, leaving the streets of New Haven to the mercy of the freshmen, who formed a long, snaking line and set out on their traditional trip through the city to serenade at the dormitories of the young ladies’ academies in town.  Mostly, their musical offerings were met with silence, although some of the freshmen swore they heard tittering behind the fluttering curtains at open windows.  At only one academy did the fair ones acknowledge the tribute by leaning out the windows and blowing kisses to the rowdy serenaders.  It was enough.  Well satisfied, the freshmen headed back toward the Green, where they dispersed and went to their separate lodgings about 2 a.m.

 

* * * * *

 

            With a loud groan Adam rolled out of bed the next morning.  “It’s abominable to expect us to return to classes as usual after an occasion like last night,” he muttered, holding his aching head in his hands.

            “I suppose the faculty—any one of them—would point out that they didn’t force us to carouse the night away,” Jamie said wryly.

            “I suppose,” Adam returned grumpily, “and it would be just like them to make the recitations as difficult as possible this morning.”

            Jamie wriggled past Adam to stand and stagger to the washbasin.  “Let them.  I prepared yesterday afternoon, same as always.”

            Adam scowled at the veiled accusation that his visit with Elizabeth had cut into his study time.  It was true, which only made it bite more, and he could only hope that he’d make it through the morning without incurring any demerits.  “Do they give demerits for falling asleep in your seat?” he yawned.

            Jamie grabbed for a towel.  “Only if you hit the floor with a resounding thump.”

            Adam laughed.  “I just might . . . all the way from the chapel gallery . . . much to Herr Stoeckel’s chagrin.”

            Having dried his face, Jamie flicked the damp towel at Adam’s bare neck.  “Maybe the scent of bacon and coffee will wake you up enough to prevent that.”

            “Worth a try,” Adam conceded, finally pushing himself to his feet.

 

* * * * *

 

            For the first time since joining the Beethoven Society, Adam wished he were not part of the choir.  This morning he was stuck up in the gallery, while his classmates moved into the seats vacated by the sophomores.  No longer would they sit in the back of the chapel, but in the front seats on the north aisle.  Adam couldn’t help casting a wistful eye as his classmates swaggered in, but suddenly a shriek made him look with alarm for its source.  That turned out to be none other than his friend Lucas, who had found a gift left for him by the sophomores, who roared with laughter from their new position on the far left aisle.

            “A tack,” Lucas snorted when Adam later inquired the reason for his outburst.  “I suppose we should have expected that sort of humor from the likes of those idiots.”

            “You’re the only one who got treated to that,” Marcus said.  “The worst any of the rest of us found was some chalk dust in our seats.  Traces of that still showed on the seat of his trousers, although Jamie had tried to brush him off.

            “Old grudges die hard,” Lucas grunted.

            “Just don’t follow their example yourself,” Jamie urged.  “Remember: vengeance is mine . . .”

            “Yeah, yeah,” Lucas muttered, “but I thought they were through with us.”

            Adam slapped his friend on the back.  “I have a feeling they are now.”

            Lucas grinned.  “Well, so long as it’s the last barb, I guess I can bear its sting.”

            The others groaned at the terrible pun and pushed him toward the Athenaeum, where their first recitation of the day awaited them.

            Fortunately, the third term review began that morning, so at least there was no new material to cram into their aching heads and revelry-ravaged minds.  Even the teachers seemed merciful that day, leading Lucas to venture the opinion that the excitement of the seniors’ collation had proved too much for the old fellows.

            “‘Old fellows,’” Adam hooted.  “Wilder Smith isn’t out of his twenties yet, I’d remind you, and Mr. Nolen barely so.”

            “And Old Had is the youngest of them all—at heart,” Jamie insisted, with Marcus concurring when he joined them at the Elm of Assembly after their final recitation.

            Lucas waved his hands in capitulation.  “All right, all right.  Whatever the reason, I’m grateful that they went easy on us today.

 

* * * * *

 

            As Latin class drew to a close on Saturday morning, Wilder Smith made an announcement.  “I am asked to inform you that your class with Mr. Hutchison is cancelled today.  You will, instead, meet with Mr. Packard at 2:30 this afternoon in #176 of the Lyceum.”

            The whisper of puzzled voices rippled down the rows.  Had something happened to Old Hutch?  But why replace him with a Greek tutor?  They weren’t even supposed to have Greek class today.  And if he was just a substitute for Hutchison, why the odd hour?

            Smith let them wonder for a moment and then clucked his tongue.  “Mr. Packard will oversee the selection of dormitory rooms for next year,” he told them with a wry smile.  “Surely, that momentous question occupies your young minds even more than the ones that will appear on your end-of-term exams—or so I seem to remember from my student days.”

            They all chuckled then in acknowledgement of his perception.  Though few of them had any idea of how the allotment would be handled, every man who hoped to lodge in a college dorm next year did, indeed, consider that selection more important than whatever passage in Greek or Latin they might be asked to translate for their exams.

            “I was supposed to spend the afternoon with Elizabeth,” Adam moaned as the four friends met after class to discuss the announcement, which had also been made in Marcus’ division.  “They’ve set this drawing for the middle of the afternoon, so I won’t have time, either before or after, to be with her.”

            “I suppose I could draw for us,” Jamie offered hesitantly.  If there were decisions to be made, as there were almost certain to be, he really preferred to have Adam’s input.

            “Adam still has to sign for himself,” Lucas informed them, “so he can’t just skip it.  Best trot over, lover boy, and tell the lovely lady you’re occupied for the afternoon.”

            “I guess I’d better,” Adam sighed, bracing himself for the petulant reaction sure to meet the change of plans.  “I’ll see you at the Vultures’ Nest.”

 

* * * * *

 

            Room 176 at the Lyceum buzzed with excitement as the newly ordained sophomores discussed which lodgings would be available to them and which of those would make the best choices.  South College wasn’t an option; the incoming seniors would have filled that most popular dorm already, and the upper floors in most of the others would probably be taken by the new juniors, as the older Vultures had informed them at dinner.  “I hope we can avoid the first floor of whatever dorm we land in,” Adam whispered to Jamie.

            Jamie winced.  “You’re thinking of me, and I wish you wouldn’t worry.”

            “I have no greater love of places damp and cold than you, my friend,” Adam snorted.  “I suggest you pray for an early draw.”  Thanks again to their Vulture comrades, they now knew how the allotment would be managed.  After each of them signed a printed blank, stating that he intended, on his honor, to occupy a room at the college next year and who he intended to room with, the names of each pair would be placed in a hat.  The first drawn would receive first choice of all available rooms; then the others would follow in turn.

            Lewis Packard arrived, everyone signed up, and within minutes the drawing began.  The pair whose names were drawn first, as well as those who were second, were immediately besieged by offers of up to fifty dollars in exchange for their right to choose the first rooms.

            “Pity,” Jamie sighed to Adam.  “We could have used the money.”

            “I wouldn’t have traded,” Adam said.  “There’s no guarantee that there’ll be enough rooms for everyone.”  He’d already seen several glum faces leaving the Lyceum from the class above, who had drawn their assignments immediately before this final group, and the older Vultures had explained that only a certain number of rooms were allotted to each class.  Those whose names were drawn late not only were left with the poorest choices, but sometimes none at all.

            “That’s true,” his roommate admitted.  “Well, we’ll just trust God to provide—and you to select from what He provides.”

            “Perhaps God will make it simple for me by giving us last choice,” Adam joked.

            With each name drawn from the hat, it began to seem less like a joke.  Lucas and Marcus had decided to room together, and they drew a choice about midway through the process.  “Oh, good.  They should be able to get a decent room,” Jamie said enthusiastically and went immediately to congratulate them.

            Adam didn’t feel like congratulating anyone.  What he felt was envy—of anyone, friends included, who already had a place secured.  As he waited anxiously to hear his own name called, he wondered what they would do if they didn’t get a room.  Stay on with Mrs. Wiggins, he supposed.  The scholarship money would make that possible, although that wasn’t the way he had hoped to spend it.  But what about all that furniture they’d bought?  Josiah could use some of it, of course.  Another couple of beds wouldn’t go amiss at the Manor, and the desks would be useful, too, for father and son.  What they didn’t need they might be able to sell to the more fortunate possessors of a place on Brick Row, but it would be a hassle.

For himself, it didn’t matter whether they had a good room or not; he was sturdy, and he’d endured much rougher lodgings as a child, but he felt a responsibility toward his less sturdy companion.  For Jamie, the dampness of a first-floor apartment was a major detriment.  With each name drawn the weight on Adam’s shoulders seemed to increase, and there was nothing he could do to shift out from under it, no way to make it go faster or end in his favor—nothing to do but wait.

            Finally, only a handful of pairs remained.  “You’re not praying hard enough,” Adam muttered to Jamie, who had rejoined him.

            “We’ll get a room,” Jamie said with confident peace.

            “It won’t be much of one,” Adam grumbled.  He didn’t add, “If any,” but he thought it.

            Jamie gave his friend’s shoulder a comforting squeeze.  “Whatever God gives, we’ll gratefully accept.”  He laughed.  “And if you’re concerned about the effectiveness of my prayers, say one of your own.”

            Adam had to admit with some chagrin that he hadn’t made any petitions of his own.  More certain of Jamie’s pull with the Almighty than his own?  Perhaps, but even now the only prayer his mind would form was “Please.”

            If what happened then was an answer to prayer, it was the fastest one Adam had ever received, for the next names drawn were his own and Jamie’s, and there was only one pair after them.  He breathed a sigh of relief as he took the slip of paper in hand.  “It’ll be South Middle,” he sighed, sounding apologetic, as if he should somehow have made their names pop out of that hat sooner.  South Middle was the oldest dorm on Brick Row and, therefore, the least popular; it was bound to be all that was left when their turn to select a room finally came.

            Jamie, however, looked radiant.  “South Middle will be fine.  We’ll be so much closer to everything than we were on George Street.”

            “That’s true,” Adam agreed, and when the drawing ended and he saw the disappointed faces of men who would have to find their lodgings in town, his countenance lifted.  At least, they had a place, and he’d make the best choice he had of the two rooms available when his turn came.  With an inner laugh he realized that God really had made the choice simple for him.  That’ll teach you to joke with the Almighty, he told himself, although he wasn’t really sure that the Almighty involved Himself in matters as mundane as the dorm assignment of struggling students.

            Mr. Packard pasted the official list of available rooms on the board and called the first name.  As each pair ahead of him made their selection, Adam carefully examined the choices left to him.  As he’d predicted the first floors of the newer dorms, all that was left for his class in those buildings, were filling quickly.  Soon, as predicted, nothing was left but the top floor of South Middle, since the first floor was reserved for next year’s few freshmen that would room at the college.  When Adam’s name was called, only two rooms remained, and he selected the corner one, #64, for its better light and ventilation.  “Sorry about the long climb, chum,” he said to Jamie as they left the Lyceum.

            Jamie only laughed.  “Why, Dr. Cartwright, I thought exercise was part of your prescription.”

            Adam scowled.  “I prefer my exercise in the open air, not up and down four flights of stairs several times a day.”  He threw an arm around Jamie’s shoulders.  “Don’t mind me.  I’m sure the room will be fine, once we get all our gear moved in, and now that we know its destination, we can let the staff know where to find it all.”

            The faculty would supervise the transfer of every man’s furnishings to his new apartment and add a small charge to their term bill for the service.  It was highly convenient, but in Adam’s and Jamie’s case that would pose quite a challenge for the movers.  They’d bargained for the best deals for everything, and that meant that their gear was now sheltered in multiple locations across Brick Row.  They’d already made a careful list, though, so it was simply a matter of passing it on to the right source and they’d be set for another year of study when they returned next fall.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Final Days at Yale

 

 

The students gave their last recitation on the first of July, and term exams began that afternoon.  Over the next few days one might have thought the entire student body and, indeed, the town itself were celebrating their final few days at Yale.  They weren’t, of course; the firecrackers popping everywhere were in expectation of the upcoming Glorious Fourth.  Among the favorite targets of these minor explosions were the glass lamp posts.  Hearing the telltale crack as he came out of his Latin exam, Adam groaned.  “I hope it’s not the one on High Street, back of the Library, again.   Some of our gym mates use it for target practice so often that it hardly keeps its glass more than twenty-four hours at a time.”

Lucas, who shared his subdivision for exams, grinned impishly, and Adam surmised that what he had long suspected was true: his friend was responsible for much of the missing glass from that particular lamppost.  “You scalawag.”  Adam’s chiding lost all its force when it ended in a throaty chuckle.

            “Why, Adam, my dear chum, how can I possibly be the guilty party when I’m walking right at your side?”  Adopting a sober countenance, Lucas suggested, “Perhaps our young friend Edwards has taken a break from his studies to celebrate the Fourth in this unspeakable manner.”

            Adam laughed outright.  “Here now.  I’ll tolerate no such defamation of a good man’s character.”  Since Jamie was in a separate subdivision, his exams were scheduled at different times than theirs, and neither of the boys really doubted that their earnest friend was anywhere but in his room or the library, diligently studying material he already knew stone cold.

            “He is a good man,” Lucas admitted, “especially to take time to coach me in languages, and I appreciate your help with mathematics, Adam.”

            “Happy to help,” Adam said simply.  “So, do you wish to repair to the library, sir, and dig more deeply into that worthy subject?”

            Lucas’s lips pouted as if he were a boy of three.  “Can’t we take the afternoon off?  The shells are going to race, to make up for the rain canceling them before.”

“Oh, I suppose we’ve earned a rest from pounding axioms into our brains,” Adam chuckled.  A large drop of water plopped on his nose, and he immediately opened his umbrella, scowling at the heavens as he did.  “If they don’t cancel it again,” he added gloomily.

            “They wouldn’t dare!” Lucas declared.

            Apparently, the powers in charge didn’t dare, for despite weather almost as inclement as that which had cancelled the original race, the Yale Navy sailed, and the crowd on shore gave vivid proof that Adam and Lucas were not the only students feeling the need for a break from their preparations for exams.

 

* * * * *

 

            The next morning the Vultures were abuzz with discussion of the President’s latest call for 300,000 volunteers.  At first the speculation concerned whether their senior members might join up after Commencement.  Then the question was put to the juniors, both of whom said they were considering enlistment, but hated to interrupt their education so near its conclusion.  None of the sophomores or freshmen expressed intentions of joining the army, but Jamie noticed that Adam had been particularly quiet during the entire mealtime conversation.  “You’re not thinking of joining, are you?” he asked anxiously as they walked back toward their George Street lodgings.

            “I don’t know what I’m thinking,” Adam admitted.  He smiled ruefully.  “Or, rather, I seem to vacillate between two points of the compass—often with about a two-second space between opposing opinions.”

            “Oh, Adam, you can’t,” Jamie pleaded.  “You’ve barely begun your education.”

            Adam shrugged.  “All the more reason, perhaps, for someone like me to fight, instead of Raines or Goodman, for instance.”

            “But if you give three years of your life to the army,” Jamie argued, “how do you know you’d ever finish here at Yale?”

            Adam turned his head sharply to face his friend.  “I’d finish,” he said stiffly.  “I always finish what I start.”  Then he sighed.  “Three years is a long time, though.  It would make continuing harder.”

            “Much harder,” Jamie insisted.  “Besides, what was it your father wrote about the nation needing builders after the war?  Isn’t that what you should be focusing on, especially with the opportunity to work in an architect’s office this summer?”

            Adam nodded.  “I’ve committed to that, so I suppose it is ridiculous to even consider enlisting until I’ve fulfilled my time with Mr. Bracebridge.  It’s just . . . well, I do believe in the cause, and when I see other men doing their duty, I wonder whether I’m really doing mine.”

            They walked in silence for a couple of minutes, and then Jamie said softly, “You’ve seen the casualty lists.  I-I can’t bear the thought of reading your name on one of them.”

            Adam took his friend’s arm.  “Can’t say as I’d like to see it appear there, either,” he said with an attempt at a joke, “but, then, I don’t suppose I’d be able to see much of anything from beneath the sod.”

            Jamie, of course, didn’t see the humor.  “Column after column of dead and wounded,” he murmured.  “I don’t even know how to comprehend such numbers.”

            “No,” Adam agreed, for those long lists in the newspaper had struck him the same way.  There were more casualties listed each day that had fought in the entire Paiute War back home!  Had anyone come out of those battles unscathed?  It was hard to believe there were even that many men fighting, much less injured or killed.  He clapped Jamie on the back.  “Don’t worry so, chum.  Nothing’s decided, and we have enough to worry about this week, just with exams.”

            Jamie forced a laugh.  “True enough.”  He sobered quickly.  “Adam, you will write your father again, won’t you, before you decide anything?”

            Adam snorted.  “What would be the point?  Surely, you saw that article about the mail problems in Utah.”  According to reports, bands of Cheyenne, Snake and Sioux Indians had raided several stage stations, running off the stock, and making the mail east of Salt Lake City highly unreliable.

            “That’s an excuse,” Jamie chided.  “You don’t know that it wouldn’t get through.  But if you’re genuinely concerned about that, then write my father.  He gives sound advice, and there are no Indians between here and Springfield.”

            Adam laughed.  “No point.  I already know what he’d say.  Pa, too, for that matter.  No, chum, there’s absolutely nothing to be gained by contacting either of our fathers with this question.”

            “Besides which,” Jamie playfully pointed out, “you’d rather spend your time sparking Elizabeth than writing to anyone!”

            “Guilty as charged!”  Since he’d soon be leaving for New York City and wouldn’t see Elizabeth for endless weeks, he begrudged every minute he could not spend with her.  He flung open the door to their lodging house.  “Drag me up to my duty, sir,” he suggested, “or I shall trot off to see her right now.”

            Taking the appointed task quite literally, Jamie grabbed his friend by the arm and pulled him inside and up the stairs.

 

* * * * *

 

            Despite Adam’s misgivings, one letter did make it through from home during those final days of the term, full of the sort of homey news that provided a welcome break from studying.  He and Jamie laughed out loud at Ben’s humorous description of a recent trip to Washoe City, where their team had been stampeded by the sight and smell of a corral full of camels.  It had been a wild ride that Ben and Hoss had found terrifying and Little Joe, predictably, exhilarating.  The youngster had included a drawing of a camel with a hump so huge it would have broken the back of any living creature.  There was more serious news, too, about the murder of the renegade Paiute Wahe.  “Pa went with Governor Nye to discuss the situation with Winnemucca,” Adam told Jamie, explaining that the two chiefs were brothers.  “He gives all the praise to the Governor for averting an uprising.”

            “He’s probably being overly modest,” Jamie suggested.  “There’s obviously a reason the Governor invites your father to participate in such serious talks.”

            Adam nodded.  “Exactly.  Evidently, they were able to negotiate a new peace treaty.”  He grinned.  “And now for Hoss’s letter.”

            Though not as hilarious as Ben’s account of the confrontation with the camels, both exhausted students found themselves refreshed by Hoss’s open and honest delight in working the roundup—while leaving Little Joe at home to help Hop Sing with the garden.

 

* * * * *

 

            Lucas collapsed under the Elm of Assembly, threw his arms wide and emitted an eloquent sigh.  “Finally,” he declared as he fell against the sturdy trunk in expressive exhaustion.

            Adam laughed as he settled on the grass next to his friend.  “What are you complaining about?  I had one more term exam than you, remember?”  Though Louis Bail hadn’t required him to take the official exam, which covered more than just architectural drawing, he had insisted that Adam meet with him for a final assessment of his progress in that subject.  Even though the teacher had allowed him to work that question-and-answer session into his other testing schedule at his convenience, making time for it had proven a challenge.

            Lucas shrugged off that, in his opinion, inconsequential point.  “Regardless, I’m glad it’s finished.”

            Adam smiled.  “I am, too.”  He glanced up and waved to their other two friends.  “Hey, what are you two doing in the yard?”  He knew that both Jamie and Marcus had already finished their exams, since he and Lucas had been slated in the last available slot.

            “We came to meet you,” Marcus said.

            “And offer our congratulations on a job well done,” Jamie added with a confident grin.

            “In that case,” Adam chuckled, “sit down and join us in our celebration of a year well ended.”

            As Jamie and Marcus dropped onto the grass, Lucas sat up.  “Speaking of celebrations,” he began, “you are joining the rest of the class for our excursion this afternoon, right?”

            “I am,” Marcus said at once and then turned hopeful eyes toward Jamie.

            Jamie shook his head.  “We didn’t contribute to expenses.”

            “Yes, you did,” Lucas said with a significant smirk.

            “You didn’t,” Adam said reproachfully.  “Tell me you didn’t pay for us.”  It was traditional for the sophomore class to make a short excursion after their biennial exams, but Lucas had been among the freshmen who insisted that they should beat the upperclassmen to the punch and stage their own while the sophomores were still drudging away in preparation for that culmination of two years’ study.  Adam had no objection to thumbing his nose at the sophomores, but he and Jamie had both balked at the amount being collected for the festivities.

            Lucas dramatically pressed his chest with an open palm.  “Would you have me lie in front of St. James?”

            “You shouldn’t have,” Jamie chided.

            “I need a sympathetic audience for my presentation,” Lucas insisted.

            “Ah, yes,” Adam intoned solemnly.  “The epic history of the first division of the Class of ’66, a speech that will no doubt go down in the annals of Yale College as the most fallacious exaggeration ever compiled.”

            “If you think I’ll be a sympathetic audience for that,” Jamie teased, “you are sadly mistaken, sir.”

            “That’s right,” Adam concurred.  “You did say you didn’t want to lie in front of him.”

            “All the more reason for you both to come—to keep my words straight and true.”  Lucas looked from one to the other.  “Besides, I’m already out the money, so you might as well join in the fun.”

            Jamie looked questioningly at Adam.

            “I was thinking about attending the meeting at Music Hall tonight,” Adam said tentatively.

            Jamie inhaled sharply.  The purpose of that meeting was to encourage young men to respond to the President’s call for volunteers, and given Adam’s wavering attitude on that subject, Jamie immediately said, “You know, I do think we owe it to Lucas to attend the celebration—since he’s already paid the fee.”

            “Here, here,” Lucas cheered, with Marcus chiming in his agreement.

            “Oh, all right,” Adam said.  He knew exactly why Jamie had conceded so suddenly, but while he’d been interested to hear what the statesmen had to say, he hadn’t expected to enlist tonight anyway.  After all, he was set to travel to New York City the next morning, and once away from dear New Haven, Luke’s rib-tickling history of the division would probably hold a fonder place in his thoughts than anything a politician might say.

 

* * * * *

 

            At two o’clock the former freshman class, almost in its entirety, met at their newly designated section of the fence, and marched down Chapel Street to the railroad station, singing their way through the streets of town.  Tickets purchased, the students boarded the train for the short, four-mile ride to West Haven, where they loaded into horse-drawn omnibuses for the remaining mile to Savin Rock.  The serenading, accompanied by the guitar that Lucas had insisted Adam bring, had continued throughout the journey, and it didn’t end once they reached their destination.  Lucas deposited his friend on the beach with instructions to keep everyone entertained while he and the other committee members made the final arrangements for the feast and festivities to come.  When they’d run through their repertoire for the second time, however, everyone seemed content to just lounge back in the sand and reminisce about the scholastic year just ended.

            “Here now, that’s my job,” Lucas laughed when he walked up and caught the gist of the conversation.

            “Then be quicker about it,” Adam jibed.

            “Ready to start now,” his friend retorted, “if this rowdy crowd will give the respectful attention our noted historians deserve, we will commence.  To the tables, gentlemen!”

            Loud hoots met this remark, but the young men clambered up and moved toward the table set up for them by the staff of the Rock House hotel.  As representative of the first division, Lucas mounted the makeshift rostrum and began to describe the in-school and out-of-school antics of his set of classmates to sustained rounds of laughter.

            Adam leaned over to Jamie.  “Trust Luke to remember every ridiculous blunder and bungled translation ever voiced in class.”

            “If only he remembered the right answers that well!” Jamie snickered back.

            Seeing the whispered conversation and guessing himself to be the target of it, Lucas cried out, “And now I call for a few edifying words from two men who never made such errors in their recitations.  I give you, gentlemen, the Scholars of the House, the pride of the first division, Messers Cartwright and Edwards!”

            “No, oh no,” Jamie protested.

            “No, you say?”  Lucas aped an appalled expression.  “You would deprive us of your noted wisdom, Sir Hurlbut?  Shall we permit that, my friends and fellow ne’er-do-wells?”

            “No!” came the roar from crowd.

            Adam laughed and pulled a still protesting Jamie to his feet.  “You might as well give it up, Sir Hurlbut; they won’t take no for an answer.”

            “I think you should speak for both of us, Sir Woolsey,” Jamie suggested timorously.

            Adam only laughed and shook his head as he pushed his friend forward.  Poor Jamie, who had trouble enough speaking in public when prepared, floundered through a few words that evoked laughter only because they were so obviously out of character with his usual performance in class.

            “Makes you wonder how he ever earned that prize, doesn’t it?” Lucas quipped as he gave Jamie’s honey-haired head a patronizing pat and released him from his torment.  “Can you possibly offer us better instruction, Sir Woolsey?” he asked, adopting the name he’d overheard Jamie use.

            “No instruction of mine could ever eclipse that of the worthy Sir Hurlbut,” Adam declared with a bow in Jamie’s direction.  “However, I might make a few suggestions.  First, when crossing the Pons Asinorum, it is not necessary to bray like the said ass.”

            The audience howled at the pun.  Lucas somehow managed to keep a straight face and asked if the worthy knight had any further advice for them.  Adam was no more prepared to speak than Jamie, of course, but he had had a few more moments to think of something.  Though he wasn’t the natural comedian that Lucas was, he managed to make a few humorous remarks before he was mercifully allowed to take his seat.

            Seeing that the hotel staff was bringing out the food, Lucas suggested that they hear the histories of the other divisions over dinner, and the idea was warmly received by the hungry crowd, most of whom had either skipped the noon meal altogether or eaten only lightly in their hurry to prepare for their homeward journeys the next day.  For the next hour they dined and laughed and shared happy memories, for even moments that had been uncomfortable when happening were bathed with amusement in retrospect.

            Following the meal, formal ceremonies were dismissed in favor of frolicking in the sand.  Those who had bathing garments changed into them and enjoyed the water.  A few for whom money was never a question rented a boat and sailed the Sound, while others merely lounged on the beach, enjoying the fellowship they were soon to lose.  Neither Adam nor Jamie owned bathing apparel, of course.  Adam had come in his ranch clothes and Jamie in his oldest shirt and trousers, so all they did was remove their shoes, roll up their pants’ legs and walk along the shore, Marcus and Lucas joining them as they each discussed their plans for the summer and how much they would miss the camaraderie they had shared for three terms.

            As twilight approached, the Yalensians all took pails and shovels and began to dig for clams, the New England boys tutoring the westerners for once.  Then while the bivalves baked beneath the sand, Adam was once again called upon to play his guitar while his comrades filled the evening air with melody.  When the clams were ready, they feasted on the succulent flesh, each declaring it the finest meal they had ever shared.  Although Adam suspected that those feelings of fellowship were enhanced by the claret some had mixed with their lemonade, no one was really tipsy enough to become sloppily sentimental, and each man made it back to the omnibus under his own steam.  Back in New Haven, they made their way to the fence and perched on it for a final song or two before separating with promises of “See you in September” and seeking their beds about midnight.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam gazed dreamily across the restaurant table as Elizabeth dabbed daintily at her lips.  “Would you care for another roll?” he asked.  He was secretly glad when she said no, for his finances were still tight.  That would soon be a thing of the past, he told himself.  His summer job would give him pocket money, and the scholarship next year would cover most of his school expenses.  Until he got that first paycheck from Bracebridge, Harwood and Associates, though, he needed to watch his pennies, so he’d ordered only coffee when he and Jamie stopped here earlier for breakfast, just so he could afford to treat his girl one last time.  “More coffee, then?” he suggested.  Refills were free, so this time he was hoping she’d say yes.

            “If you have time,” Elizabeth replied.

“Plenty of time,” Adam assured her.  While his friends had taken early trains out of New Haven and he’d gone to see them off, he had delayed his own departure precisely so he could spend time with Elizabeth.  After all, the journey to New York City would take only a few hours by rail, and all he had to do today was get there and check into the hotel, have a good night’s sleep and be ready to go to work in the morning.

            “Oh, Adam,” the girl sighed.  “I wish you didn’t have to go.  I’ll miss you so.”

            “No more than I’ll miss you,” Adam said.

            “Ten whole weeks!” Elizabeth mourned.  “It’s an eternity, Adam.”

            He reached across the table to take her hand.  “To me, too, Elizabeth, but I can’t afford to pass up this opportunity.”

            For a moment a pout puckered her lips; then she smiled wanly.  “Yes, I know.  I must be brave, like Mama sending Papa off to war.”

            Adam drew back, uncomfortable with the comparison.  “Scarcely that serious, but if it helps you to draw inspiration from her bravery—”

            “Oh, it does,” Elizabeth assured him quickly.  She brightened.  “Yes, I shall just think of you as my brave soldier, off to do battle against bad architecture.”  She touched a finger to the corner of her mouth and said drolly, “Now, if they only gave out uniforms for that.”

            Adam laughed.  “Attracted to men in uniform, are you?”

            Elizabeth tittered.  “Perhaps.  I certainly think you’d look handsome in one.”

            “Perhaps,” Adam responded vaguely.  He’d considered putting on a uniform, although certainly not because he thought he’d look handsome in one.  He didn’t want to think about that now, though.  He wanted only to think about the beautiful creature across the table from him . . . and then, once she was out of sight, about the future he would be building . . . a future that might well include her.

            They finished their final cups of coffee, and Adam reluctantly admitted that it was time for him to get to the depot.  “See me off?” he requested.

            “Of course!” Elizabeth declared.  “I must fill my eyes with you if I’m to be deprived of the sight for ten whole weeks.”

            Adam circled her shoulders as he guided her toward the door.  “Keep busy, and the time will fly,” he said, wondering if he could follow his own advice.  Certainly, he’d have plenty of new sights and activities to keep him busy, but probably lots of empty hours in a meagerly furnished room with nothing to do but long for the sight of a certain beautiful face.  As they exited, he stole a quick kiss and was rewarded with a blushing smile that belied the rebuke in her eye.

            With time to spare, they strolled slowly to the railroad depot, where Adam retrieved the carpetbag and guitar he’d left there when he purchased his ticket earlier that morning.  Anything he would not need in New York had been sent to Springfield with Jamie, with instructions to use them as if they were his own, so Adam was traveling light.

            As Elizabeth sat next to him on a bench in the waiting room, she said, “Now, you will write, won’t you, Adam?”

            “Of course,” Adam promised.  “I’ll send you my new address as soon as I can, so I can receive your sweet epistles in return.”

            She pursed her lips primly.  “I seem to remember similar promises before your last vacation, and you, sir”—she tapped his chest with a rebuking finger—“did not fulfill your word.”

            “I’ll do better this summer,” he promised, taking her finger and kissing its tip.  “I only hope I don’t bore you with my talk of work, as I may not have much else to report.”

            “Well, no talk of lines and angles, if you please, but I’m sure I’ll be interested in your progress as an architect.”

            Adam laughed.  “I doubt I’ll make much progress as an architect this summer.  I’ll probably be more of a glorified errand boy, but I do hope to learn what the profession is like and to impress Mr. Bracebridge well enough that he’ll want me back again next summer.”

            “Oh, I’m certain of that,” she declared loyally.

            A clerk walked through the room, calling, “All aboard for Stratford, Stamford and New York City, with all points in between.”

            Adam stood.  “Well, that’s me.”  Knowing her feelings about public displays, he didn’t try to kiss her again, though he could feel his lips prickling with desire.  Instead, he took her arm and walked with her out to the platform.  “Thanks for staying to see me off,” he said.

            “I’ll be looking forward to welcoming you home in September,” she said.  As he climbed onto the end of his railcar, she called, “Remember to write!”

            He grinned and nodded and then hurried inside, so that he could secure a window seat on the correct side of the car.  As the train pulled away, he leaned out, waving and watching as she did the same until they could no longer see each other.  Then, with a sigh, he sat down and stared dreamily out the window, barely seeing the scenery as it rolled past.  When he finally did stop thinking about the girl he’d left behind, his mind pondered, instead, the new challenges that would await him, beginning the next morning.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Situations Auspicious and Anxious

 

 

            Adam carefully adjusted his crimson silk cravat in the small mirror above the bureau in his room in French’s Hotel.  He couldn’t afford to wear his best suit to work, for then he’d have nothing for more formal occasions, but he wanted to look sharp on his first day, so he had chosen his best tie.  Satisfied that his grooming, at least, was impeccable, he went downstairs to breakfast, although he could stomach only a roll and coffee.  Eager to make a good first impression, he left in time to arrive at the office early.  He smiled as he approached the exit, however, in realization that, with Mr. Bracebridge at least, he’d already made that first impression and it had been a good one.

            The smile faded as he moved onto the sidewalk, for facing him, in the open ground across the street, was the sobering sight of an Army encampment.  He’d seen it when he arrived the previous afternoon, of course, and it had sobered him then, too.  Three years was too much disruption of his education to devote to serving in the Army; he’d said it to himself over and over again.  Yet those men across the street were no older than he and they were doing it.  Surely, they had plans as important to them as his were to him, yet they were delaying them—and in some cases sacrificing them—to do their duty to their country.  Could he do less and call himself a citizen?  He had absolutely no doubt how his father would answer that question, and his own heart said the same, but his mind continued to accuse him.  He hesitated for a moment; then, turning sharply to the left, he began walking downtown with brisk strides.  His duty, at least for the next ten weeks, lay in the offices of Bracebridge, Harwood and Associates, and it wouldn’t do to be late the first day.

            When he arrived, he did spare a moment to gaze admiringly at the tall brownstone trimmed with creamy marble.  Ignoring the other business names etched into the glass panels of the doors, he let his index finger slide across the letters of the architectural firm.  Somehow, the touch conveyed a sense of belonging to him, the way fingering the pine tree brand back home had always reminded him that he was part of the Ponderosa and the Ponderosa part of him.  He was part of Bracebridge, Harwood and Associates now, the most miniscule part of it, to be sure, but part nonetheless.  Then, reminding himself that he wouldn’t be part of it for long if he didn’t get through those doors and report for duty, he laughed and stepped into the main lobby.

            He took the stairs to the fourth floor and soon found himself outside the walnut door he remembered from his previous visit.  Taking a deep breath, he went inside and, removing his hat, stopped at the maple desk closest to the entrance.

            The man seated behind it looked up, gray eyes peering at him through round spectacles.  “May I be of assistance, sir?”

            “Yes.  My name is Adam Cartwright,” Adam began.

            The little man, for he was barely taller than Hop Sing, rose at once and extended a hand.  “Of course, Mr. Cartwright.  We’ve been expecting you, and I must say it’s a pleasure to finally put a face with the name that has so frequently crossed my desk.”  Seeing Adam’s quizzical look, he chuckled softly.  “I handle Mr. Bracebridge’s correspondence, you see.”

            Adam smiled.  “Ah, yes.  I’m afraid I have added to your workload, Mr. . . ?”

            “Perkins,” the man responded.  “Samuel Perkins, and it was no trouble at all, young man.  Just part of my job.  If you’ll just wait here, Mr. Cartwright, I’ll see whether Mr. Bracebridge is free to see you now.”

            While he waited, Adam looked around the office.  Two areas at the back of the room were partitioned off, and in one he saw a well-dressed man, apparently a client, sitting across the desk from a man he couldn’t see.  One of the associates in the company name, perhaps?  In the large outer room a row of slanted drawing tables stood, although only one was occupied.  Would one of those be his?  Or would he be, as he had joked to Elizabeth, nothing but an errand boy for the firm?  Given his present level of inexperience, he doubted that he was useful for much else, but he hoped for more.

            Mr. Perkins came out of the inner office and motioned to Adam, who joined him at once.  Perkins stepped aside to allow the younger man to enter and then closed the door after Adam.

            Beaming, Mr. Bracebridge came around the desk.  “Adam, my boy!  I’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”  He shook Adam’s hand and gestured toward a nearby chair.

            As Adam sat down, Bracebridge half-sat and half-stood against the corner of his large desk.  Smiling, he inclined his chin toward the portfolio resting in the younger man’s lap.  “More drawings for me to evaluate?” he queried.

            “These have been evaluated . . . by Louis Bail,” Adam said.  “I brought them in case you’d like to see the improvement I’ve made over this final term.”

            “I would, indeed,” Bracebridge said, “especially since you haven’t sent me many drawings in the last few months.  Seeing Adam’s apologetic expression, he quirked a quick smile.  “Lack of time, I’m sure, due to these extra assignments.”  He took the portfolio and opened it, nodding as he examined sheet after sheet.  “And the time was obviously put to good use.  Definite improvement,” he said as he closed the portfolio.  “I see that my instincts about your potential have been justified.”

            Adam flushed with pleasure at the compliment.  “I hope you will find some use for it,” he murmured.

            “We will, we will,” Mr. Bracebridge assured him.  “However, first things first.”  He put his head out the door and called out, “Mr. Morganstern, could you come here, please?”

            The young man standing at a drawing table immediately set aside his pencil and came across the room.  As he entered, Adam stood to meet him.  “Mr. Adam Cartwright, I would like to introduce you to Mr. B. L. Morganstern, newly apprenticed to our firm.”

            “Very pleased to meet you,” Adam said, shaking hands with the other man, who he judged to be two or possibly three years older than he.

            “The pleasure is mine, sir,” Morganstern responded politely.

            “I’ve asked Mr. Morganstern to help you settle in,” Mr. Bracebridge explained.  “He’ll show you around the office and acquaint you with the local environment, as well as offer assistance with obtaining lodgings . . . unless you’ve already made arrangements?”

            “I’m at a hotel,” Adam said tentatively.

            “I presumed as much,” Bracebridge said.  He added with his easy smile.  “You’ll find a boardinghouse much more economical, and having recently sought such accommodations for himself, Mr. Morganstern can advise you.”

            “I’d be very appreciative,” Adam said.

            “I’ll leave you in his capable hands, then,” Mr. Bracebridge said.  With an encouraging tap on Adam’s shoulder he returned to his office.

            Morganstern drew himself up to his full height, though he still fell half a head below Adam.  “Well, shall we begin the tour?”

            Adam nodded.

Morganstern gestured toward a hallway that led deeper into the building.  “Storage.  Associates’ offices.  Haven’t had much call to go down there myself.”

“How long have you been with the firm, Mr. Morganstern?” Adam asked as they began to move around the perimeter of the room.

            “What?”  The other man looked flustered for a moment.  “Oh, well . . . about a month now.”

            Adam pressed his lips together to keep from laughing.  Despite the dignity with which his guide conducted him, Morganstern was apparently as green, almost, as he himself.  Still, even a month’s experience made him a superior, and Adam had a feeling his new companion took considerable stock in that.

            “This is Mr. Harwood’s office,” Morganstern whispered as they approached the office Adam had noticed before.  “He’s with a client now or I’d introduce you.”  His face reddened.  “Although, to be honest, I scarcely know him.  He isn’t in often.  Only handles a few old clients.”  He lowered his voice and whispered confidentially, “Thank goodness.”

            Adam arched an inquiring eyebrow, but his coworker shook his head and moved on to the next cubicle, which was filled with wide filing cabinets.  Morganstern pulled open a drawer and showed Adam one of the large drawings stored inside.  “We file our plans here.  I’ll show you our system later, as that’s probably where you’ll start, assisting Mr. Perkins.”

            “Good,” Adam said.  He expected to start at the bottom, but even handling those architects’ plans, to him, was a step in the right direction, especially if he was given time to study them as he filed.

            Morganstern showed him to one of the drawing tables and proudly said, “This is mine.  Would you care to see what I’m working on?”

            “Very much,” Adam said.  For the next half hour Mr. Morganstern showed him a set of architectural renderings, some details of which he had been requested to copy.  That was work that Adam thought he himself was capable of, thanks to Louis Bail’s instruction in drawing, and he hoped that he’d soon be elevated from file clerk to a position resembling that of the man exhibiting the work to him now.  He watched Morganstern carefully as he began his copy work on a fresh sheet of drawing paper.

            When the drawing was completed, Morganstern showed it to an apprentice more senior than he, who approved it and took it to submit to Mr. Bracebridge.  “Glad it’s for him,” Morganstern whispered to Adam.  “His partner”—his gaze fell on Harwood’s office—“tends to be more critical.”

            “Your renderings looked excellent to me,” Adam assured him.

            Morganstern’s chest expanded.  “Yes, well, while we’re waiting on that, why don’t I show you that filing system?”

            “Please do,” Adam said.

            They were interrupted some twenty minutes later, when Morganstern was called into Mr. Bracebridge’s office.  He looked visibly relieved when he returned to the file room, located next to Mr. Harwood’s office.  “One small correction to be made,” he said, “and as soon as I’ve completed that, we’re free for the day.”

            Adam’s jaw dropped.  “But I haven’t done anything,” he protested.

            Morganstern laughed.  “Never look a free afternoon in the mouth, my friend.”  He laid a companionable hand on Adam’s shoulder.  “It’s almost time for lunch, anyway.  Mr. Bracebridge has asked me to give you the general layout of the city, the parts you’re likely to be sent to, that is, and to help you find lodgings and get your belongings transferred.  That’s the reason for the afternoon off.”

            “Oh, yes, he mentioned that earlier,” Adam remarked.  “I just hadn’t realized he intended me to do that during working hours.”

            “He’s a generous man,” Morganstern observed.

            Adam smiled in recollection of how kindly Mr. Bracebridge had treated him on his first visit and all the help he’d given by mail over the last six months.  “Yes, I’ve more reason than most to know that.”

            “Indeed?  Well, you must tell me about it sometime, but now I must complete that drawing.”  He waved at the file drawers.  “Take a look at some of the plans if you like.  Just be sure to put everything back where you find it.”

            Adam eagerly took advantage of the opportunity to pore over the architectural plans, and he found them so interesting that it seemed no time at all before the young apprentice rejoined him and said that they could be on their way.  “Your correction was approved, then, Mr. Morganstern?” Adam inquired as soon as they were in the hallway.

            “Approved and complimented,” Morganstern replied, as they started down the stairs, “but no need to be so formal.  You may call me Bert.”

            Adam nodded.  “And I’m Adam.  I wondered what B. L. stood for.”

            Bert’s nose wrinkled.  “Bertram,” he said.  “Dreadful name, but it’s come down in the family.”

            “And the L.?”

            “A dark secret, sir, never to be mentioned,” Bert said with a shiver.  “I’ll only say that Bertram was sufficiently ridiculous already without pairing it with that.”

            “You realize, of course,” Adam teased, “that you’ve aroused my curiosity to a pitch that will never be satisfied until I learn your secret.”

            Bert threw his head back and guffawed, grasping the handrail to hold himself steady.  “I did rather put my foot in that, didn’t I?  You mustn’t hound me about it, though, or I shall deposit you in a boarding house with the vilest victuals in town.  I know just the one.”

            “Yours?” Adam inquired, cocking his head.

            Bert nodded morosely.  “For a full week when I first arrived, but I’ve landed in a much better place now.”

            “I rejoice for you,” Adam said with a chuckle.

            “And possibly for yourself,” Bert said.  “There is another room available, and I spoke to the landlady on your behalf.  She’s agreed to interview you and see if you’re acceptable.”

            “I hope I can pass muster,” Adam said as they reached the ground floor.

            “No worries there,” Bert assured him.  “She’s already taken with the notion that you’re a college man.”

            “And the cost?” Adam asked.

            Bert gave him an understanding look.  “Reasonable.  My salary is small, too, Adam, so I have to watch such things.  The landlady does offer the option of taking only two meals a day with her. We normally wouldn’t have time to return there for the noon meal anyway, so breakfast and supper at the house is sufficient.  Plenty of places close to the office where a fellow can catch a quick bite for a pittance.”

            “Sounds like just what I need,” Adam said, slowing his steps to match those of the other man.  “Is that where we’re headed now?”

            “Well, no,” Bert admitted.  “With the afternoon free, I thought we might range further abroad, over to Washington Street, across from the Market.”

            Adam shrugged, for the address was meaningless to him.

            Guessing that, Bert laughed.  “Best get started acquainting you with the city, hadn’t I?  We’re headed toward the North River on the west side of the island.”  From that time on, he began to tell the name of each street they crossed and what businesses might be found on it, especially those to which a young apprentice architect might be sent from time to time.  Adam couldn’t help but notice that his new friend took special care to point out every eating establishment they passed with detailed commentary on the worth of its cuisine.  He had a feeling that with Bert as his guide, he’d never starve.

            That feeling landed on firm foundation when they arrived at Smith and McNell’s and found seats in the downstairs dining room.  “Fancier food upstairs,” Bert confided, “but you get a great plate of food for a nickel or dime down here.  Order whatever you like, Adam: steak, chops, ham and eggs.  My treat.”

            “Thank you kindly,” Adam said, resolving to return the favor soon.  He selected the chops and, at Bert’s urging, added an order of mashed potatoes to them.  “These are excellent,” he said after his first bite of the hot meat.

            Bert waved a fork holding a bite of steak at him.  “You can always trust me in areas of cuisine,” he chuckled.

            Amused to have his surmise so quickly confirmed, Adam grinned.  “And in areas of office relationships?” he asked.  “I gather that Mr. Harwood, for instance, is rather harder to please than Mr. Bracebridge.”

            Bert leaned in closer, as if even here he were afraid of being overheard.  “That’s my impression.  Thankfully, I haven’t worked under him directly, but I’ve heard him rake some of the younger associates over the coals for what he termed ‘shoddy workmanship.’  I’d advise you to steer clear of him.”

            “He might have much to teach me,” Adam said, “and I am here to learn.”

            Bert’s brow furrowed.  “Yes, I suppose.  I must admit I don’t understand this notion of a summer apprenticeship.  You’ll barely begin to be useful here before you head back to the books, for whatever use they may be.”

            “I find them useful,” Adam said quietly.

            Fearing that he’d given offense, Bert backtracked quickly.  “Oh, I don’t underestimate the value of learning,” he said.  “Not at all.  It’s just . . . well . . .”

            “Unconventional?” Adam suggested with a smile.  “Don’t worry.  I’ve heard it before . . . from all the architects I visited before Mr. Bracebridge.  I couldn’t believe he even agreed to see me, much less offer me this summer position.”

            Bert’s eyes shone with warmth.  “He is splendid, isn’t he?  Perkins is a brick, too.  Knows more about the company than most of the associates and willingly answers any question put to him, no matter how busy he is.”  Over the rest of the meal, Bert described the other associates with the company and even shared an anecdote about a particularly demanding client that soon had Adam almost rolling with laughter.

            When they’d cleaned their plates, even sopping up the gravy with bread, Bert suggested, “We could have pie here, if you like, but I think a dish of ice cream sounds better on this hot day.  And it would give you a chance to see the Washington Market.”

            “Ice cream does sound refreshing,” Adam admitted, “but do we have time?  I wouldn’t want to make a poor impression on my future landlady by arriving late.”

            Bert laughed.  “She won’t be expecting us this early, and I can assure you you’ll make a fine impression on her.  On to the Market, then.”  He pushed back his chair.

            “If you’ll let me treat you this time,” Adam said.

            Bert pursed his lips.  “Do you have the funds?  I don’t mean to pry into your personal circumstances, of course, but I thought . . . since you haven’t had your first paycheck . . .”

            “Very thoughtful of you,” Adam said quickly to assuage his friend’s discomfort, “but I do have some funds available to me, certainly enough for two dishes of ice cream.”

            Bert grinned broadly.  “I accept with pleasure, then.”

            Once they’d finished their ice cream, they headed east until they reached City Hall Park and then turned north until they crossed Canal Street.  “Not far now,” Bert said, wiping perspiration from his brow.  “The house is on Orchard.”  They walked a few more blocks before Bert paused in front of a three-story home of plain brick, which had obviously seen better days.  Its trim, in fact, was in decided need of a fresh coat of paint.  “There it is,” Bert said.  “Nothing special architecturally, of course, but it’s clean, and the landlady doesn’t scrimp on the victuals.”

            “Both important qualities,” Adam said with a smile.  He remembered some of the boardinghouses that he and Pa had stayed in before meeting Inger.  There’d been times, when Pa’s pocketbook was nearly empty, that they’d been forced to stay in places with dust thick enough to make him cough or in others where the pittance they could pay bought only a meager meal.  Realizing that, without Bert’s guidance, he might well have ended up in just such a place, he felt a sudden surge of gratitude.

            They entered and placed their hats on a rack standing beside the front door.  Then Bert ushered him into the parlor.  A slightly rotund lady, probably in her late forties, set aside her crochet work and rose to meet them.  “Mrs. Whitney,” Bert said, “may I present to you Mr. Adam Cartwright, the gentleman of whom we spoke earlier?  Adam, Mrs. Ophelia Whitney.”

            Mrs. Whitney extended her hand in a manner that indicated her expectation of being greeted in the European style.  Adam took the hand and, bowing, kissed it lightly.  “My pleasure, Mrs. Whitney,” he said.

            She blushed prettily, clearly pleased by his suave manners.  “Won’t you be seated, Mr. Cartwright?”  She motioned toward an armchair upholstered in flowered brocade.  Like the house’s exterior, its furnishings had seen better days, but the fabric, while faded, was not threadbare, and the room exuded an air of quiet gentility, as did its hostess.

            “Thank you,” Adam said, taking the chair.  Bert moved to a side table near the room’s entrance and began to riffle through a pile of letters there.

            “So, Mr. Cartwright,” the landlady said, “I understand that you are recently arrived in the city and in need of a place of lodging.”

            “That’s correct,” Adam said.  “Mr. Morganstern has spoken highly of your establishment, ma’am, so I am in hopes that you will have room for me here.”

            The lady’s lips tightened for a moment.  “It is not entirely a matter of whether I have room, Mr. Cartwright.”  She smiled demurely.  “I am, after all, a woman bereft of male protection, and I have three young daughters, so I must be certain that the young gentlemen who board here are of unquestioned character.”

            “Certainly,” Adam said at once.  “I could arrange for references, if you like, although the only local one, which I could obtain on short notice, would be my employer, Mr. Addison Bracebridge.”

            “A point in your favor,” Mrs. Whitney said.  She nodded toward Bert, who had taken a seat across the parlor to read his mail.  “Mr. Morganstern, of that same firm, has certainly proven to be a congenial guest.”

            Bert looked up to smile at her and returned to his letter.

            “However, Mr. Bracebridge can scarcely have had time to know you well,” the lady observed.

            “In person, no,” Adam agreed, “although we have been corresponding for several months.  I could, given time, have some of my professors at Yale assure you that my character is acceptable.”  He was confident that Professor Hadley, at the very least, would willingly offer such a reference.

            Mrs. Whitney nodded.  “It would have been helpful, of course, if you had thought to bring such a reference with you.”

            Adam resisted the urge to bite his lower lip.  “I suppose it would have.”  His mind raced to calculate his chances of finding lodging anywhere in New York City, if all the landladies proved as demanding.  “I regret my lack of forethought, ma’am,” he said as he started to stand, “but I suppose it would be best for me to apply elsewhere.”

            Mrs. Whitney fluttered her hands with alarm.  “Now, don’t be so hasty, young man.”  She tittered like a young girl.  “Sit down, sit down.  Dear me, you’d think an old woman with three young ones of her own would understand a young person’s lack of forethought.”

            Adam recognized a fishing expedition when he saw one.  As he took his seat again, he said, “I would scarcely describe you as an old woman, ma’am.”

            The tittering rose in pitch.  “There now, you see what pretty manners you have.  That speaks well of your upbringing, and that means more to me than references.  Why don’t we begin again, Mr. Cartwright, and you tell me about your family.”

            Adam relaxed.  Talking about his family was easy and always a pleasure.  “Certainly.  I have a wonderful father, who is almost entirely responsible for my upbringing.”

            A look of shock crossed the landlady’s face.  “You give no credit to your mother, young man?”

            Adam’s eyes veiled, as his thoughts ran first to Marie, from whom he had gained whatever suavity and gentility his manners possessed, and then further back to Inger, who had laid the foundation of good manners in her loving concern for others.  “I do, of course,” he said, “but since she passed away, my father has seen to my upbringing.  That’s what I meant.”  He declined further explanation of the family history, the complexity of which he was usually reluctant to explain to strangers.

            Her face softened with sympathy for a motherless boy.  “I’m sure he’s done the best he could, and you do well to appreciate his efforts.”  Interest sparked in her gray eyes.  “Will he be visiting you here by chance?”

            Adam fought hard to keep at bay the smirk twitching at his lips.  He had seen that look in other ladies’ eyes back home, when Marie’s death turned Ben Cartwright, almost overnight, into the most eligible man around, and was certain he could read the mind of the widow facing him now.  “I think that unlikely,” he said.  “It is a long journey from Nevada.”

            “Nevada!” the widow squealed and then quickly composed herself.  “Pardon me, Mr. Cartwright, but you took me quite by surprise with that revelation.  I had assumed you were a New England boy.”

            Adam laughed softly.  “Well, I was born there.  Then we emigrated west.”

            Mrs. Whitney sank back in her chair.  “Dear me, your father wasn’t one of those fools who chased west after gold, I hope.”

            “Not at all,” Adam assured her.  “His dream was to build a home and help to build a community.  He’s been quite successful at that.”

            The widow’s interest peaked again.  “Oh?”

            Though normally not given to braggadocio, Adam decided that he’d better make his background sound as solid as possible, if he hoped to obtain a room here.  “Yes.  Our ranch, the Ponderosa, is well established, and most men consider Ben Cartwright a leader in the community.  In fact, Governor Nye has, on occasion, consulted him about—um—certain local problems.”  He left those “local problems” undefined, judging that any mention of Indians would only paint a picture of his home territory as a wild and woolly place, from which young men of character were unlikely to emerge.

            Mrs. Whitney was obviously impressed.  “Do you refer to James Nye, formerly president of our metropolitan police commission?”

            “Why, yes,” Adam said, certain his stock was rising by the moment.

            He wasn’t wrong.  Mrs. Whitney drew herself up in her chair.  “I’m quite certain, then, that you would make a fine addition to our little home, Mr. Cartwright.  No one from a family esteemed by Mr. Nye could fail to be of high character.”

            “I greatly appreciate the opportunity to join your household,” Adam said.  “Would it be convenient for me to move my belongings in this afternoon or would you like a day to prepare the room?”

            “How thoughtful you are,” the landlady cooed.  “Since I strive always to maintain my rooms in readiness for the next guest, however, I hope you will join us this very evening.  Will you return by suppertime?”

            “Yes, ma’am,” Adam said, rising.  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to my hotel at once and make the necessary arrangements.”

            She rose, as well, extending her hand for a farewell kiss.  “We shall await your arrival with anticipation, Mr. Cartwright.”

            “Need some help?” Bert, who had remained on the periphery of the conversation, asked.

            “I’d appreciate it,” Adam said, “although I can manage on my own, if it’s any imposition.”

            “Not at all,” Bert assured him, coming forward to take his leave of their landlady in the same manner that Adam had.  As soon as they were outside, he chuckled.  “You handled her just right, my friend.  Was that really true about the governor?”

            “Would a young gentleman of character lie?” Adam teased as they turned onto the street.  “Yes, it’s true, although the occasions when Governor Nye requests my father’s help aren’t frequent.”

            “Very impressive,” Bert observed.  Then he chuckled.  “Not that you were ever in danger of being refused.  No handsome young man of reasonable means need ever fear rejection from a household with three marriageable daughters.”

            “Marriageable!” Adam squawked.  “But she said they were young; I assumed they were children.”

            Bert guffawed.  “The eldest is about five years your senior, the second approximately your age, and the third—well, she is younger, but don’t let your guard down with that one, Adam, if you value your bachelorhood.”

            “I’m taken,” Adam announced firmly, thinking of Elizabeth, “or attached, at least unofficially.”

            “For mercy’s sake, don’t mention that!” Bert advised.  “Mrs. Whitney’s esteem for your character would plummet drastically.”

            “I’ll try to keep it under my hat,” Adam said dryly.  “I see now why you were so anxious for me to lodge here—to take the pressure off you!”

            Grinning, Bert shook his head.  “I had no such ulterior motive, I assure you, but I do have the feeling that once our three budding belles get a look at you, their interest in me will evaporate.”  He stroked his chin thoughtfully.  “I may regret that.  The attention can be quite stimulating—in moderation.”

            “I came here for architectural stimulation,” Adam grunted.

            “Ah, but what more graceful architecture could one study than the female form?” Bert suggested, his hands tracing feminine curves in the air.

            Adam rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help grinning at the nonsense.  “I fear that you, sir, are going to be a bad influence on my studious character.”

            “To the best of my ability,” Bert assured him with a naughty wink.

            “Then it behooves me to learn more about your background, young man,” Adam declared with his best imitation of Mrs. Whitney.  “Do you, perchance, have a widowed father nearby?”  He clasped his breast dramatically.  “Oh, surely not as far as the wilds of New Jersey?”

            “My mother is hale and hearty and comfortably settled in Philadelphia, along with my father and my older brother and his family,” Bert snorted.  As they walked along, he described his home for Adam and how he had come to develop an interest in architecture.   Before long they reached Adam’s hotel and went up to his room.  “For someone so far from home,” Bert observed as Adam gathered the few belongings he had taken from his carpetbag the night before, “your kit is remarkably sparse, my friend.”

            Adam shrugged.  “I sent most of my ‘kit’ to Springfield with my college roommate—and aren’t you glad?”

            “That I am!” Bert agreed, hefting the bag of books.

            “No, let me take that,” Adam urged.  “It’s heavy.”

            “I’ve got it,” Bert insisted.  He eyed with interest the guitar that Adam was slipping across his back by its strap.  “I say, do you play that?”

            “Now, why would I tote something as bulky as this around if I didn’t?” Adam asked with a shake of his head.

            “Foolish question, I suppose,” Bert admitted, looking chagrinned.

            “No,” Adam said quickly.  “Just the way one would ask it of a new acquaintance.  I should have simply said, ‘Yes, I do,’ instead of making a smart remark.  My apologies.”  He picked up his carpetbag.

            His expression relaxing, Bert shrugged it off.  “What I was really wondering—and I’m assuming the answer is yes—was whether you were fond of music—concerts, for instance,” he said as they left the room and walked toward the stairs.

            “Very much,” Adam said.  “We—my friends and I—enjoyed a number of theatrical and musical presentations when we visited here at Christmas, and I hope to have that opportunity this summer, as well.”

            “I know just the thing,” Bert said with enthusiasm, following Adam down the stairs.  “Tell you about it as soon as you’ve checked out.”

             “So,” Bert said, once that minor detail had been taken care of, “Would a band concert appeal to you?   There’s one in Central Park on Saturday, every Saturday, in fact.  Some popular works, some classical.”

            Adam’s lips pursed thoughtfully.  “I’d like that, except for the timing.  I hadn’t planned to spend money on entertainment until I’d earned some . . . more than just the couple of days I’ll work this week, I mean.”

            Bert laughed.  “But the Central Park concerts are free!  Our only cost will be the streetcar fare, and if you’re worried about that, I can loan you that much.”

            “I think I can manage five cents,” Adam said with a chuckle.

            “Let’s go straight there from work, then,” Bert suggested.  “We get off at two on Saturdays, and the concert begins at 4:30, so we’ll have time to walk about the park a bit.  Have you seen it before?”

            “Briefly,” Adam said.  “As the weather was freezing in December, we really didn’t care to stay out in the open long.”

            “Ah!  Much better now in its full greenery.”

            Much better, Adam thought, and he wasn’t only referring to Central Park.  This entire day had gone much better than he’d had reason to hope.  He’d made a new friend, found appropriate lodgings and even had prospects for an enjoyable weekend to look forward to after a very short first week at work.

 

* * * * *

 

            With a push of satisfaction, Adam closed the top drawer of the narrow chest in his room.  The room was small; in fact, he was certain that the original bed chamber had been split in half when this house was fitted out for boarders.  Still, he’d found adequate storage for his few belongings, and since he didn’t expect to spend much time here, the size didn’t matter.  Nor did the sparseness of its furnishings: a narrow bed, the chest of drawers, a small writing table and a straight-backed chair, all of the plainest pine.  The lacy white curtains at the window were unconscionably frilly for a gentleman’s room, but other than that, he had no cause for complaint.

            Consulting his watch, he noticed that he still had half an hour before the time which Bert had told him lodgers were expected to gather in the parlor before dinner.  Time enough to begin, at least, a letter to Elizabeth.  He felt a twinge of guilt as he sat down at the writing table with pen and stationery.  He owed his family letters, too, of course.  He owed everyone he knew letters, for that matter, but surely one more day wouldn’t matter to those back home.  It would matter to Elizabeth, and he should post his new address to the Edwards, too, since they’d receive it quickly and he could soon hear from them.  He winced, realizing that the greater distance to be covered was reason enough to put his family and friends in Nevada first.  Given the slowness—in fact, the frequent disruption—of the mails, it would take at least six weeks for them to receive his first letter and send one back, so he wasn’t likely to hear from home more than once or twice this summer.  Well, he’d write them tomorrow, for sure, but tonight he just had to write to Elizabeth.  He’d promised her to write faithfully, and it was important that he begin to fulfill that promise tonight.  He couldn’t disappoint her as he had during his vacation in Springfield.

            He’d filled two pages with details of his first day in New York City when he realized it was time to go downstairs.  Mrs. Whitney had emphasized that she expected all her boarders to be punctual for meals.  Punctuality was a trait Adam had been schooled in from childhood and one which Hop Sing was adamant about where meals were concerned.  Besides, Adam thought with a nostalgic grin as he descended the stairs, punctuality at the table was practically a matter of survival when one shared that table with Hoss.

            He entered the parlor, where he found Bert and another male boarder already waiting.  “Adam, allow me to introduce our fellow resident, Mr. Gerald McCrory,” Bert said.

            “Pleased to meet you, sir,” Adam said, extending his hand.

Gerald McCrory was a man who appeared to be in his early forties.  His light brown hair was already sprinkled with gray, and his round spectacles persisted in sliding down his narrow nose, despite his frequent attempts to push them back into place.  He described himself as “a financial man,” which Adam soon learned meant that he worked in one of the banking firms downtown.

            Adam had just mentioned that he was in need of a good bank when Mrs. Whitney appeared in the doorway and asked them all to come to dinner.  “I shall be pleased to advise you,” Mr. McCrory said as he brushed past Adam to bow his appreciation to the lady before moving into the dining room.

            Adam followed, copying the gesture, and took a seat next to Bert after receiving a nod in answer to the inquiring arch of his eyebrow.  His eyes scanned the table, already set with the main dishes for dinner.  The fare was plain, but seemed sufficient for the number of people around the table, which included an elderly couple, in addition to the three single men.

            “Are the young ladies not joining us this evening?” the elderly man asked.

            “Oh, certainly,” Mrs. Whitney replied, tittering a bit as she added, “Just spending a little extra time on their toilette tonight.”

            That remark bothered Adam on more than one count.  His landlady had been quite adamant that her boarders be punctual, but apparently did not hold her own children to the same standard.  That notion was all but anathema to a young man raised by Ben Cartwright, who tended to expect better behavior from his sons than from any guest or stranger.  What concerned him more, however, was the coy smile the lady had directed specifically toward him when she made her remark.  He had a feeling that he was the motivation for that extra time the young ladies were spending on their “toilette,” and he had no desire to be.

            “Ah, here is my jewel now,” the landlady cooed as a tall woman with an angular face and a prominent hook nose, much like her mother’s, entered.  “My daughter Pearl, Mr. Cartwright.  The rest already know her, of course.”

            “Pleased to meet you, Miss Pearl,” Adam said politely, rising to hold her chair when she moved toward the one next to him.

            “And I you, Mr. Cartwright,” Pearl said, settling her skirts daintily.  “I understand we have much in common.”

            “Oh?” Adam asked warily as he took his seat.

            “A love of fine literature,” she said, gazing soulfully into his eyes.  “Perhaps I presume too much, but as you are a student at Yale . . .”

            “You are correct,” Adam responded to the pregnant pause.  “I enjoy fine literature very much.”

            “Pearl reads constantly, don’t you, my jewel?” Mrs. Whitney inserted.

            “Constantly,” Pearl agreed with a bat of her eyelashes in Adam’s direction.  “Perhaps we could discuss what we are currently reading sometime, Mr. Cartwright.”

            Adam fought down his rising sense of panic and responded with cool courtesy, “Yes . . . perhaps.”

            Before Pearl could begin to recite her current reading list, however, a young sprite bounced in, fixing the other young woman with a baleful eye.  Painting a pretty pout on her face, she said, “Oh, fie, Pearl.  Isn’t that just like you to snare the seat next to our handsome new boarder?”

            Adam flushed crimson, a sight which only made the new competitor for his attentions giggle like the schoolgirl she obviously was.

            “Now, now, my blossom, you mustn’t treat Mr. Cartwright as if he were a slice of fresh meat in the butcher’s window, to be haggled over.”  Mrs. Whitney demonstrated her hereditary link to the newcomer by echoing the same girlish giggle.  “Come and sit down, else he’ll think we serve all our meals cold.”

            The pout protruded still further.  “You haven’t introduced me, Mother.  Honestly, I don’t see how you can reprimand me for my manners when your own are très gauche.”

            “Oh, dear, I haven’t, have I?” the mother babbled.  “Please pardon me, Mr. Cartwright.  My youngest daughter, Rose.”

            Rose spread her rustling skirts and dipped a quick, playful curtsey toward Adam.  “Parlez-vous français, monsieur?”

            Adam almost instinctively winced at her butchery of Marie’s beautiful language, and to cover that, he rose and bowed elegantly from the waist.  “Oui, mademoiselle, je le parle un peu.”

            Rose clapped her hands in delight.  “Oh, how wonderful!  You can help me with my dreadful lessons.”

            “I’m sure Mr. Cartwright has better things to do, Rose,” a grave voice said from the doorway.

            “There, now, we’re all here,” Mrs. Whitney announced, with a flutter of her hands.  “This is my dear Grace, Mr. Cartwright.”

            Adam smiled, bemused.  “And what is your name?”

            The girl’s cool gray eyes blinked once.  “Why, we’ve just been introduced, Mr. Cartwright.”

            Bemusement turned to befuddlement, as Adam quickly sorted through what he knew about this family.  “My jewel” had been Opal; “my blossom” turned out to be Rose, so he had naturally assumed that “my grace” was another pet name, not the middle daughter’s actual name.  Apparently, a misconception.  “Miss . . . Grace?” he asked tentatively.

            “Yes, of course,” she said, looking at him as if she wondered how someone so slow could possibly have passed the entrance exams to Yale.

            Someone down the table cleared his throat loudly.  “If the introductions are complete, perhaps we might begin,” Gerald McCrory suggested pointedly, “or it will not only be Mr. Cartwright who thinks that meals are served cold in this establishment.”

            “Well, really,” Mrs. Whitney said huffily.  “Still, by all means, let us begin.  Mr. Randolph, would you?”

            “Certainly, dear lady,” the older man said and bowed his head to say grace.

            As the dishes were passed, Adam took a discrete survey of the fare on offer.  It was plain food and not quite as plentiful as he’d first calculated, but the amount he was able to put on his plate was adequate, especially in light of the full meal he’d consumed at noon.  The first taste was a disappointment, but a small one.  Nothing, after all, could be expected to compare with Hop Sing’s delicious cooking, and the Vultures’ cook, Mrs. Swanson, had set almost as high a standard.  Still, he’d only be here a few weeks, and if the food didn’t remind him of home (or even his home away from home) it was edible.  He’d survive.

            “I understand you’re from Nevada, young man,” the elderly man ventured.

            “Yes, I am, sir,” Adam said.  “You are Mr. Randolph, I believe?”

            The man smiled genially, his eyes lighting to have even so slight an interest shown in him.  “Jedediah Randolph,” he said, “and this is my good wife, Jochebed.”

            Mrs. Randolph raised her white-capped head and nodded shyly at the newcomer.

            “Good Bible names,” Adam commented pleasantly.

            “Oh?  Are you interested in the Bible, Mr. Cartwright?” Grace inquired, her interest in him evidently renewed.

            “Not particularly.”  Seeing the shocked look on her face and that of the couple with the “good Bible names,” Adam blathered out a fast explanation.  “I mean, I’m well acquainted with the Good Book, of course; Pa saw to that, and so does Yale.  I just don’t consider myself a Biblical scholar, as my roommate at school is.”

            “Oh?”  The spark of interest in Grace’s gray eyes burst into flame.  “Will he be visiting you here in New York?”

            Adam chose to deliberately misunderstand.  “Pa?  Oh, no, it’s much too far from Nevada for him to pay a visit, and he does have a ranch to run, as well as two younger sons to care for.”

            “No, I meant—”

            “How old are they?” Rose interrupted to ask, leaning forward eagerly.

            Adam chuckled.  “Eleven and five, perfect playmates for you, Miss Rose.”

            Rose wagged a finger in his direction.  “You’re a dreadful tease, Mr. Cartwright.  I’m quite perturbed with you.”

            Mrs. Randolph had raised her head again at the mention of children.  “Could you tell us about the little boys, Mr. Cartwright?” she whispered wistfully.

            “Much rather hear about that ranch,” McCrory grumbled.

            “That would be of more general interest, my dear,” Mr. Randolph said with a consoling pat on his wife’s arm.

            “Yes, I’m sorry,” she said quietly, dropping her face toward her plate again.

            Though the entire table turned toward Adam in expectation, he sat silent for a moment, gazing at the downcast face of the elderly woman.  “Mrs. Randolph?” he said softly.  When she looked up at him, he smiled and suggested gently, “Why don’t you and I meet in the parlor before dinner tomorrow, and I’ll tell you all about my little brothers?”

            The sad eyes came to life, and the wrinkled hands clasped one another.  “Oh, yes.  Thank you, dear boy.”

            “Now, what is it you’d like to hear about the ranch, Mr. McCrory?” Adam asked as he sliced off a bite of meat.

 

* * * * *

 

            Nibbling the end of his pen, Adam sat at his desk upstairs.  He had pleaded the need to finish a letter as his means of escape after the meal, but now he wasn’t sure what to tell Elizabeth about those with whom he was sharing his new residence.  She would scarcely be pleased to hear that there were three apparently man-hungry young women under the same roof!  Finally, he decided that he could save any such revelations for the next letter, so he added a few endearments and signed his name.

            He sealed the envelope and addressed it and then pulled out a fresh sheet of stationery for a letter to Jamie.  With him, Adam had nothing to hide, so he quickly described every member of his new household and recounted his struggles to fend off the darling daughters of his landlady.  Both Jamie and Josiah would get a good laugh out of that dilemma, and Adam was happy to supply it to them.  In fact, he could feel his own discomfort with the situation dissipate as he wrote.  Adding his address to the end of the page, he closed the letter and prepared it for mailing the next morning.

            As he lay in bed a short time afterwards, he tried to figure out which member of his family at home was due the next letter.  It was either Hoss or Joe, he was pretty sure, but his father would certainly want to hear of his new situation.  Yawning, he concluded to play it safe and include notes to everyone when he wrote tomorrow evening.  He could hardly wait for the dawn to come, his first full day of work as a hopeful architect.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Pleasures and Pursuit

 

 

            Bertram Morganstern plopped onto a wooden seat as soon as he’d boarded the streetcar.  “Whew!” he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.  “Hot one.”

            Hoping he wasn’t crowding his rather wide-girthed friend, Adam settled into the narrow space remaining at the end of the seat and loosening his cravat, nodded his agreement.  It wasn’t a long walk from the office to City Park, where they’d caught this conveyance, but air didn’t circulate among the tall buildings as well as it did further north.  “The park should be cooler, don’t you think?”

            “Definitely.  The perfect place to relax after a long, hard week of work.”  Apparently eager to begin that relaxation, Bert leaned back and closed his eyes.

            Adam shook his head with a wry grin.  Maybe Bert had worked a “long, hard week,” but Adam knew that he himself had had a very short, light one.  He’d done nothing at all his first day except get somewhat acquainted with the office arrangement and the surrounding area.  As for yesterday, he had put in a full day, but nothing he had done was either difficult or tasking.  For the most part he’d worked with Mr. Perkins in the file room, either finding papers some associate wanted or filing them away when they were returned. He’d done the assigned tasks diligently, and Perkins had complimented his neatness and efficiency.  “Unlike some I might mention,” the clerk had confided with a frown toward the outer room, where Bert’s unsuspecting back bent over a drawing table.  Adam feared his characteristic diligence might have earned him nothing but permanent confinement to the file room.

            He’d been sent out once to deliver some papers to a neighboring office and had welcomed the opportunity for fresh air.  He was luckier than Bert after all, he’d decided, to be confined in that file room.  At least, there was a window in it, although the air was so still that it didn’t help much.  Much as he coveted a place at a drawing table, he was probably more comfortable where he was.  Glancing to his left in the horse car, he saw the sweat glistening again on his comrade’s forehead.  Yes, as the summer progressed, he might become happier by the day to be a file clerk for Bracebridge, Harwood and Associates.

            As they approached 59^th Street, Adam nudged his shoulder into Bert’s and when the other man’s eyes slowly opened, said, “Our stop is coming up soon.”

            “Oh, thanks,” Bert said, yawning.  “I must have drifted off.”

            “Are you sure you want to do this?” Adam inquired hesitantly.  “If you’re that tired . . .”

            Bert chuckled.  “Heat does that to me.  No, I’ll be fine once we’re up and moving.  This was my idea, remember?”

            The streetcar stopped and they debarked, walking the few blocks over to Fifth Avenue.  On entering the park, Adam asked if Bert would mind stopping by the Pond near the entrance.  “I’m eager to see it without the ice and snow of last December.”

            “Sure,” Bert agreed.  “It’s a pretty spot, and we have plenty of time before the concert starts.”

            “Here, let me carry that.”  Adam reached for the light blanket that Bert had brought for them to sit on during the concert, and Bert relinquished it gladly.  They turned immediately to their left, and only a few steps brought them to the edge of a small lake, which Adam estimated to cover about five acres.  He gazed out over the still surface and the gently undulating foliage reflected in the water.  “Much more pleasant now than when I saw it in December.”

            “I would think so!” Bert chortled.  “Although I hear it has its own attractions in winter.  See any lovely skaters when you were here, Adam?”

            “Alas, no.  No skating permitted the day I was here,” Adam admitted.  His mind immediately filled with the image of a certain lovely skater he’d literally bumped into on the skating pond in New Haven, but he couldn’t retain it with this lake looming before him.  It was nothing like Lake Tahoe, a mere puddle compared to that majestic expanse, and the delicate fronds of the willows bending over the shore were certainly different from the sharp needles of conifers back home.  Still, he felt a sudden nostalgia sweep over him, for the quiet serenity of the scene made the same sense of peace well up within him.  He’d written a letter to Pa the night before, but hadn’t mailed it, intending to include notes to each of his brothers with it.  A description of this little crescent-shaped lake would interest them, and Hoss, in particular, would understand how it reminded him of home.  He spotted some small children as they ran down the broad, grassy slope to the very edge of the water to watch the ducks and swans gliding over its surface and knew at once that this would be the most interesting part of the park to Little Joe.  If he could just manage to do justice to a drawing of those graceful, white birds . . .

            “Adam?”  Bert’s voice startled Adam from his reverie.  “You seem rather far away,” he suggested.  “Everything all right?”

            “Fine,” Adam said and explained what he’d been thinking about writing to his little brothers.

            “They sounded like fine little fellows,” Bert offered.  “So kind of you to make that special effort to tell Mrs. Randolph about them in the parlor yesterday evening.  I’m afraid the rest of us behaved rather like boors.”

            “You just didn’t see her eyes,” Adam excused.  “They were so sad, and now we know why.”

            Bert nodded thoughtfully.  “Her grandchildren, living so far away, almost never seeing them.  I wonder . . .”

            “Yes?”

            Bert shrugged.  “Just wondering if my parents would feel the same . . . if my brother were ever to move away.  They positively dote on little Penelope.”

            “Your brother’s child?”

            Bert laughed.  “Indeed, and what a little minx she is!  About the age of your Little Joe and every bit as feisty, comparing your description of his antics with what I know of hers.”

            Adam smiled.  “Heaven help us, then, if they ever get together.”

            “Would you care to walk around?” Bert suggested, gesturing toward the Pond.

            “Very much.”  Adam looked searchingly into his friend’s face.  “If it’s not too much for you.”

            Bert shrugged.  “We’ll be sitting long enough once the concert starts.  Might as well stretch our legs while we can.”

            They turned to the right and followed a path that skirted the edge of the Pond.  It was new territory for Adam, since he and the Edwards hadn’t done much exploring on their earlier visit.  Of course, this was pretty tame exploring, even compared with a five-minute walk from the Ponderosa ranch house, he mused wryly, but the city faded away and the sense of serenity deepened, especially since they had the path almost to themselves.  When they came out close to the western carriage road, Bert suggested that they make their way toward the Mall, which would lead them to the concert area.

            Following the footpath, they came to the intersection of the road they were on with the one on which they’d entered the park and turned north.  Adam paused to admire the marble arch at the foot of the Mall, but Bert moved quickly inside its shade and made for the water hydrant.  Adam followed, his ear cocking at the sound of carriages rumbling on the bridge above his head.  It was an odd sensation, one that took some getting used to, although he had experienced it on his earlier trip.  He chuckled softly as he recalled his younger brother’s response when he’d written a description of it before.  Hoss had written back that he thought over a man’s head was a “right peculiar place to put a horse” and warned Adam to stay away from “such as that.”  Adam had considered writing back to suggest that it was no different from riding into Virginia City, with its honey-comb of mine tunnels beneath the surface, but decided that might do more harm than good.

            “Does it remind you of New Haven?” Bert asked, hand sweeping toward the elms lining both sides of the walk after they’d climbed the stairs at the end of the tunnel beneath the bridge.

            Adam laughed.  “Perhaps in its infancy.  The streets of the City of Elms are overarched by majestic grandfathers of the species, not these”—he had started to say runts, but courtesy made him temper the description—“striplings.”  Although here and there he spotted a mature tree, most of the elms were obviously in the adolescent stage of their lives.

            “I guess they do have a lot of growing to do,” Bert admitted ruefully.

            “And years in which to do it,” Adam suggested.  “The park has made a wonderful start and can only improve with time.  One day this walk will look every bit as stately as any in New Haven.”

            Bert laughed.  “Or Philadelphia.  I challenge you to find older trees in New Haven than there.”

            Adam returned a wicked grin.  “Difficult, perhaps, but you’d be hard put to find trees in Philadelphia older than the ones I’ve seen in California.”

            Bert’s eyes looked dreamy for a minute.  “Oh, the redwoods and sequoias, I suppose you mean.  I’ve read about those.  Always thought they’d be a sight to see.”

            “Come see them, then,” Adam offered.  “You’d always be welcome at the Ponderosa.”

            Bert clapped him on the back.  “Maybe someday.  I think it’ll be easier to get you to Philadelphia, and it has some fine sights, too.”

            “I’d enjoy that,” Adam said politely, although he saw no way at present that he could afford pleasure excursions like that.

            Near the upper end of the Mall, they came to the Music Stand, decorated in gay colors and gold gilding.  A good crowd had already gathered, and the benches provided were already filled.  “Good thing you brought this,” Adam commented as he and Bert spread their blanket on the ground.

            Since a little time still remained before the concert was due to begin, he used it to look around at the crowd, which he estimated at more than ten thousand people.  They were surprisingly well dressed for an afternoon in the park.  In fact, Adam and Bert, having come straight from work, seemed, if anything, underdressed for the occasion.  The rich, alighting from their carriages on the road above and descending a sweeping staircase, were as elegantly attired as if they were attending this concert in the grandest music salon, rather than under an open sky, but even the lower economic classes were obviously dressed in their best.

            Children were cavorting around on the lawn, but as the conductor moved into position, they all scurried back to their parents, and there was a moment of near silence before the soft strains of strings began.  Adam quickly consulted the printed program they had picked up before sitting down.  Meyerbeer.  German, obviously, but not a composer he was familiar with, not that he recognized many of the composers listed.  Nice music, pleasant, but he had expected something more rousing to start a program like this.  A few bars in, though, more instruments joined to create the strident steps of a march, more what he had expected from Bert’s description of popular music.

            For their fourth song the band struck up a polka by someone named Lackner, and around the edges of the crowd, youngsters jumped up to dance.  Adam grinned.  Now, that you wouldn’t see in a grand music salon, and he relished the difference.  A polka, after all, was a dance, though only the children had the abandon to fling dignity aside and enjoy it as it was meant to be enjoyed.

            The polka closed the first portion of the concert, and while the band took a brief break, Bert turned to Adam.  “Enjoying it?” he asked hopefully.

            “Very much,” Adam replied.  “Thanks for bringing me.”

            “Quite welcome.”  Bert’s smile held the slightest smirk of superiority.  “I don’t suppose you’ve had much opportunity to hear classical music, off in the wilds of Nevada.”

            Adam arched an eyebrow, wondering why so many people chose that phrase to describe his home.  “In Nevada?  No, not often, but I took my preparatory schooling in California, and the opportunities there are greater.”

            Bert looked surprised.  “You’ve heard opera before, then?”

            “Not as much as I’d like,” Adam admitted.  “I don’t get to San Francisco often.”

            “Oh, then we must attend one together!” Bert cried enthusiastically.  “It’s my greatest love—musically, I mean.”

            “I’d like to,” Adam said, “although I do want to save as much money as possible, too—for next term at Yale.”  Much as he’d like to squander every cent he earned on operas and dramatic presentations, he also wanted to provide some extra comforts for Jamie next year.  He couldn’t just offer to pay some of his friend’s expenses—that would be charity—but anything he purchased for their common room would be overlooked and, more importantly, shared.

            “I can’t go as often as I’d like, either,” Bert admitted, “but we really must, Adam.  You’re the first person I’ve met here that could possibly share my cultural ardor, so you mustn’t deny me the pleasure of your company on as many outings as possible.”

            “As many as possible,” Adam promised.  The conductor again moved into position to begin the second portion of the concert, which began with another selection from Meyerbeer and ended with one by a Danish composer named Lumbye that startled everyone with its opening sound of a champagne cork being popped.  Not until the third part of the concert did the band play any music with which Adam was already familiar, a work by Guiseppe Verdi, but to him, the joy of the afternoon was hearing so many pieces of music that were new to him.  Free and available every Saturday afternoon—oh, yes, summer in New York City was definitely going to be all he had hoped—and more.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam and Bert had enjoyed their afternoon, but there was a price to be paid when they returned to the boardinghouse, where the entire household was seated in the parlor, occupying themselves in whatever fashion took each one’s fancy.  Joining the group to be cordial, they were immediately accosted by the youngest Whitney daughter, and when they explained where they had been, she cried, with an elaborate pout, “Oh, fie on the both of you!  A grand excursion like that, and you didn’t think to take us!”

            “Are you particularly interested in music, Miss Rose?” Adam asked with studied innocence.

            “Oh, enormously,” she declared, elongating the word for emphasis.  She wagged her index finger in his face.  “You’re a very bad boy, Mr. Cartwright.”  Bestowing the same mark of disapproval on Bert, she added, “And you, as well, Mr. Morganstern.  A fortunate thing that tomorrow is Sunday, as you’ll both need to spend the entire forenoon in repentance.”

            “Now, Rose, my blossom,” Mrs. Whitney chided weakly, “I’m sure the young gentlemen have better things to do than escort you to Central Park.”

            Having a feeling that the rebuke was more intended for the young gentlemen than for the young lady to whom it was addressed, Adam glanced at Bert, dark eyes pleading for help.

            “If only we’d known of your musical interest,” Bert said lamely.  “Perhaps another time.”

            Adam could have strangled him.   He’d looked forward to the weekly concerts, but he had a feeling that attending them with this flighty female, whose musical interest, if it had ever existed, was just as likely to flit away as the butterfly she resembled while dancing about the room.  Adam struggled to find an excuse—any excuse—to discourage her.  “Well, we—uh—went straight from work, you know.  I’m not sure we’d have time to come here to escort you.”

            Rose stopped twirling about to stare at him with narrowed eyes, but before she could say anything, her oldest sister spoke up in clear tones.  “You needn’t be bothered with that.  We can meet you at City Park next Saturday and take the streetcars with you from there.”

            “We?” Adam asked weakly.

            “Well, you wouldn’t expect us to allow Rose to walk the streets on her own,” Pearl declared haughtily.

            “Certainly not,” the mother put in firmly.  “That wouldn’t be proper.”

            “Oh, no, certainly not,” Adam stammered.  A sudden inspiration struck him.  “Perhaps we should all go,” he suggested.  “You’d enjoy a musical afternoon, wouldn’t you, Mr. and Mrs. Randolph?”

            Mrs. Randolph looked hesitantly at her husband.  “It would be pleasant,” she said softly.

            He patted her hand.  “My dear, I’m sure these young people don’t want to be bothered by a couple of tottering old folks like us.”

            The female contingent of the young people all looked intensely bothered by the notion of adding anyone else to the party, but Adam and Bert both hurriedly assured the Randolphs that their company would be a positive delight and that the afternoon wouldn’t be complete without them.  “I won’t take no for an answer,” Adam insisted and was rewarded with their warm smiles of acceptance.  He turned toward the other man in the parlor.  “And won’t you join us, as well, Mr. McCrory?”

            “Unfortunately, my working hours don’t permit that,” he said, “but I thank you for the invitation.”

            “And, of course, you’ll wish to come, too, Mrs. Whitney,” Adam said suavely, “to chaperone your daughters.”

            Mrs. Whitney looked surprised, but apparently realized that having just expressed concern for propriety, to insure that all her daughters would have an equal opportunity of catching the attention of the two eligible young bachelors, she could scarcely afford to appear unconcerned about it now.  “Well, yes, I suppose that would be best,” she murmured, despite feeling that she had been cleverly manipulated, somehow.  The daughters looked decidedly displeased and even more certain than their mother of that manipulation.

            Grace covered a dainty yawn with the back of her hand.  “Well, now that that’s settled, I think it’s time for bed.  I like to be well rested for Sunday services.”

            Resting up for the day of rest—that’s a novel concept.  Adam didn’t speak the words aloud, but perhaps they affected the expression on his face, for Grace stared directly at him and asked, “Will you be joining us at church in the morning, Mr. Cartwright?  Mr. Morganstern generally does.”

            Adam’s quick glance at Bert revealed only a sheepish smile.

            “Now, my dear,” Mrs. Whitney protested feebly.  “We don’t know what Mr. Cartwright’s religious preference is.”  She tittered lightly.  “For all we know, he might be of the Popish persuasion.”

            “And choose Yale as college?” Grace scoffed.  “I scarcely think so, mother.”

            Adam’s cheeks flushed scarlet, as much from outrage as embarrassment.  Marie’s loss was still too fresh for him to stomach any derogatory reference to her chosen faith, even if it wasn’t his own.  He had no idea what sort of church the Whitneys attended, but he felt a sudden aversion to it that had nothing to do with religious dogma.

            “What they are trying to say, Mr. Cartwright,” Pearl announced with strained forbearance for what she clearly thought their inappropriate bickering over him, “is that we would be pleased to have you attend services with us tomorrow at Grace Church.  It’s quite the most fashionable in town.”

            Adam would not have thought it possible, but his distaste for that particular church, of whatever “persuasion” it might be, grew even greater at this announcement.  “I’m afraid I’m not a very fashionable young man,” he said with a wry lift of one corner of his mouth.

            Pearl had the grace to blush.  “You would certainly be welcome in our pew,” she said simply.

            “Thank you,” he said, but he made no commitment.

            Mr. McCrory gave a short laugh.  “No one has asked you what denomination you prefer, have they, Mr. Cartwright?  Or even whether they have churches in the wilds of Nevada.”

            The “wilds of Nevada” again!  Adam had to grin at his fellow boarder’s insistence on seeing the western territory as the habitat of wild Indians and wilder white men.  “They do,” he chuckled, “although not of so many ‘persuasions’”—he nodded at Grace—“as here.”

            “And which do you attend, Mr. Cartwright?” Grace asked.

            Adam shrugged.  “Methodist Episcopal, generally.  It was the first in the territory, but I’ve been exposed to a variety of faiths.”  Though he didn’t list them, he thought of the Lutheran church he had attended with Inger and the Catholic chapel to which he had, on occasion, escorted Marie, as well as the chapel services at Congregationalist Yale.

            “Baptist?”  There was a hopeful light in Mrs. Randolph’s eyes as she shyly asked.  “Of course, our church isn’t at all fashionable . . . .”  Her voice trailed off.

            Adam was quick to snatch what he considered a God-given way of escape.  “If that’s an invitation, I’d be pleased to accompany you tomorrow, since the young ladies already have the inestimable company of Mr. Moganstern.”

            Mr. McCrory snuffled, but Adam was quite certain that he caught the barest hint of a wink from Mr. Randolph’s twinkling eye.  Following Grace’s example, he excused himself for the evening, but he didn’t retire immediately.  He wrote a letter to Hoss about his visit to the park and started a drawing of the Pond with its ducks and swans for Little Joe.  Deciding that he could do a better job in natural light tomorrow afternoon, he set that aside after roughly sketching its outlines and began a letter to Billy Thomas.  He hadn’t written to his old friend in months, and he knew that tonight’s none-too-subtle machinations of the three fair damsels to acquire his company were just the sort of high jinks Billy would relish.

 

* * * * *

 

            “I’m so glad you decided to attend services with us,” Mrs. Randolph said, smiling over her shoulder at Adam as they walked away from the boardinghouse the next morning.  “It was very kind of you.”

            “Now, Jochebed,” her husband chuckled, “I don’t think kindness had much to do with it.”  His eyes twinkled and his chin twitched as he looked back at Adam.

            Adam laughed.  “You’re quite right, Mr. Randolph.  As we say in my part of the country, you pulled my fat out of the fire with your timely invitation, and I’m very grateful.”

            “I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Randolph.

            “You saved me from a morning spent in that ‘fashionable’ church with its fashionably man-hungry adherents,” Adam stated more plainly.

            Mrs. Randolph caught her breath; then she smiled demurely.  “In my day young ladies were more discreet.”

            “But managed quite well to catch the eye of the lad you favored,” her husband teased.

            She blushed, but looked pleased nonetheless.  Evidently, feeling a change of subject was in order, she asked, “Won’t you tell me more about your delightful little brothers, Mr. Cartwright?”

            Adam gave her a grin almost too wicked for a man on his way to church.  “I could tell you stories that would make them seem much less delightful.”

            She only laughed.  “I raised two boys; I know what children can be like.  From a distance, even mischief can delight an old lady.”

            “Well, Nevada should be distant enough,” Adam laughed, “and Little Joe is certainly mischievous enough, but I doubt you’d be in a frame of mind for worship if I recounted the tricks he’s been known to get up to.”

            “On the way home, then?” she asked.

            “Sure,” Adam agreed.  “You should be spiritually fortified by then.”

            Laughing, they crossed Bowery and a block beyond turned north on Elizabeth.  Another block brought them to the intersection with Broome, and on its corner stood a castle-like structure of brownstone with a four-storied turret on each side.  Adam halted across the street to admire the church and take in each detail of its Gothic architecture, particularly the arched windows and entrances.

            “Is it all right?” Mrs. Randolph asked nervously.

            “It’s lovely,” Adam assured her.  “I was just wishing I could draw it.”

            She smiled in relief.  “Grace Church would be much grander, of course.”

            Adam chuckled.  “Well, I might enjoy sketching that, too, sometime, but as a place of worship, I’m sure this will suit me better.  Shall we go in?”  He offered her his arm, which she happily took.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam and the Randolphs arrived home from church, laughing.  As they entered the parlor, Rose declared, “My, aren’t you merry!  Perhaps I should become a Baptist if their services are this jolly.”

            “Adam was just telling us about some of his youngest brother’s antics,” Mrs. Randolph explained, lest anyone think ill of her church.  “Do tell them, Adam.”

            Adam, who had thoroughly enjoyed reliving memories of home with the motherly elder, looked reluctant to share them with the others in the room.  Memories, to him, were precious treasures, only to be shared with those who would appreciate them.

            “Please don’t,” Grace said quickly, whether from her own inclination or in response to his expression, Adam couldn’t have said.  Then, suddenly perceiving that her remark might be considered rude, she added hastily, “Rose doesn’t need any encouragement toward ‘antics.’”

            Rose sniffed haughtily.  “If I wanted to perform ‘antics,’ dear sister, I’m sure I wouldn’t need lessons from a—what is it?—four-year-old.”

            “Five,” Adam corrected, a wave of regret washing over him.  That wasn’t the first of Little Joe’s birthdays he’d missed, for the sake of his own schooling, but he had never missed one of Hoss’s, since he was always home during July.  This year he wouldn’t be, he realized sadly.  Again for the sake of his own schooling, he was set on a course that would force him to miss every Christmas and every birthday, every Fourth of July and every Thanksgiving with his family for three more years. 

            “I know what would be better,” Bert suggested.  “Since you young ladies are so interested in music, you’d surely like to hear Adam play his guitar and sing, wouldn’t you?”

            “Oh, yes!”  Rose clapped her hands, while Adam stared in horror at the man he had begun to consider a friend, but in the last twenty-four hours had started to view more as a traitor.  Was this payback, perhaps, for leaving Bert in the clutches of those three females all morning?

            Bert, however, looked completely guileless, although he quickly discerned Adam’s lack of enthusiasm.  “I just thought,” he babbled.  “Well, you do like music, and—and I’ve been wishing I could hear you.”

            “We’d all enjoy that,” Pearl chimed in.

            “If Mr. Cartwright knows any tunes appropriate for the Sabbath,” Grace amended.

            Adam stared at her.  Something about the middle Whitney daughter always seemed to bring out a perverse edge in him.  “I might know a hymn or two,” he said stiffly.

            Seeing her mother enter to call them to dinner, Grace rose.  “Well, after dinner, then?”

            Adam assented feebly, wondering how he’d managed to get himself roped into a postprandial concert.  Not that he minded playing and singing; he enjoyed that and he’d seen Mrs. Randolph’s face light up at the prospect.  What he did mind was the sense of being manipulated by a crafty female.  He wasn’t sure that honestly described Grace.  Of all the sisters, she was the only one who didn’t seem in constant pursuit of him, but perhaps she thought she’d fare better by playing hard to get?  Well, hard to get didn’t begin to describe what he personally intended to be.  Let the three of them fawn all over him, if they must.  His heart was taken, and they’d soon realize they had no chance of turning it toward anyone named Whitney.  At least, he hoped so.

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

The Saturday issue of the New York Times always printed the program for the free concert in Central Park.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Rally ‘Round the Flag

 

 

            Adam rapped on the door jamb of the cubicle at the far end of the hall.  “Mr. Porter?  Mr. Bracebridge requests that all associates meet with him in the main room at 11:30.”  When Porter acknowledged the message with a nod, Adam headed back up the hallway and made his way over to Bert’s drawing table.  “Any idea what the grand gathering is about?” he whispered.

            “No,” Bert whispered back, “but I should have a ringside seat.”

            Deciding to create the same advantage for himself, Adam began to examine the drawing his friend was working on, and although Bert quickly realized what Adam was up to, he only grinned and let his friend pretend that the simple drawing really required such close scrutiny.

            Neither of them needed to resort to subterfuge.  At promptly 11:30 Mr. Bracebridge exited his private office and told the other associates to gather around.  “Mr. Morganstern, Mr. Cartwright, this concerns you, as well,” he called when the two youngest members of the firm failed to respond.  Both hurried over and bent eager ears.

            “I’m sure that most, if not all of you, are aware of the grand rally at Union Square this afternoon,” Mr. Bracebridge began.  “As businesses have been requested to close, in order that their employees may attend, this office will close today at 2:30.  Whether you attend the rally or not is, of course, your own choice, and that decision will, in no way, affect your position here.”  He smiled slightly.  “Unless, of course, you allow yourself to be recruited.”  Some light laughter meeting his mild jest, he sobered then.  “I do not make light of that most serious decision.  Should you elect to serve your country, we will certainly regret your temporary loss to our firm, but will keep you in our prayers and assure you of a place here, once you have completed your enlistment.  I would urge you only not to be swayed by rhetoric, but to make your decision, whatever it is, for sound and solid reasons.”  He smiled again.  “That is the type of young men we hire, so I have every confidence that you will do what is right—for yourself, your country and, least in importance, for this firm.  Now, take an early lunch, get back as quickly as you can and accomplish what you can in the time remaining.”

            Bert and Adam let the associates leave first; then they took their hats and headed out.  “Where to?” Bert asked.

            “Anywhere close,” Adam said.

            “Old Tom’s, then?”

            Adam shrugged.   Having been in town for less than a week, he was scarcely an expert on the culinary opportunities of New York City.  “I just don’t want to be gone long.  I feel as if I’ve hardly worked a full day since I started!”

            Bert slapped him on the back.  “You really must learn to stop looking gift horses in the mouth, Adam.”

            “I suppose,” Adam conceded with a wry twist to his mouth.

            “Old Tom’s is close,” Bert assured him.  “Just over on Thames.”

            Adam tried to place the street, failed and then just followed in Bert’s wake.

            Within a few minutes they were walking across the sawdust-strewn floors and searching for a table in the cramped and crowded dining room.  Bert found a spot and motioned toward it, while the more agile Adam hurried forward to claim the table.  “Colorful,” Adam, gazing at the cobwebs hanging from the low ceiling, observed dryly after they sat down.

            “The food’s good,” Bert said.

            Adam nodded.  “Don’t worry.  I’ve seen this sort of ‘décor’ before.  There’s a place in San Francisco called the Cobweb Palace.”

            “And is its food good?” Bert asked.

            Adam laughed.  “It’s more concerned with liquid refreshment.”

            “Oh,” Bert said.  “Well, I’m going to have the mixed grill, and I’d recommend it.”

            Adam glanced up at the chalkboard menu and discovered that the mixed grill consisted of a chop, kidney, sausage and strip of bacon.  “I’m not that hungry,” he said.  “What’s a Welsh slip?  Anything like rarebit?”

            “Same thing,” Bert replied, “except it’s served over mince or apple pie.”

            Adam arched an eyebrow and then lowered it.  Golden Buck had been good, so maybe this new combination would be, too.  “I’ll have that,” he decided.

            “Surely not just that,” Bert protested.

            “I’m not very hungry,” Adam said.  He’d lost whatever appetite he’d had the minute he heard that the office would be closed for the Union rally, an event he would much have preferred to avoid.  For that matter, he hadn’t had much appetite since reading the notice in yesterday’s newspaper that the government was considering a reduction of enlistment time from three years to only one.  He still had no desire to be a soldier, but a single year’s commitment certainly made it more feasible.  Could he justify denying his country that much of his service?  “Did you want to attend the rally?” he asked hesitantly.

            “Don’t you?” Bert replied, blinking with surprise.

            “If you do,” Adam said quietly.

            “Well, I thought I would,” Bert said.  “Not that I intend to enlist,” he hastened to add.  “I mean, I’ve only just started here, and besides that, my mother would never hear of it.  Not that she’s unpatriotic, you understand, but, well, wouldn’t yours be opposed?”

            “Probably—if she were living,” Adam said.

“Oh, sorry,” Bert said, abashed.  “Should have remembered that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Adam said.  “At any rate, for me, it would be Pa throwing the fit if I were to enlist—probably one loud enough to be heard here in New York.”

            “There you have it, then,” Bert concluded as their plates arrived.  “For us, this will just be an afternoon of fine speeches and a chance to show our support for the troops.”

            “All right,” Adam agreed, beginning to relax.  Maybe he didn’t have to serve on the battlefield himself.  Maybe it was enough to support those who did.

            Bert cut off a fourth of his sausage and passed it over to Adam’s plate.  “Here.  Get, at least, that much meat into you, my man.”

            Mouth full of silky Welsh slip, Adam merely nodded his acceptance of the offering.  His appetite was coming back, and he was beginning to eye Bert’s fuller plate with something akin to envy.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam tipped back his hat and swiped the sweat from his brow.  It was another scorcher today, and the low-hanging clouds seemed to do nothing but push the heat earthward.  He and Bert had been lucky to find a place on the streetcar, even though they had to stand for the entire journey.  At least, they had shade for the duration of the brief trip; after that, Adam was pretty sure they’d be cooking under that burning sun.  Though he wasn’t familiar with Union Square, he didn’t think there could possibly be enough shade trees for everyone likely to attend this rally.

            They got off at 14^th and Broadway, and Adam’s mouth gaped at the swarm of people crowding into the square.  Far more than had attended the band concert at Central Park.  If he’d had to guess, he would have estimated 20,000 already.

            “Good thing we arrived early, eh?” Bert suggested tentatively.

            Adam snorted.  “Oh, yeah.  If it’s gonna get worse later on, definitely a good thing we arrived early.  Well, which part of this oven do you want to bake in?”  The gray clouds overhead only wrapped the oppressive heat in a blanket of humidity.

            “Oven is right,” Bert said, wiping his brow with his handkerchief.  He pointed toward a platform to their left.  “There, at the Young Man’s stand.  That’s the place.”

            Adam snickered.  “Because, otherwise, people might mistake us for old codgers?”

A quick glance around the square showed five such stands, and he saw nothing in particular to recommend this one, but having no objection to it, either, he followed Bert’s lead as he pressed his way through the throng to get as close to the platform as possible.

“We should have a good view from here,” Bert said when he could go no further.

            “Of what?” Adam teased.  Personally, he would have preferred a spot on the perimeter of the crowd, so as to make a quick exit if the political speeches became burdensomely boring.

            “The Pathfinder!” Bert cried.

            “General Frémont?” Adam asked skeptically.

            “The very same,” Bert declared.  “Better than just listening to some old politician, wouldn’t you say?”

            “I suppose,” Adam said, though there was no enthusiasm in his voice.  His head was echoing with recollections of what Josiah Edwards had said about how Frémont had managed Missouri when he’d been in charge.

            Bert picked up on it immediately.  “You’re not interested in him?” he asked incredulously.  “I thought you would be, him coming from your part of the country.”  His eyes suddenly widened with a new idea.  “Maybe you already know him, though.”

            Adam laughed.  “Scarcely.  Kit Carson, yes, but I’ve never met General Frémont.”

            Though Adam wouldn’t have thought it possible, Bert’s eyes widened yet more.  “You’ve met Kit Carson?  Now you’re joking!”

            “Not at all,” Adam said.  “He was just passing through, but he took supper with us.”

            “Supper . . . at your house . . . wow.”  Bert looked completely overwhelmed.  “Wait ‘til they hear about this at the Whitneys’!”

            Adam chuckled.  “You impress easily, my friend.”

            Bert shook his head.  “First, Governor Nye and now, Kit Carson—those, my friend, are connections.”

            Adam doubled a fist and gave Bert a short jab to the shoulder, all he had room for in the crush of the crowd.  “Well, just maybe, in years to come, my greatest claim to fame will be that I once worked alongside that nationally known architect, Bertram L. Morganstern.”  He stroked his chin.  “Of course, I’d be better able to impress people if I could reveal that secret middle name.”

            Bert laughed.  “Not on your life!”  They spent the next several minutes with Adam suggesting possible names beginning with “L,” everything from Logan to Lincoln, and Bert trying to distract him by pointing out the red, white and blue bunting and banners festooned from every building in sight.

            The rally was scheduled to begin at 4 p.m., but it was fifteen minutes past when the representatives of the Young Men’s Club could finally be seen coming along 14^th Street, with a small police escort.  As General John C. Frémont stepped onto the platform, the crowd erupted with cheers and shouts of admiration for the famous man, and even more people pushed into the area fronting Stand No. 5.  Adam tightened his arms into his side to avoid having one of them knocked off.

            When he was introduced, Frémont, rosette blossoming on the breast of his uniform, moved to the front of the platform.  He smiled and waved, but no one could hear his first attempts to greet the crowd over their shouts of welcome to him.  Then he raised his voice and began to speak over them.  “It is hardly necessary to say that this grand assemblage has been called to consider the situation of the country, with the object of adopting such measures as will enable you to respond most immediately and effectively to the President’s call for troops.”

            Adam moaned, so softly that even Bert could not have heard him over the applause interrupting the speaker’s opening remark.  He’d known, of course, the ultimate purpose of this gathering, but hearing it stated so plainly awakened within him every conflicting thought he’d ever had on the subject of enlistment.  Where did his duty lie, on the battlefield or here, on the home front?

            Frémont continued, “But at the same time it is expected that the occasion will be used for such an expression of your feelings and opinions”—more applause interrupted him again—“as will satisfy the country that the enthusiasm which characterized the meeting held here last year, has now become your settled resolve.”  The applause this time was tumultuous, but Frémont forged on, “And that it is not in the ideas or possibilities of the day that you will consent to a dismemberment of your national territory.” 

“Never, never,” came a shout from the crowd, while others cried, “Hear, hear.”  Adam joined enthusiastically in the applause this time.  To enlist or not remained a conflict, but there was no question of where his feelings lay—with freedom for all men and with the continuation of the Union.

            “The people realize that a decisive struggle, which will tax their utmost energies, is to come,” Frémont declared

“That’s so; hurrah for you,” supporters hollered.

            “And that upon the issue of this struggle depends the life of a nation.”

            “Indeed, it does,” came the answering cry.

            “The South has resolved itself into a great army, to the support of which all its industrial resources are directed,” Frémont continued.

            Adam frowned.  What industrial resources did the general mean?  He’d always thought that it was the North that had great industrial resources, while the South’s lay, primarily, in agriculture.  Pondering that, he missed the next few remarks, but focused again on a call to which he knew he should respond.

            “You must show your soldiers that they have not only your admiration for their courage and gratitude for the services they have rendered you,” Frémont admonished, “but that they can rely upon your cordial and prompt support.”

            Adam recalled, with considerable chagrin, that there was one soldier in particular to whom he should have been extending such support.  A good while back, Pa had written that Mark Wentworth had been transferred back East.   Adam had written his friend one letter, but wrapped up in school and his budding relationship with Elizabeth, he had neglected to maintain that correspondence, as he had that of his other friends.  He’d change that, starting this very night, although it might take some doing to discover where Mark’s unit was currently stationed.

            By the time Adam’s attention returned to the platform, Frémont was concluding his opening remarks to thunderous and prolonged applause.  What followed was the most boring part of the afternoon’s program, the recitation of a long list of vice-presidents and secretaries in charge of the meeting.  Once it was over, Frémont, as president of the proceedings, introduced the Reverend Rufus Clark.

            The minister made a quip about taking his text from the book of Daniel, quickly explaining that he was referring to Daniel Webster.  He quoted, “Liberty and Union, one and inseparable, now and forever” and, taking up Frémont’s theme, pointed to the flag waving above them as the pledge that they would continue to be one and inseparable.  “I remember very early in this struggle,” he continued when the applause died down, “that somewhere down South they had a funeral, they walked in procession and buried that flag, and they supposed that was the last of the American flag.”  His eyes twinkled as he added, “But, gentlemen, I believe in the doctrine of the resurrection.”  Voice rising over the laughter and applause, he said, “And I believe this flag, even over that soil cursed with rebellion today, shall yet rise and float proudly over that State.”

            Adam didn’t know what church Reverend Clark presided over, but he thought he wouldn’t have minded sitting through the sermons of a man so adept with a turn of phrase.  The minister enthusiastically pledged to rally the troops until the Confederate capitol of Richmond was taken.  “And if . . . the city is not taken in the course of some weeks or months, I think I shall send my friend, General Frémont, there to help.”  That suggestion was, of course, met with loud cheers from the crowd surrounding the platform.

            After citing the Declaration of Independence as a document that advanced the doctrine that all men were free and had the right to follow happiness, he again drew on the general’s popularity.  “I think it very appropriate that the noble man who is with us today, who first put the American flag upon the summit of the Rocky Mountains—the man who gave freedom to California—should be the first to order the bugle-note of emancipation when he was a General in the army.”

            That, Adam recalled, was exactly the action that Josiah, though personally committed to abolition, had questioned.  He had said—and Adam agreed with him—that freedom for the slaves was an action to be taken by the President and Congress, not by the authority of a single general, however good-intentioned.  There were those who wanted Frémont to run for President, but Adam wondered whether the man had the judgment necessary to lead the country, especially in time of war.

            Reverend Clark was concluding his remarks when Adam pulled out of his reverie, and the crowd responded with three cheers, first for President Lincoln, then for the speaker and finally for General Frémont, who responded by introducing the next speaker, the United States District Attorney.  He presented much the same sort of rhetoric, met with much the same response of cheers and waving hats and handkerchiefs, and then yet another speaker was introduced.

            To Adam’s relief, this man merely introduced the Amateur Glee Club, whose rousing rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner” was joined by almost everyone within sound of its echoes.  The effect of so many voices raised in the national anthem was electrifying, and the crowd seemed eager to comply with the speaker’s urging to respond to the President’s call for volunteers.  “Every southern breeze brings to us the wails and the cries of the wounded, the pleadings of the sick and disabled, and they ask us for aid,” the man declared, and when he ended by reading verses written by a Connecticut volunteer, Adam closed his eyes in misery.  How could he shut out those cries?  How could he not respond to his nation’s need?  Yet how much could one man do when the need was overwhelming?  How much more might he accomplish by preparing himself, as Pa had said months ago, to rebuild their broken country once this dreadful war ended?

            The music of a passing band interrupted the tortured questions, and when they’d given the traditional trio of cheers, the Glee Club began to sing “God Speed the Right.”

            The next speaker was brief, but blunt, as well.  “Now, fellow citizens,” said Charles Gould, “let us have as the result of this stupendous proceeding, some single practical result.  We want volunteers, we want to end the war, and end it at once.  There is one way to do it.  Take away their laborers from their fields, from their ditches and from their various labors.  Take away that on which they live at home, and the soldiers of the South will be compelled to go home and go to work.”

            As others applauded, Adam grimly pursed his lips.  Freedom for the slaves, but only as a means to end the war?  Like any loyal citizen, he wanted the war to end, but if that’s all emancipation meant, it was scarcely worth the price paid in blood and disrupted lives.

            Two colonels followed Gould, but Adam scarcely heard what they said over his own roaring thoughts.  The rhetoric was all running together, but when the second officer declared that “it is worse than wrong to forego the advantage” of using the South’s slaves in the service of the Union Army, Adam shouted in outrage, although his voice went unheard among the loud cheers surrounding him and the rumble of thunder.   That was nothing more than exchanging one master for another, and bondage, even to a beneficent master, was nonetheless bondage.  He’d have no part of it!

            Mood as dark as the thunderclouds hovering over the park, Adam looked over his shoulder, but quickly saw that there was no escape.  We might as well be sardines in a can, he thought as he faced forward again with a sigh.  Whether he wanted to or not, he was doomed to listen to every word any of these politicians or military men decided to spew.

            The next speaker fit into neither category, however, and he was, at least, someone whose name Adam knew.  Who, indeed, had not heard of the editor of the New York Tribune?  True to his newspaper background, Horace Greeley proved that he had the ability to edit his remarks.  “I have been asked, fellow citizen, what is the use of this meeting,” the editor said.  “I answer to tell the Government to go ahead and the people will follow them. . . .  We have been only half at war.  We are henceforth to be fully at war.  And until the last rebel flag goes down in the country we know of but two parties, Unionist and traitors.”  His voice rose as he proclaimed, “That is the message which this meeting sends to our Government, and I rejoice to believe that the Government will hear and heed it.”

            The crowd again erupted with cheers, but a sudden gust from the south began to sweep dense columns of dust across Union Square.  The clouds that had been glowering all afternoon turned black as ink as fierce winds whipped them across the sky, along with the flags and bunting decorating the stands and buildings around the Square.  Heavy raindrops began to pelt the crowd, and people scattered in every direction.

            “No, this way!” Adam yelled, grabbing Bert by the elbow and propelling him toward the platform.  Since almost everyone else was going the opposite direction, for a few moments they made no progress at all.  Then they burst through the edge of the crowd, and Adam flung himself underneath the scaffolding, with Bert scrambling after him.

            “Wow, that came up fast,” Bert panted as they sprawled in the scant shelter and watched the briskly circling dust spouts chase other men from the park.

            “Signs earlier,” Adam said, but like Bert, he’d been so caught up in the rally itself that he had ignored what a country boy should have seen coming.  Not that it would have mattered, he reminded himself.  Sardines in a can.

            The shower only lasted five minutes or so, but it had effectively put an end to the rally.  It was after six when Adam and Bert headed back to the boardinghouse, hoping that someone had thought to keep a plate warm for them.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam posted his letter to Mark the next morning, but the action brought no sense of duty fulfilled.  How had he managed to convince himself, for even one minute, that giving moral support to a single soldier in the field was the same as standing by that soldier’s side?  It didn’t help, either, that Bert had teased him about an article in that morning’s paper.  “Just think, Adam,” his friend had jibed.  “Join up with a Connecticut unit, and your fortune is made!”  He tapped Adam’s arm with the paper.  “Of course, you’ll need a wife, if you want the maximum bonus.  I’m sure one of the Whitney girls would be pleased to oblige.”

            Adam had scowled sourly at him.  While an extra six dollars a month wasn’t worth marrying one of those three, the list of bonuses for enlistment might have been enticing if accepting them hadn’t meant giving up the very thing on which he’d have wanted to spend the money, a few more creature comforts at Yale.  Two dollars just for enlisting and then thirty dollars a year from Connecticut, with an advance of fifty if he joined by August 20.  Add to that the twenty-five dollars the national government would pay on enlistment and the seventy-five when honorably discharged, and it certainly enhanced the prospect, if what motivated a man most was money.

            Adam would never discount any man’s need for cold, hard cash, but that wasn’t the reason his mind continue to roil with arguments for and against enlistment.  The issue, for him, was the freedom of men just like him, but for the color of their skin, and the preservation of the Union upon which all their freedom was founded.  Some of the rhetoric he had heard the day before had inspired him; some had repulsed him, and late into the night and at every unoccupied moment the next day, the two sides of the debate hammered inside his head.  As the week drew to a close, however, his thoughts turned away from the national conflict, for he had another battle to fight here at home.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The Battle of Central Park

 

 

            As he and Bert walked toward City Park on Saturday afternoon, Adam tried to map out their strategy.  “Our main goal must be to avoid either of us being trapped alone with any of the Whitney girls,” he urged.

            “And how do you propose we manage that?” Bert demanded.  “You know perfectly well each one of them will be working toward the exact opposite goal.”

            “That may work to our advantage,” Adam suggested, “since none of them will want the others to succeed.”

            “They might work against each other, you mean?”  At Adam’s crisp nod, Bert exhaled heavily.  “Well, I’ll try, but to be honest, they were regularly successful at trapping me . . . until you came.”

            “Safety in numbers,” Adam said with a conniving grin.  “As much as possible, we stay with the main party.”

            The entire party was waiting for them at the small park dominated by City Hall and currently serving as a campground for new Union recruits.  Tearing herself away from the exhilarating sight of all those men in blue, Rose Whitney jumped up and down excitedly when she spied Adam and Bert and was only restrained from racing toward them by her mother’s decorum-conscious hand.  Mrs. Randolph waved a discreet greeting, and Adam tipped his hat in response.

            “You’re late, gentlemen,” Pearl chided sharply.

“Young working men aren’t always in control of their departure time from the office, Miss Pearl,” Mr. Randolph observed with a kindly smile at the two younger men.

            Adam nodded his thanks for the defense.  In truth, the fault was his.  That afternoon he had been given his first drawing assignment, the enlargement of some architectural details of a plan, and wanting to receive more of the same, he had taken extra time to make each line perfect.

            Pearl dabbed her damp neckline with a lacy handkerchief.  “We’ve been waiting under this hot sun for half an hour past the time you set.”

            “My apologies,” Adam said, “but if the heat is bothering you, Miss Pearl, perhaps you might wish to forego the outing.  It won’t be any cooler at Central Park.”

            “I’ll manage,” she said tartly.

            “Oh, look, there’s the streetcar,” Mrs. Whitney announced.  “I do hope there’ll be room for all of us aboard.”

            “I’m sure there will be seats enough for you ladies,” Adam said, extending his arm to her.  He waited for the Randolphs to board first and then followed with Mrs. Whitney, leaving Bert to assist the young ladies, while he moved through the car, finding available seats for them.  He managed to place Mrs. Whitney and Rose together, while another gentleman stood up, so that Pearl and Grace could sit together further back in the car.  Adam and Bert, in common with several other men, stood holding a strap as the transport moved north.  Courtesy required them to stand near the ladies they were escorting, of course, so for the next several minutes their strategy of staying together failed.  Fortunately, none of the ladies used the opportunity for flagrant flirting, although Rose came close to chattering Adam’s ear off.

            They debarked at the nearest stop to Central Park, and the two young men again helped everyone to alight.  “Let me take that for you, Miss Grace,” Bert offered, reaching for the large hamper she had brought from home.  “And what might we find in here?” he inquired, the tip of his tongue slipping out to lick his lips before he caught himself.

            “Something quite tasty, I assure you,” she promised.

            “And is this something quite tasty, as well?” Adam asked as he took a battered carpetbag from Pearl’s hand.

            “Scarcely,” she said, “but it may add to our comfort in the likely event that we cannot all find seats.  I will gladly make room on my blanket, should you wish to preserve your trousers from grass stains, Mr. Cartwright.”

            “Very kind of you,” Adam mumbled weakly.  Apparently, the ladies had their strategy well planned, too.

            They entered the park and strolled down the broad promenade to the Mall, Mrs. Randolph pausing frequently to gaze fondly at some flowering or leafy plant.  “I used to be quite the gardener,” she confided to Adam, “when we had our own place.”

            Adam smiled at her, resolving to save a few pennies back from his next paycheck to bring her a small bouquet of the flowers that could be purchased from street venders.  It wasn’t the best time of year for them, but he was certain she’d be pleased with whatever he found.  Pleasing her was becoming more and more important to him.  He’d never known either of his grandmothers, and he liked to think they might have been like this gentle lady.  Then he chuckled to himself.  No, considering what Pa had told him about both his Cartwright and Stoddard forebears, his grandmothers weren’t likely to have been as self-effacing as Mrs. Randolph.

            On reaching the Music Stand, Adam made finding seats for the older members of the party his first priority.  After a lengthy search he did find two together for the Randolphs, although they were further back than he would have liked.  “Nonsense, my boy,” Mr. Randolph said when he expressed his regret.  “We’ll be much more comfortable here than closer to those booming horns.”

            He continued to look for a place for Mrs. Whitney and whatever companion she chose.  He hoped it wouldn’t be him, but he certainly couldn’t leave a lady alone in such a crowd.  He had given up and had started to tell her that she’d need to share a blanket with one of the younger people when he heard a woman’s voice calling her name.  Turning, he saw an elegantly dressed dowager hurrying forward, bustle bobbing behind her.

            “My dear Ophelia,” the woman panted when she reached them.  “I was so surprised to look across the lawn and see you here.”

            “What a pleasure to see you, Minerva,” Mrs. Whitney responded cordially, “although I’m beginning to wish I had stayed home.  Such a crowd!  And not a seat to be had.”

            “But you must sit with me,” Minerva insisted.  She looked at Adam with an appraising eye.  “Although I don’t have room for your companion, I’m afraid.  In fact, I don’t have even one spare seat, but Henry can give you his.”

            Mrs. Whitney tittered.  “Oh, Mr. Cartwright isn’t my companion.  He’s one of my boarders.  The whole household is here this afternoon, and I’m sure Mr. Cartwright will be much happier sitting with the younger folk.”

            “Well, then,” Minerva said, taking Mrs. Whitney’s arm.

            “Excuse me,” Adam said, “but if Henry would care to share one of our blankets, he would be more than welcome to join us.”

            “Oh.”  For a moment the woman seemed to consider the idea.  “No, I think it best my husband remain near us—for protection, you know.”

            Adam tipped his hat.  “Then I will take my leave, ladies.  I hope you enjoy the concert.”

            “Everyone settled then?” Bert asked as Adam dropped to a blanket between Rose and Pearl.

            Never had Adam seen a man look so relieved, just to see him.  “All settled,” Adam assured him.

            “All three together?” Pearl inquired with a dubious look.  “Unbelievable in this crowd!  Surely, you didn’t leave any one of them alone.”

            “The Randolphs together and your mother with a friend, someone named Minerva,” Adam reported.  “I’m sorry, but I wasn’t actually introduced, so I don’t know her last name.”

            “Oh, that would be Mrs. Worthington,” Pearl said casually.  “Mother will be well provided for, then.”

            “I suppose we should offer the Randolphs some of our refreshments,” Grace suggested.  “Will you help me carry them, Mr. Cartwright?”

            “Of course,” Adam said, giving Bert a sour smile as he rose from the blanket.  Divide and conquer appeared to be the ladies’ strategy as much as staying together was the men’s, and for the moment this lady was winning.  Still, he did want the elderly couple to share the tasty treats in the hamper, and the Randolphs weren’t likely to keep them long.  Nor could Grace do much overt flirting in a crowd like this.

            Rose, less constrained by the crowd than either of her sisters, eagerly beckoned Adam toward her as soon as he and Grace returned.  “I picked you out some lovely things,” she said, “as I was afraid there wouldn’t be anything left if I didn’t.”  She oinked several times in Bert’s direction.

            Flushing, Bert wiped the incriminating crumbs from his mouth, while Pearl snapped, “If you must behave like a rude child, Rose, perhaps you’d better take your blanket and sit elsewhere.”

            Rose pressed a demure hand to her slender throat.  “Without an escort?  Why, Pearl, I’m surprised that you would even suggest such impropriety.”  She smiled up at Adam.  “Unless, of course, you’d like to accompany me, Mr. Cartwright.”

            Adam sat down on the blanket beside her and took the plate of cookies and sandwiches she had prepared for him.  “It’s more fun if we all enjoy the music together, don’t you think?”

            Rose pouted petulantly as she cozied up to his side.  “Well, if you say so, Adam.  I may call you Adam, may I not?”

            “Rose!” Grace sputtered.  “You are much too forward.”

            “We’re all friends here,” Adam said suavely, “and where I come from, friends are always on a first-name basis.”

            “I don’t suppose there’s any high society where you come from, is there, Mr.—Adam?” Pearl sighed.

            Adam’s eyebrow twitched wickedly.  “Well, no, except for Princess Sara, of course.”

            All three ladies’ mouths gaped indecorously for a moment before they snapped shut.  “A princess?” Rose squealed.  “You never said you knew a princess, Adam.”

            “He doesn’t,” Grace scoffed from her spot beyond Bert.  “He’s making sport of us.  For shame, Adam!”

            Adam laughed.  “But I do know Princess Sara, Miss Grace, although I generally call her Thocmetony, the name she gave me when we first met.  It means Shell Flower.”

            “An Indian?” Pearl gasped.

            Adam nodded.  “A Paiute princess, as I said, daughter of Chief Winnemucca.  She took the name Sara when she lived among the white men.  She’s a lovely girl, as interested in learning as you, Miss Pearl.  I know because I was her first teacher.”

            “How very commendable,” Grace said.  “You must have more of the missionary spirit than you have demonstrated to us thus far.”

            Adam shook his head.  “I was just being a friend.  She wanted to learn to read; I taught her—simple as that.”

            “You’re supposed to be teaching me to read,” Rose whined.  When everyone stared at her as if she were addled, she explained hastily, “French, that is.”

            “Oh . . . yes.”  Adam felt the less said on that topic the better.  He consulted his watch and informed the group that the concert was slated to start in five minutes.  Thank goodness, he thought.

            The older girls at least tried to listen intently to the music, as the band played a quick march by Bartholomaus and the Aria Polanaise by Fessy, but Rose kept plying Adam—and when he proved unresponsive, Bert—with cookies.  By the third song, a polka, the girl clearly could sit still no longer.  Jumping to her feet, she pulled Adam’s hand.  “Dance with me,” she ordered.

            “Rose!” Pearl sputtered.  “Only children dance about the lawn.”

            “Let’s be children, then,” Rose insisted, continuing to pull Adam until he gave in and jumped up beside her.

            “All right, then,” he said.  “Let’s see how well you can polka, little Miss Rose.”

            With a squeal of delight, she led him to the edge of the crowd and began to cavort in time to the music.  “Oh, this is splendid!” she cried.  “You dance so well, Adam.”

            Oblivious to their being the only older couple dancing, he laughed as he spun her around.  “As do you, young lady.  You would give Princess Sara a run for her money at Dutch Nick’s dances.”  When the music stopped, he made her a deep bow and started to lead her back to the blankets.

            “Oh, let’s dance some more,” she pleaded.

            Grinning, Adam shook his head.  “We are not dancing to the Anvil Chorus, which is the next number.  Sit down and savor a bit of opera music, Miss Rose.”

            “Opera is so boring,” Rose sniffed, but since Adam was intractable, she had no choice but to follow him back.

            “That was disgraceful,” Pearl chided.

            Adam shrugged.  “Dances are meant to be danced, aren’t they?”

            “I didn’t mean you,” the oldest sister said sharply.  “Men are permitted all sorts of social vagaries.  Ladies must be more circumspect.”

            “Well, Rose isn’t really a lady yet, is she?” Adam argued.  And as if to prove it, Rose thrust her tongue at her sister, who shuddered in disgust.

            Following the Anvil Chorus, there was a break in the program.  Bert used the opportunity to again delve into the hamper, while Rose snuggled up to Adam’s side and purred, “Who’s Miss Allen?”

            Adam’s breath caught in his throat.  “What?” he asked ominously.

            “Miss Allen,” she repeated.

            “You’ve been prying into my mail?” Adam all but snarled.

            Rose drew back.  “Of course not!  Only sorting . . . and sniffing.”  She tilted her head coyly.  “It was most fragrant, Adam.”  When he flushed deep crimson, she tittered.  “Someone special, is she?  A maiden aunt, perhaps?  Not a sweetheart, I hope.  My heart would absolutely break!”

            The other two girls were now leaning close, their faces crafty with the same hope.

            “A friend,” Adam babbled, preferring to say as little as possible about Elizabeth to these snoops.

            “A fragrant friend,” Rose reiterated, with a knowing nod at her sisters.

            “Where is it?” Adam hissed.

            “Where is what?” she asked with a maddening smile.

            “My letter,” he growled.

            “At home, of course,” she said, turning her back to him with an offended air.

            “We don’t provide delivery service,” Pearl inserted haughtily.

            “If we had known you were so anxious to hear from Miss Allen, of course,” Grace put in with a leading note to her voice.

            “No, no, of course not,” Adam grunted.  “Tonight will do just as well.”  As if he’d have read Elizabeth’s sweet thoughts in the presence of these simpering scavengers!

            “Well, then,” Pearl said with a satisfied smile.  “Let’s enjoy the music.  I believe it’s starting again.”

            The music swept over them, loud and energetic, but Adam scarcely seemed to hear it.  All he could hear was the beat of his own heart as it echoed the news that a letter from Elizabeth was waiting at the boardinghouse.  Although he had written to her several times, this was her first letter to him.  He had a feeling that she’d been giving him a taste of the medicine he’d inflicted on her during his last vacation.  Like most medicine, it had a bitter taste, but just when he’d begun to despair of her ever relenting, a letter was finally here.  To have to endure another hour or two in the park was an exercise in patience that also went down like bitter medicine.

            When the concert concluded with the playing of “The National Medley,” Adam was all for packing up and heading home.  The girls had other ideas.  “May we not, at least, walk down to the lake and see the swans?” Grace asked with cloying sweetness, and Adam felt unable to say no.  He did insist on first ascertaining whether the older members of the party were too weary to remain, but they all urged him to go ahead.  When Mrs. Randolph timidly asked if she could come with them, Adam’s attitude changed entirely.  “It would be my privilege to escort you,” he said, offering his arm and helping her down the broad steps with special care.

            “Oh, aren’t they elegant?” the elderly lady cried as she caught sight of the graceful white birds gliding over the water.

            “Beautiful,” Adam agreed, taking more pleasure from the rapture in her eyes than from his own refreshing sight of the regal birds donated to the park by the people of Hamburg.  For a long while they stood at the rail, watching, his arm about her waist, neither of them thinking the gesture overly familiar, although their acquaintance was such a short one.

            Finally, Mrs. Randolph sighed and said, “I suppose we should be going.”

            “We can stay as long as you like,” he said gently.

            She reached up to stroke his cheek tenderly.  “You’re a dear, thoughtful boy,” she said, “but it has been a long afternoon.  I’m ready to go.  Thank you for including me in this wonderful adventure, Adam.”

            “Your company is what makes it wonderful,” he insisted.

            She laughed, though obviously flattered.  “I can’t hold a candle to those fresh young faces.”  She nodded toward the three Whitney girls, each trying to attach herself to some part of Bert’s anatomy.

            Adam shook his head.  “It’s exactly the opposite: they can’t hold a candle to you.”

            She giggled like a little girl and smiled all the way back to her husband, who had remained with Mrs. Whitney on a bench before the Music Stand.

            Bert and the Whitney girls finally rejoined them, and they all headed out of the park.  Bert shot Adam a reproachful look, and Adam nodded with a chagrinned wince.  He had left his friend to fend for himself at the lake and deserved the rebuke.  So much for safety in numbers, he admitted.   The Battle of Central Park might well be deemed a victory for the women, but he and Bert had survived to fight another day.

            As soon as they returned home, Adam snared his letter from the pile on the entry table and excused himself to his room, a trio of teasing titters following him up the stairs.  Once safely shut behind his own door, he dropped onto the bed and held the letter to his nose.  It was fragrant, as Rose had said, and he lay back for a moment, savoring the scent and the delicious anticipation of the precious words within the envelope.  Then, slowly, carefully, he broke the seal and drew out two lilac-scented and scallop-edged sheets.  The letter was as long and loving as he could have hoped, and it spurred him to an immediate answer, telling Elizabeth how much it meant to hear from her and how much he hoped that he would enjoy that exquisite pleasure again soon.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Days of Drama and Dilemma

 

 

            For Adam, the next week was one of highs and lows.  He soared to the heights of satisfaction when Mr. Bracebridge approved his first drawings and promised that there’d be more such assignments.  And there had been, more simple copy work at first, but as the week progressed, work of increasing detail that told Adam he was growing and developing and becoming more useful to the firm.  In short, all he could have hoped for at this stage of a budding career.

            The lows were mostly issues of painful personal introspection, centering on his continuing conflict about enlisting in the army.  The news Sunday that 70,000 soldiers were missing or absent, many because they were “sick of the service,” filled him with mixed emotions.  Obviously, the need for new recruits was great, but Adam wondered how quickly he, too, would become sickened by the use to which he’d be put if he joined up.  And the seemingly endless columns of names of the genuinely sick and wounded that filled the pages of the New York Times certainly served as a deterrent.

            He could skim over those portions of the newspaper, of course, but it was impossible to avoid the signs of recruitment in New York City.  For one thing, his route to work passed City Hall Park, so twice a day he saw the white tents of the newly inducted, heard regularly the sounds of drill and marching.  And his path crossed White Street, as well, where lines of men waited outside the mustering office to sign up and receive their ninety dollar bonus for enlisting in one of the New York regiments.

            At such points in their daily walk, Adam persistently plied his friend Bert with a list of suggested middle names beginning with “L.”  “Lambert, Longbottom, Lanier, Lucifier,” he suggested one morning.

            “Lucifer!” Bert protested.  “What sort of heathens do you think my parents are?”

            Adam stroked his chin thoughtfully as the white tents, for him, disappeared.  “Not wishing to insult your upbringing, I will assume that Lucifer is incorrect, so let’s see: Lucinda, Louise, Laurabelle.”

            Bert laughed.  “Now you’re being ridiculous.  Give it up, Adam; you’ll never guess.”

            “Before the summer is out,” Adam vowed, but he gave up guessing . . . until the next time they passed City Hall Park.

            Much as he tried to avoid articles in the paper about new units forming, one headline that week caught his eye and sent his heart leaping into his throat: “College Professors Turning Soldiers.”  He quickly scanned the paragraph, relieved to see that none of his professors from Yale were listed, only a Professor Chamberlain from Bowdoin College in Maine and another called Chadbourne from Massachusetts.  Just names on a page to him, nothing to influence him one way or the other, as he feared might have been the case had he read names like Nolen or Thacher or Wilder Smith.

            The death of Martin Van Buren that week might have been said to be a low for the nation, but Adam had no personal reaction.  To him, Van Buren was a name from the history books, honored because of his service, of course, but a few doors draped in black crepe said that some in the city remembered the former President more fondly, the way Adam thought he might feel about Abraham Lincoln on that distant day the nation would lay him to rest.

            The week ended more happily, for the two young architectural apprentices.  Having decided that either grand opera or Shakespeare was simply not going to be offered in the summer season, Adam had suggested to Bert that they attend a decent play, instead.  Bulwer’s “Richelieu” looked promising, even if its afterpiece, “King Cotton,” did not, so they made plans to attend on Saturday night.  Informing their landlady that they would not dine at home that evening brought a flurry of questions, of course, and a petulant accusation from Rose Whitney.  “You’re going back to that tiresome band concert without us.”

            Bert protested that they were not, but Adam was quick to squelch that apparent admission that they were obligated to include the girls whenever they went to Central Park.  “You needn’t worry, Miss Rose,” he advised her.  “Being gentlemen, we, of course, would never wish to subject you to anything ‘tiresome.’”

            “I didn’t find it tiresome,” Grace inserted hastily, while Pearl bobbed her quick assent and Rose blushed at her own stupidity.

            “We aren’t going to the park,” Adam repeated, but offered no further information, much to the ladies’ frustration.

            “There are places gentlemen visit alone, young ladies,” Mr. McCrory suggested.

            Adam started to deny that their destination was the rough sort of place that refused admission to ladies, but then he gave Mr. McCrory a cunning smile.  Let the ladies think what they would, so long as it stopped the endless hints for inclusion in the evening’s entertainment.

            The ladies evidently assumed the worst.  “Well, in that case, we’ll leave you to it!” Grace announced as she rose and flounced indignantly from the room, trailed by her sisters.

            Adam didn’t know whether to feel chagrinned or relieved that her visions of him as a potential missionary to the heathen had apparently evaporated.

            Mr. McCrory leaned toward Adam and asked in an undertone, “So where are you going, if you don’t mind my asking?”

            Adam whispered back, “Not at all.  We’re off to the Winter Garden, to see ‘Richelieu.’”

            Mr. McCrory settled back in his chair with a conspiratorial smirk.  “I’ll guard your secret well.”

            “Why not come with us?” Bert asked.

            “Oh, ho, ho,” McCrory chuckled.  “And have them all think me the same sort of rakehell as you two?”

            “I think your reputation can survive one night on the town with the rakes,” Adam said with a rascally smirk.

            “Well, why not?” McCrory decided suddenly.  “I haven’t indulged in dinner and drama in longer than I can remember.  I’d be pleased to accept your invitation, gentlemen!”

 

* * * * *

 

            A puckish grin lifted the left corner of Adam’s mouth as they entered the seedy basement restaurant and found places at one of the small square tables inside.   During intermission Mr. McCrory had opined that they should dine afterwards in some place unlikely to cater to ladies.  “For honesty’s sake,” he’d said, “in case we’re questioned.”

            Adam had to admit that Pfaff’s Tavern fit the bill nicely.  Crudely furnished, it was dark and, being below ground, gave a feeling of dankness not altogether deserved.  A couple of women were there, sitting at a long table at one end in a sort of cave that extended underneath the sidewalk, but from their mannish attire, they appeared to be free-spirited Bohemians, not genteel ladies of the Whitney’s studied variety.  He could only hope the food would be in keeping with the plain décor and not the exotic appearance of some of the tavern’s more colorful guests.

            He soon discovered that the menu was eclectic: everything from German pancakes to American steak and champagne to cheap beer.  When Adam, of economic necessity, tried to order the latter, however, Mr. McCrory immediately remonstrated.  “After an evening like this, it must be champagne, gentlemen,” he insisted.  “My treat, of course, as thanks for including me.”

            “There’s no need of that,” Bert protested, with Adam quick to echo him.

            “Please,” the older man pleaded.  “Let me have this pleasure.  It’s been so long since I went out like this, and having no family responsibilities, I have the funds.”

            Seeing how much it meant to him, Adam assented.  “The pleasure of your company would have been thanks enough for including you, but we will gratefully accept your generous offer, sir.”  The waiter quickly hustled away before they could change their minds.

            “Now, what to eat,” Bert pondered, his full lips pushing left and right in thought.

            “For you, a side of beef,” Adam chuckled.  Their daily lunches had given him ample opportunity to observe the scope of Bert’s capacity.

            “The beef does sound good,” Bert mused, apparently oblivious to the jesting jab at his appetite, “but dreadfully pedestrian for a place like this.  I believe I’ll try the Dutch pannekuchen.”

            “With a side of beef?” Adam teased.

            Bert frowned at him, then.  “With a rasher of bacon.  Your time would be better served making your own decision.”  He leaned toward Mr. McCrory.  “He’s notoriously slow, especially considering the shortness of our lunch hour.”

            “And the lateness of the hour now,” McCrory returned with a smile.  “For my stomach’s sake, I shall have the chicken soup, with pie later.”

            “Well, I’m starving,” Adam admitted.  “I’ll have the steak . . . with pie later.”  He wagged his eyebrows at Bert.  “And, perhaps, a taste of your pannekuchen.”

            “And he dares attack my appetite!”  Bert rolled his eyes.  “Did I mention he’s also notorious for nabbing bites off a man’s plate?  Watch your soup carefully, Mr. McCrory.”

            “I have never nabbed,” Adam protested.  “An occasional taste, and only then in the furtherance of my culinary education.”  He, too, leaned conspiratorially toward the older man.  “He’s notorious—or perhaps, ‘famous’ would be a better word—for knowing all there is to know about New York cuisine.  Amazing, when he’s been here so short a time.”

            “He’s famous—no, ‘infamous’ is the correct word—for exaggeration,” Bert sputtered with an accusatory smirk in Adam’s direction.

            Mr. McCrory laughed aloud.  “It must be the influence of the drama that has us making so many asides.”

            Both Bert and Adam joined in the laughter.  “That must be it,” Bert agreed.  “There certainly were enough of them in Bulwer’s play—and no one else on stage supposed to overhear!”

            “Some very nice lines, though,” Adam said and then quoted in his best imitation of Cardinal Richelieu, “‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’”

            The food arrived, and Adam quickly discerned that Bert would probably be inheriting about a third of that huge steak, more than a fair trade for the few bites of pancake Adam planned to scrounge from his friend.  It was, for them, a fairly typical division of their noontime plates.

            “I’m not well versed in French history,” Mr. McCrory said, dipping into a chicken soup with broth so thick and hearty that Adam began to wish he’d ordered that, instead of the heavy steak he’d probably regret around four o’clock this morning.  “You’re an educated man, Mr. Cartwright.  Perhaps you could explain the background of the drama.”

            Adam shook his head.  “I’m afraid I haven’t studied French history, either, Mr. McCrory.  My stepmother Marie was French, and I once heard her list Cardinal Richelieu among her girlhood heroes.  I suppose that’s why I was drawn to the play when I saw it listed in the newspaper.”

            “He was certainly the hero tonight,” McCrory observed.  “I wondered if he was as noble and selfless in real life.”

            “Are any of us?” Adam queried with a shrug.  “I disagree, though, that Bulwer portrayed him that way.  Other characters referred to him as a crafty fox, and he definitely displayed a talent for manipulating people.  I had the idea that only his love for Julie, the orphaned daughter of his dear friend, transformed his character on this occasion.”

            “Your stepmother evidently saw good in him, however,” Bert pointed out.

            “Yes, yes, she must have,” Adam said quietly.  Time had healed the loss to some degree, but there were moments, like this one, when he was reminded afresh of how much he missed Marie.  He’d never asked her why she admired Cardinal Richelieu, and now he’d never get the chance.

            Perhaps sensing his soberness, Mr. McCrory exclaimed, “Why, look, there’s Artemus Ward.  Have you gentlemen ever heard him speak?”

            Adam looked up to see a man with a high forehead and an admirable mustache over his upper lip joining the long table in what they’d called the cave.  “No, I can’t say I have.”

            “Quite the humorist,” McCrory advised.  “Said to be President Lincoln’s favorite comedian.”

            “I’m sure Father Abraham can use a good dose of humor now and again,” Bert said with loyal sympathy.

            “Indeed, with the load he has to bear,” McCrory commented.

            The subject was too uncomfortably close to talk of armies and enlistment for Adam, so he suggested brightly, “Let’s keep an eye out for an opportunity to hear Mr. Ward, then, shall we?  Perhaps that can be our next outing.”

            “I think that would be delightful,” Mr. McCrory declared with enthusiasm.  In the company of these two rising stars of architecture, he felt younger than he had in years.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam couldn’t help noticing that none of the Whitney women were so much as throwing a hint his direction about accompanying him on any excursions outside the house.  He wasn’t sure whether the all-male jaunt to supposedly disreputable destinations had ruined his reputation with them or whether the frequency of letters now arriving from Elizabeth had declared him “taken,” but he didn’t care.  It was enough that he and Bert could plan an outing to Central Park the following Saturday without having anyone whimper or whine to come along.

            And he had enjoyed the afternoon thoroughly.  The music, although it included Mozart and Mendelssohn, continued to center around the boisterous band numbers that appealed to the public at large, rather than true music connoisseurs.  Still, it was pleasant, and Adam had enjoyed even more the walk he and Bert later took through the Ramble, the most rustic part of Central Park.  Oh, it was still cultivated, but it had been designed to look as though it were not, and a sense of seclusion shaded its quiet paths, faintly scented with swamp magnolia and honeysuckle.  Ducks and pea fowl skittered around the bushes, and once Adam caught his breath when, in an affecting reminder of home, a deer peered out from the shade of a stand of trees no more than a hundred yards from him.

            At the western boundary of the Ramble he came upon a slope thickly strewn with shrubs whose flowers had withered in the summer heat.  It led to the foot of a large rock.  “Looks like a cave down there,” he observed to Bert.  “Care to explore it?”  The expression on his friend’s face at once gave him the answer, for it was already flushed with the exertion of this simple walk on a very hot day, as they all had been this summer.  “Perhaps another day would be better,” Adam suggested.  “After all, we’re scarcely dressed for a tramp through the mud, which we’re likely to find inside a cave.”

            “Yes, yes, another day . . . perhaps,” Bert mumbled, his expression revealing the hope that Adam would forget the idea altogether.

            Resolving that he would find a time when he could revisit the Ramble alone, Adam led them over a charming bridge that looked as though it were constructed of rough tree boughs until they came to a view of a lovely little cascade of water into the brook below that proved so refreshing both men stood gazing on it for several minutes before deciding that it was time to return to the boardinghouse for the evening meal.

            “Let’s see,” Adam mused as they once again passed City Park, “could it be Lawrence or Leon?”

            “Give it up,” Bert advised.  “You’ll never succeed.”

 

* * * * *

 

            Many of the New York City churches took a summer holiday in August, and Grace Church, where the Whitneys usually attended was one of them.  The Randolphs’ Baptist church did not, and Adam elected to continue going with them to Sunday services.  A quiet day at home might have been a pleasing prospect under other circumstances, but the thought of spending those same hours in the parlor with three gossiping girls and their doting mother was sufficient impetus to make Adam rise early on the one day of the week he could have slept in.

            After dinner he went to his room, opened the windows in hopes of feeling some breath of breeze and caught up on his correspondence.  Then, all duties to God, family and friends fulfilled, he stretched on the bed in his stocking feet and read the latest installment of Victor Hugo’s new book, Les Misérables.   He had purchased hardback copies of the first two parts, even though they were dear at a dollar each, but having previously read The Hunchback of Notre Dame, he knew the quality of Hugo’s work and knew these were volumes he’d want to keep.  Of course, he planned to loan them to Jamie, too, and any other friend who wished to read them, so it was best to invest in something sturdier than paper copies.  He’d purchased the second part, “Cosette,” on his lunch hour the day before, but hadn’t had time since for more than a peek at its contents.  Since the bookseller had hinted that the third part would be coming out soon, Adam indulged himself in extra reading time that afternoon, but he still had about half the latest volume to go when he had to stop  to clean up for the evening meal.

            There was no time to read further until well after supper the next night.  Feeling a little guilty about ignoring his fellow boarders Sunday afternoon, he’d stayed in the parlor with them after supper until time to retire for bed.  Then he’d risen early, breakfasted and headed off to work with Bert.  As he filed documents and drawings that morning, his mind drifted to the streets of Paris, as he wondered whether Jean Valjean and little Cosette would be able to elude their persistent pursuer, Inspector Javert.  That afternoon, however, he received a drawing assignment so challenging that it absorbed his attention until time to leave for the day.  He couldn’t wait to return tomorrow and finish it.

            After freshening up, he went down to the parlor and spent a suitable amount of time socializing before supper, but managed to slip away to his room directly after the meal and was soon lost to everything except the heart-stopping chase of the fugitives.  Hugo described the Paris sky as being so bathed in moonlight that night that there was no need to light the street lamps, and as Adam saw Jean Valjean and Cosette to safety behind a convent wall, he almost felt that he was there, not only because of the power of the words, but because his own room seemed flooded with that same moonlight.

            His brow wrinkled as he closed the book about ten o’clock and glanced over at the window.  It wasn’t his imagination; it really was that bright outside . . . and it shouldn’t be.  It certainly hadn’t been the night before, and there had been no clouds to obscure the moon’s light then, either.  He moved to the window, raised the sash higher, leaned out and gasped.

            A dazzling display of arcing light met his eyes, mostly waves of iridescent green, although here and there streaks of red shot through the light spread across the horizon.  Mouth gaping open, Adam leaned further out, but he still couldn’t see as well as he wanted, so he drew himself back in and, hurriedly lacing on his shoes, crept into the hall and down the stairs, almost on tiptoe to avoid rousing the rest of the house.  He made his way into the backyard and settled down on a patch of grass so parched by the heat that it crackled every time he moved.

            He’d read about this phenomenon, of course, but book knowledge, however descriptive, was no substitute for seeing an aurora borealis with his own eyes.  His gaze swept the horizon, watching with fascination the interplay of the undulating streams of colored light that streamed toward the heavens with the majestic movement of an expertly conducted symphony.  He watched for an hour and then another, unable to tear himself away, although he knew he’d pay tomorrow for staying up so late.

            About midnight, when the lights seemed their brightest, bars of dense black vapor rose across the sky, and the contrasting darkness only emphasized the pearly opalescence of the northern lights in the unobscured portions of the sky.  And still he could not tear himself away.  He was young; he could catch up on sleep, but this might well be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and he didn’t want to miss a moment.

            Despite his intention, the setting was so quiet and peaceful that as the light display died down, his eyes involuntarily closed, and his chin bent to his chest.  He couldn’t have slept long, but when he jolted awake again, he decided that he might as well go back inside and get a couple of hours’ sleep in his own bed . . . especially if he expected to bring a fresh eye to the architectural rendering he’d been assigned.

 

* * * * *

 

            For the first time since coming to New York City, Adam was late to breakfast.  Seeing the reproachful look Mrs. Whitney cast him as he slid into his seat at the table, he quickly apologized for his tardiness.  “I was mesmerized by the stunning display of the aurora borealis until the wee hours of the morning, I’m afraid.”

            “The northern lights?” Grace asked with a touch of skepticism.  “You must be imagining things, Mr. Cartwright.”

            “Not at all,” Mr. McCrory said, adding acidly, “as you’d know if you read the newspaper of a morning, Miss Grace.”

            Her tongue was just as tart.  “How could I, when the so-called gentlemen of the house always snatch it before a helpless girl has opportunity?”

            Adam exchanged a surreptitious roll of the eyes with Bert.  Never had either of them so much as heard any of the girls, with the occasional exception of Pearl, express any interest in the news of the day.

            “Is that what it was, the northern lights?” Mrs. Randolph murmured.  “I thought there was something different about it.”

            Pearl laughed a bit brusquely.  “Surely, you weren’t awake at that hour, Mrs. Randolph.”

            The older woman only smiled back beneficently.  “I often wake at odd hours through the night, my dear.  I was always a light sleeper, and more so, now that I’m older.”

            “A pity you didn’t join me in the backyard,” Adam said, sending her a kindly smile.  “The view was much better from there.”  He went on to describe for the rest of the household the transformation of the midnight sky.

            “My, but you paint pictures with words just like an artist with oils!” Pearl gushed.  “I almost feel I was sitting there beside you.”

            “Well, I wish I had been,” Rose announced, sending a simpering pout in Adam’s direction.  “Why didn’t you wake me and take me with you, Adam?”

            The collective gasp that circled the table was ear-shattering.

            “Because I’m a gentleman,” Adam said crisply, “and gentlemen do not enter the boudoir of a young girl.”

            “Certainly not!” declared this particular young girl’s mother, while her sisters all glared at Rose with disapproval.

            “Nor that of a married woman, either, one would presume,” Grace sniffed.

            “Of course not.”  An impish twinkle lit Adam’s eye for a moment.  “Although,” he began, elongating the word.  When all the ladies turned to stare at him, he grinned and said, “Had I known you were awake, my dear Mrs. Randolph, I might have tapped on your door.”

            Now it was the girls’ turn to roll their eyes, communicating their obvious belief that he could have actually entered Mrs. Randolph’s room with impunity.  She was, after all, old enough to be his grandmother.

            Bert and Adam left almost immediately after breakfast, and for the first time Adam envied Mr. McCrory, who kept bankers’ hours and, therefore, could have slipped back to his room for another hour’s rest, had he needed it.  Still, he reminded himself, by Ponderosa standards—or, for that matter, by those followed at Yale—he hadn’t risen early at all.  As he considered that, a low chuckle issued from his throat.

            Hearing it, Bert asked playfully.  “Are you recalling your visit to Miss Rose’s bed chamber?”

            “Scarcely!” Adam hooted.

            Bert snapped his fingers.  “Oh, that’s right: you’re a gentleman.”  Dropping the elaborately aristocratic tone he’d adopted for the last three words, he laughed.  “What does that do to your carefully cultivated image of a rakehell, eh?”

            “Blows it to smithereens,” Adam admitted.  He cocked a wry grin at his friend.  “Or maybe just keeps them guessing.”

            “One may hope,” Bert chuckled.  “I do think you might have risked entering my bed chamber, however.  I’d have relished seeing those northern lights.”

            “You never have?”

            Bert shook his head.  “A rare phenomenon, even here in the civilized East, my friend.”

            Adam punched a doubled fist into the other man’s shoulder as retribution for that implied insult to his own part of the country.  Bantering back and forth, they arrived at work, where it had to end.  They each had drawings to complete, and since they worked at adjoining tables, neither could afford the distraction of too much conversation.  Not until noon did they exchange anything other than architectural questions or comments on each other’s work.

            “Where would you like to eat?” Bert asked as they walked out.

            Usually, Adam just said, “Wherever you like” and trusted Bert’s culinary instincts, but today he groaned and pleaded, “Anywhere except a chophouse, please.  And no heavy German fare, either.  I don’t think my stomach will tolerate it.”  Between his lack of sleep and his nervousness over the drawing he’d just submitted to Mr. Bracebridge, he could feel his stomach roiling already.

            Bert frowned in thought.  A light meal was never his first choice, so it took him some time to run mentally through the menus of restaurants he’d visited or heard about in New York City, searching for something that might provide a meal light enough for Adam, yet filling enough for his own appetite.  Finally, his eyes lighted with inspiration.  “What about Moquin’s?”  he proposed.  “It’s French, but if you go easy on the sauces, it might suit you.”

            The suggestion triggered memories of Marie’s cooking and brought a smile to Adam’s face.  Light or not, he thought he’d enjoy sampling French cuisine again.  “That sounds good.  Is it nearby?”

            “On Fulton,” Bert replied.

            Adam was by now well acquainted with the lower part of the city, so he turned in the right direction and headed for Fulton Street.  In fact, when Bert pointed out the entrance to Moquin’s, Adam realized that he’d passed the restaurant several times before, on their way to Fulton Market, where they often grabbed a quick, inexpensive meal of oysters, either in chowder or opened in front of them and served on the shell.  Inside, he noted the motto, “In Vino Veritas,” posted on the wall.

            “Noted for their wines, I hear,” Bert observed, seeing Adam eyeing the phrase.

            Adam shook his head.  “Not in the middle of a working day.”

            “No,” Bert agreed.  “We need our heads about us for the type of meticulous work we do.”

            Adam nodded, although he expected that he’d be back in the file room or possibly running errands the rest of the day, unless he’d made such a mess of his drawing that he had to redo it.  He didn’t think that likely, however.  He was beginning to be a good judge of his work and thought he’d done well on this latest project.

            With menu in hand, Bert leaned toward Adam and whispered, “Do you read French?  I can . . . not well, but if you need help with the choices . . .”

            “I think I can manage,” Adam said, humor tugging at his lips.  “I studied some French with my stepmother and a bit more at the academy in Sacramento.”

            “Good, then.”  Bert’s relieved exhale betrayed his underlying lack of confidence.  “I’m going to have the filet de boeuf with potatoes and . . . um . . . haricots verts.”

            “I want something lighter than that.”  Adam’s lips pursed in thought as he perused the menu.  “The potage de crème de volaille, I think, with some vegetables on the side.”

            “Soup?”  Bert scowled.  “I’d prefer not having to pick you up off the floor after you keel over from lack of nourishment, my friend.”

            Adam laughed.  “I’m more worried about having to roll you back to the office after you eat so much you can’t move.”

            “Ha, ha,” Bert snorted.  As soon as he and Adam had turned in their orders, he observed, “Good news about the Overland Mail, wasn’t it?”

            “What news?” Adam demanded.

            Bert chuckled.  “That’s right; you didn’t make it down in time to read the newspaper this morning.”

            Adam sniffed.  “I rarely get that opportunity until the evening, anyway.”  He, of course, always gave preference to the older men at the house, although Mr. Randolph generally deferred his reading until after the working men had left and Mr. McCrory would ordinarily hand over the inner pages to the younger men.

            “True enough,” Bert commiserated.  “Well, you’ll be glad to hear that the Overland is going to resume daily mail coaches again.  That should make it easier to hear from your family.”

            “Definitely,” Adam agreed.  Indian attacks had interrupted the mail service so frequently that the company had obtained permission to change its route and had been given twenty days to make the transfer of stock and men to the new stations.  As a result, Adam had almost given up hope of hearing from his family before he returned to New Haven.  Now, at least, it was possible.

            Their meals were served, and Bert sliced into his filet with gusto.  Adam had selected petit pois and tomates farcies to go with his velvety cream of chicken soup.  Letting it cool, he cut through the tomato with his fork and then pierced the flesh with the tines, along with some of the bread stuffing baked into its hollowed center.  “Delicious,” he told Bert.  “You really should have tried it, instead of those green beans.”

            “I like beans,” Bert grunted, “and I’m not at all sure that love apples are actually good for you.”

            Adam only laughed as he scooped some peas onto his fork.

            “You won’t be laughing at the main news item today,” Bert warned.  Then, apparently feeling he’d said too much in his testiness at being teased, he riveted his eyes on his plate.

            “What?” Adam demanded.

            “Nothing,” Bert mumbled, hastily stuffing a bite of beef into his mouth.

            Adam eyed him intently.  “Why don’t I believe you?”

            Bert shrugged, pointing to his full mouth as reason for not answering.

            Adam responded by pulling the plate away.  “Swallow and then talk,” he ordered.

            Bert swallowed, wiped his lips with his napkin.  “Oh, Adam, I’m sorry,” he sighed.  “I didn’t mean to break it to you like that.  Well, I didn’t mean to break it at all, for that matter.  I mean, I’ve seen how uncomfortable you get when we pass City Park . . .”

            “Break what?” Adam probed tersely.

            “The President has called for 300,000 more troops,” Bert replied reluctantly.

            Adam shrugged, although as Bert had perceived, talk of enlistment always bothered him.  “Is that all?  They always want more troops.”

            “This is different,” Bert insisted.  “This time they’re only asking for nine months’ service, but if any State doesn’t meet its quota . . . well, they say they’ll institute a draft.”  He gave Adam a sheepish look.  “Now, may I have my dinner back?”

            Adam pushed Bert’s plate back across the table, but his own sat untouched, for his appetite had vanished.  A draft.  There’d been suggestions of it before, of course.  It was, in fact, so current a topic that even this week the Winter Garden was playing a comedy called, “Look Out for the Draft.”  Now, apparently, it was more than just talk, more than something to joke about: it was an active threat, and Adam wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

            In a way, being drafted would settle the debate that had raged inside him for so many weeks.  If he were drafted, the decision was made for him, and no one, including Pa, could fault him for submitting to the law of the land.  He would have no choice but to fight . . . and therein lay the rub, as Hamlet had said.  He scorned the idea of being a man so weak-willed that he left major decisions of his life to others.  Such a man was no man at all; he was nothing but a puerile, vacillating boy.

            Beneath the table Adam’s fist clenched with determination.  He could not allow himself to be drafted, like a man afraid to fight for his country, but neither could he allow fear of that dishonor to push him into a decision he would not otherwise make.  He had to make his own, independent decision, and he needed to make it soon.  Today’s news had ensured that, but he felt no closer to knowing his own heart than he had before.

            “Adam, for mercy’s sake, eat your soup before it’s stone cold,” Bert pleaded.  “I’m sorry the news upsets you, but don’t be a fool.  You have an afternoon’s work ahead of you.”

            Adam looked up and his eyes cleared.  Bert was right.  His obligation this afternoon was to Bracebridge, Harwood and Associates, and the firm deserved his full attention, something he could scarcely give if his stomach was reminding him constantly that he hadn’t filled it.  Maybe he was making this whole thing harder than it was.  Maybe all he had to do was what he’d done along the trail west: take a step, take another—walk, walk, walk—and trust that each step, each daily decision would point the way to the larger one that loomed increasingly closer.  Whether to eat his dinner or not was a small decision, but there was a right and wrong to it, as to larger ones.  Better to practice making right choices, even in the small things, so although the cooling soup no longer enticed him, he dipped in his spoon and began to eat.

 

* * * * *

 

            That night, after everyone had retired, Adam slipped out to the backyard again and sat on the grass as he had the night before.  There were no waves of light frolicking in the heavens tonight, nothing but quiet stars pinpricking the fabric of a charcoal sky.  He hadn’t come here to see a spectacle, though; nor had he expected any voice from on high, telling him what to do.  He’d hoped only to find again the peace he’d felt the night before, but it was gone, leaving behind only the ebb and flow of a questioning heart.  He didn’t stay long; there was no point.  Not wanting to face the next day’s work after a second sleepless night, he forced himself to go back upstairs, and though his thoughts continued to turn for a while, he was tired enough that he fell asleep fairly early.

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

Martin Van Buren, eighth President of the United States (1837-1841), died on July 24, 1862

 

“Richelieu: or the Conspiracy,” by Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton, is available online in its entirety through Google Books.  In addition to “the pen is mightier than the sword,” Bulwer-Lytton is also the author of that immortal (and infamous) opening sentence, “It was a dark and stormy night.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Keeping Options Open

 

 

            Adam made a point of arriving in the parlor early the next morning.   He hoped for a peek at the newspaper before breakfast, but even if he didn’t get it, at least he’d have equal access with Bert to any relevant news of the day.  He wanted no more nasty surprises like the one at yesterday’s noontime meal.  With that purpose in view, he asked Mr. McCrory, who had his nose buried in the paper, if there was anything of interest in the Times.

            “Still no notice of any performance by Artemus Ward,” the older man advised.  Then, seeing Adam’s frown, he said, “I’m sorry.  I thought that’s what you’d be interested in.”  He didn’t mention that both Bert and Adam usually looked first at the list of attractions on page four, often before even scanning the headlines.

            “Well, yes, that would be of interest,” Adam replied, adding with what he hoped was a nonchalant air, “I was somewhat curious if there was any further news about . . . the draft.”  Despite his best efforts, he knew that his hesitance had been palpable.

            “Oh, of course,” McCrory said kindly.  “Yes, there is a long article discussing the various reasons for exemption.”  He folded the paper and handed it to Adam.  “Oh! and a short piece about the war meeting in New Haven last night . . . on the last page.  Since that’s your home, perhaps . . .”

            “Yes,” Adam muttered.  New Haven wasn’t exactly home, of course, but as close as he had here in the East, and he did have concern for what went on there.  It was as much because that article was easy to find as for any special interest in war meetings that he turned to it first.  It took him only a couple of minutes to read the brief description.  Like every war meeting he’d heard of this summer, it had been well attended; in fact, the crowd had been so large that the meeting had adjourned to the Green at the north portico of the State House.  A bounty of $100 was now being offered, in addition to any incentives from other sources, a powerful one for the married men the nine-month enlistment term was primarily aimed at.  With encouragement like that, perhaps the quota would be filled by the time he returned to New Haven, Adam mused.

            A resolution had also been passed to publish the names and nature of disease of those applying for a Disability Certificate.  That didn’t affect Adam personally, because he was certainly fit enough to fight, but he thought immediately of Jamie, who had no business subjecting himself to a soldier’s life of camping in the open, particularly in inclement weather.  It might well mean his death.  Was it fair that such men, with legitimate physical problems, have their intimate health details published for a curious world to see?  Everyone would understand why a man who had lost a limb or even a finger or thumb might consider himself unable to serve, but the disabilities the newspaper listed included ailments that would normally be closely guarded secrets, such as large hemorrhoids or a fistula in the private parts.  It seemed cruel to publicly announce anything that personally invasive, but the likely alternative was having the man’s character or patriotism questioned . . . as Adam’s own might be, should he, a sturdy specimen of masculine strength, refuse to enlist.

            Still, that was no reason to join a regiment.  If he did join, Adam wanted it to be for high principles: for the preservation of the Union and for the freedom of enslaved men, women and children.  He still hadn’t decided, so he turned to the article that detailed the conditions under which a man might seek exemption from the draft.  In addition to everyone under eighteen or over forty-five, he learned that the exempt classes included all government workers, police officers, coroners, firemen and members of the Quaker and Shaker faiths, as well as professors, teachers and students at all levels of education.

            Adam breathed a sigh of relief, not for himself, but for Jamie.  His friend was exempt and would not have to submit himself to the humiliation of proclaiming his physical weakness publicly.  For that matter, he wasn’t even sure Jamie would have qualified on those grounds.  A tendency toward respiratory ailments might not be considered a specific illness, after all, but winter in a tent would be an open invitation to pneumonia for his friend, so Adam was particularly glad that, for Jamie, there was an honorable way to avoid the army.  For himself also . . . should he choose to exercise it.  And if the country valued the education of its young men more than their service, then maybe he should, too.  Maybe the same government that had provoked this difficult decision had itself provided the answer he’d sought for so long.  He still wasn’t sure, but he now knew that he could, with honor, decide either way.  He had only to determine what was right for him.  One corner of his mouth lifted in a rueful smile as Hamlet’s line again fluttered through his mind.  Yeah, the decision was wholly his; therein lay the rub.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam felt a rub of an entirely different nature as he sliced into his pork chop that night at dinner.  Before he could take his first bite Mrs. Whitney cleared her throat in such a significant manner that she drew everyone’s attention.  She smiled sweetly in the direction of the trio of men lining one side of the table.  “Have you all been able to read the newspaper as thoroughly as you wish, gentlemen?” she asked.

            “Yes, I finished it before leaving for work,” Mr. McCrory replied, his attention returning at once to his plate.

            “I, of course, had the entire day for reading,” Mr. Randolph chuckled.

            “Yes, yes, of course,” the landlady all but hissed.  Pasting the sugary smile back on, she looked questioningly at Bert and Adam.  Bert said that he’d had ample time to read the paper before dinner, while Adam merely nodded his assent.  Since his perusal that morning had given him more than enough to chew on, he hadn’t felt inclined to open the Times after work.

            Mrs. Whitney cleared her throat again.  “I was wondering if you’d noticed the announcement of a grand picnic and festival to aid our poor sick and wounded soldiers . . . the one at Jones Wood?”

            “I believe I did,” Bert said hesitantly, with a wary glance at Adam.

            “Such a worthy cause,” the landlady gushed.  “Of course, I realize that fifty cents for a ticket might seem a bit dear to working men, but it does include any ladies you might wish to escort.”

            The suggestion could not have been more blatant.  She was plainly suggesting that one or all of them might consider attending that picnic in the company of one or more of her daughters.  Not really knowing how to respond, Adam countered with a question, “I’m afraid I didn’t see that notice.  Where, exactly, is Jones Wood?”

            “Up on the East River, no further than Central Park, I assure you,” Mrs. Whitney replied, “and much more to your liking in particular, Mr. Cartwright.”

            Although he recognized the bait being dangled before him, curiosity compelled Adam to ask, “Oh?  Why is that?”

            She tittered lightly.  “Why, the forest, of course.  It’s positively dense there, and, well, you did say that your family was prominent in the timber industry out West, didn’t you?  You must miss your trees greatly.”

            Adam couldn’t recall ever having described the Cartwrights as “prominent in the timber industry,” but she had correctly perceived that he missed the majestic pine forests of the Ponderosa.  Still, since he realized a trap was being laid, he answered cautiously, “I suppose I do, but I doubt that anything in New York City is likely to assuage that.”

            When the mother frowned in frustration at the density of men, her middle daughter asked sharply, “Do none of you gentlemen care about supporting men wounded in the service of our great Union?”

            Mr. McCrory and Bert at once protested vociferously that they were, of course, concerned, as all good citizens should be.  Adam didn’t say anything, but nodded his concession.

            “Perhaps their concern is financial, my dear,” Mrs. Whitney interrupted, extending a restraining hand toward Grace.  She turned back to the men, the syrup returning to her voice.  “Forgive me, gentlemen.  I hadn’t intended to embarrass you in any way.  The girls, of course, wanted to support this wonderful cause, but they obviously cannot attend without male escort.  I merely thought that if you were attending anyway, you might consent to allowing them to accompany you.”  Then she said, as if it had just occurred to her, “Of course, if your only concern is financial, I would happily supply the funds for the outing, for surely our brave soldiers have earned far more than fifty cents of my support.”

            “Absolutely not,” Mr. McCrory protested.  “I certainly can afford that sum.  I won’t hear of your paying, dear lady.”

            “Certainly not,” both Adam and Bert agreed, although more feebly, for both felt that to escort one of the Whitney girls was a much more dangerous proposition for them than for the older man.  A sudden thought sparked hope in Adam.  “When is this picnic?” he asked.  Unless it were soon, he might well be on his way back to New Haven by that date.

            “The twentieth,” Mr. Randolph supplied.  “That’s a Wednesday, a working day, of course, but the notice didn’t specify the hours.”

            Almost as good, Adam thought.  “Yes, a working day,” he said quickly.  “Well, of course, it would be totally dependent on the hours.  We’ll need more information, won’t we, before we make further plans.”

            “Yes, yes, I suppose we will,” Mrs. Whitney sighed.  She didn’t appear quite ready to concede the battle to the men, but her deflated air reflected a feeling of, at least, temporary defeat.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam paused at the foot of the stairs on Friday morning to indulge in one last yawn before entering the polite society of the boardinghouse parlor.  He’d had so much on his mind of late that he found getting to sleep difficult and, consequently, rose later than was his usual habit and with much less sense of feeling rested.  Whatever weariness he felt, however, vanished when he heard the sound of soft weeping as he entered the room where the boarders were accustomed to await the announcement of all meals.  He was particularly surprised to see the source from which it came.  Crossing the room quickly, he squatted down in front of the elderly woman in the doily-draped chair and asked anxiously, “My dear Mrs. Randolph, whatever is wrong?”

            “Too tender a heart,” Pearl, the only one of the Whitneys in the room, opined.  Adam sent a glancing scowl her direction and turned back to his friend.

            “Harsh, but true, I fear,” Mr. Randolph muttered, stroking his wife’s thin-veined hand.  “You mustn’t carry the cares of the world, my dear, but place them in the hands of God.”

            “I know, I know,” she murmured, “but oh! so many lives lost.  How can I not care?”  She reached suddenly for Adam’s hand.  “I do so hope that no one you know is affected by this tragedy, dear boy.”

            Adam’s brows knit together as he looked inquiringly into the face of Mr. Randolph.

            “The steamer Golden Gate,” the older man said, half his attention still on his wife.  “Burned at sea.  There’s no need to assume our Adam knew any of the passengers, my dear.”

            “It’s his part of the world,” she whispered, handkerchief held to her sniffling nose.  “They could be friends . . . family.”  Her voice choked, perhaps as she envisioned someone special to her going down on that ship.

            Mr. McCrory cleared his throat.  “Perhaps you’d like to read the article, Adam?  I’m afraid it was my sharing it that started the”—he started to say “waterworks,” but reworded it more delicately as “the lady’s distress.”

            “Yes, I would.”  Adam rose and crossed the room.  Quickly scanning the article McCrory pointed out to him, he learned that a steamer of the Pacific Mail line, which had left San Francisco on July 21^st, had caught fire and sunk just under a week later off the shore of Mexico.  Though the newspaper printed nothing but the bare facts, imagination could supply the cries of terror as men, women and children rushed for lifeboats or jumped into the sea to avoid the roasting flames.

            At least two hundred passengers and crew members had perished, but Adam was certain that no one he knew had been on board.  Most of his friends and acquaintances were simple people and, with the possible exception of the mercantile-owning Larrimores, had no reason to travel anywhere by ocean steamer.  They’d chosen to make their homes in the far West, and most had made that choice in full knowledge that they would never again see their eastern homes.  He was, in fact, the exception, rather than the rule, as he gently explained to Mrs. Randolph.  “I so appreciate your concern on my behalf,” he told her, “but please don’t distress yourself.  As you say, the loss of life is tragic, and no one with a heart could fail to be moved by it, but it’s a national loss, not a personal one.”

            “A national loss,” her husband said soberly.  “Yes, I suppose that’s how we should think of it.”

            “No.”  Mrs. Randolph shook her head in a rare dispute of another’s opinion.  “I’m grateful that your loved ones are safe, Adam, and I’m grateful that none of mine were aboard that fated ship, but to the grieving families of those who were, it is as personal as I feared it might be for you.”  She wiped her eyes with the attitude of one who now knew her duty.  “I shall pray for them.”

 

* * * * *

 

            The door to the inner office opened about midmorning on Saturday.  Mr. Bainbridge leaned out the doorway and called, “Adam, could you step in here, please?”

            “Yes, sir,” Adam said at once.  He laid aside his drawing pencil and walked across the room to enter his employer’s private office.

            “Close the door,” Mr. Bainbridge said as he circled his mahogany desk and sat down behind it.

            Only his taut lips revealed his tension as Adam followed the instruction.  For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what he’d done to merit a dressing down, but both Mr. Bainbridge’s expression and his tone were so serious that he expected nothing less as he turned nervously around.

            “Have a seat,” Mr. Bainbridge said, gesturing toward a chair.

            “I’d just as soon stand, sir,” Adam replied.  It was the stance he had always assumed when “on the carpet” with Pa.

            Bainbridge’s brow furrowed.  “Is something wrong, Adam?”

            “That’s what I was going to ask,” Adam murmured nervously.  He had, of course, entertained no such idea as actually asking that question, but it was uppermost in his mind.  “If my work has been unsatisfactory . . .”

            Bainbridge gasped.  “Oh, goodness, no.  No, my boy!  Your work is exemplary.  I hope you won’t think I’m meddling, but I wanted to ask some rather personal questions.”

            “Oh.  All right.”  Adam couldn’t imagine what personal matters would be of interest to his employer, but he owed this man so much that he felt willing to share almost anything.  To signal his willingness to answer, he took the seat he’d been offered before.

            “Are you in the habit of reading the newspaper, Adam?” Bainbridge asked.

            “Well, yes,” Adam replied, “although I’m not able to do so thoroughly until the evening.”  After another restless night, he had again come to breakfast so late that he’d been unable to give the newspaper so much as a glance, although Mr. McCrory, knowing his interest, had mentioned that the third part of Les Misérables would be on sale today.  That didn’t seem likely to be what Mr. Bainbridge wanted to talk about, but suddenly Adam was sure he knew.  Smiling, he said, “I’m confident that no one I knew was on the Golden Gate, sir.”

            Bainbridge stared at him blankly.  “I hadn’t assumed they were.”

            Adam flushed.  “Oh, well, it’s just that it did come from my part of the world,” he stammered, echoing Mrs. Randolph’s words.  “I thought . . . perhaps”—he trailed off, not knowing how to extricate himself from his misconception.

            Mr. Bainbridge looked slightly chagrined.  “Perhaps I should have made that connection, but it never occurred to me.”

            “No reason it should, sir,” Adam babbled hastily.  “An elderly friend at the boardinghouse did; that’s why I thought . . . well . . . no matter.  What did you wish to speak about, sir?”

            “The draft,” Bainbridge said bluntly.

            Adam stared at him.  Of all the subjects he did not wish to discuss!  “The . . . draft?” he asked hesitantly, mostly to stall for time.

            Bainbridge nervously shuffled some papers on his desk.  “I know it’s none of my business, but I wondered if you were planning to enlist or seek an exemption.”

            Adam slumped forward.  “I wish I knew.”  He lifted his head and gazed frankly at the senior architect.  “Frankly, sir, I’ve debated that issue all summer, and I’m no closer to a decision than when I started.  Either way, I won’t be leaving the firm before the time we’ve discussed, sir.”

            “Adam, Adam,” Bainbridge chided gently.  “It’s not the firm I’m concerned about: it’s you.  If you didn’t see the newspaper this morning, you may not be aware of the new restrictions on travel, but I was concerned that they might affect you, if you planned to return to Yale.”  His color heightened as he impatiently slapped the newspaper against the desk.  “Ridiculous ruling!  Restricting foreign travel is one thing, but to suggest that anyone traveling outside the county might be trying to evade the draft.”

            “I can’t leave the county?” Adam asked anxiously.

            “Or the state, not if you’re eligible for the draft,” Mr. Bainbridge amplified.  “I’m afraid, Adam, that you’ve resided in New York City long enough to make you subject to its jurisdiction.  And if they decide that you are trying to flee the draft, they can forcibly take you to the nearest military post and place you on compulsory military duty for the duration of the draft period, anywhere from nine months to three years, depending on whether you were drafted to fill a veteran regiment or one of the new ones.  To add insult to the injury, they would also require you to pay for your transportation there and an extra five dollars to the officer who arrested you.”

            “Then I’d better enlist,” Adam murmured, feeling a certain measure of relief.  If he absolutely couldn’t get back to Yale, the decision he had agonized over all summer had, in effect, been made for him.  He still wasn’t sure he wanted to be a soldier, but he knew this much about himself: he would rather go by his own choice than by compulsion.

            “Don’t be hasty, my boy,” Bainbridge advised.  “I can’t believe they’re serious about this travel restriction.  For mercy’s sake, they’d shut down all commerce and communication if they followed it to the letter.  People couldn’t even commute between here and Brooklyn or Jersey City!  But until saner minds prevail, I think you should protect yourself by filing for exemption.  As a student, you would qualify.”

            Adam pursed his lips.  “I don’t know,” he said slowly.  “I hate to tie myself down, either way, when I haven’t made a firm decision yet.  I know it’s a weakness to be so vacillating, but—”

            “Not at all, not at all,” Mr. Bainbridge interrupted to say.  “It’s an important decision, one that should not be made in haste, and that is why I say you should file for exemption.”

            Adam cocked his head in puzzlement.  “But wouldn’t that be making the decision . . . right now?”

            The senior architect came around the desk to lay his hands on the young man’s shoulders.  “No, son.  Don’t you see?  If you should later decide that you want to serve, you can still make that choice, but if you’re drafted, then the choice is taken out of your hands.  You would have to serve, unless you could pay for a substitute.”

            “No,” Adam said at once.  Though his father would probably be willing to pay for a substitute, he just couldn’t let another man take his place in battle.

            Mr. Bainbridge nodded as if he understood Adam’s unspoken reasons.  “Then, file for exemption,” he said, “to preserve your right to choose.”  Seeing Adam slowly nod, he said, “I want you to take the rest of the day off and get that taken care of now.”

            “Oh, no, sir,” Adam protested.  “We leave early today as it is.  Surely, there’ll be time after work.”

            “The lines may be long,” Bainbridge argued, “and you have little time to spare, Adam.  The exemptions must be filed by the 15^th, and that’s only six days from now.”

            “Then I do need to get it done today—or early next week, when my absence here might pose more inconvenience,” Adam admitted.

            “Precisely,” Bainbridge said with a smile.

“Thank you for your thoughtfulness in bringing this to my attention, sir,” Adam said, “and your generosity in giving me time off to take care of the matter.”

            “Generosity?” Bainbridge laughed.  “I thought I was being selfish, ensuring that you return to us next summer.”  He sobered quickly.  “I’m not trying to discourage you from enlisting, you understand?  The War Department has also called for the arrest and imprisonment of anyone doing that, and I would not want my motives so misconstrued in any case.”

            “Not at all, sir,” Adam assured him.  “You’ve given me wise counsel, but left the decision entirely to me.  I’d testify to that, if need be.”

            Chuckling, Bainbridge hauled him up by one arm.  “I doubt there’ll be any need of that.  Off with you now.  You might as well take Bert with you for an early lunch, but I will expect him back afterwards.”

            Adam thanked him again and hurried out to tell Bert that they were free to leave for lunch.

            “What’s up?” Bert demanded as they exited the office.

            “Tell you over lunch,” Adam promised.  “Where to?”

            They decided on Windust’s, because Adam mentioned that he had an errand at City Hall after lunch and that restaurant was on his way, while still being close to the office for Bert’s return.  As they came in sight of #5 Ann Street, Adam smiled at the motto over the door: Nunquam No Paratus.  Imperfect Latin, but he knew from previous visits how well it suited the restaurant, which was “never not prepared,” whether for the newspapermen that thronged it during the day or the actors and patrons of the nearby Park Theatre in the evening.  Wanting their conversation to be private, Adam gestured toward one of the stalls that lined one side of the basement room.  With a fond glance at the playbill of Hamlet that hung on the wall above the table, he slid onto the bench on one side of the stall.

            Bert followed, taking the other side of the table.  “So, what’s the errand?” he asked as soon as he and Adam had turned in their orders.  “Not a delivery, I take it, since you didn’t bring any papers with you.”

            “No, not a delivery,” Adam said.  “Mr. Bainbridge has given me the afternoon off, to file for exemption from army service.”  He gave his friend a mischievous grin.  “You, on the other hand, will be slaving away until the usual hour.”

            “Doing double duty, your work and mine,” Bert snorted.  “So, you’ve decided against enlisting, then?”

            Adam sighed.  “No, not definitely, but Mr. Bainbridge advised me to get the exemption, to avoid being forced into the military against my will.”

            “Oh . . . the draft.”  Bert shook his head.  “You’re lucky, Adam, that you qualify for exemption.”

            The waiter served their plates, and then Adam commented, “It’s always best to have a choice.”  Seeing the sour skew of his friend’s mouth, which had nothing to do with the bite of corned beef he’d just placed in it, he said, “Maybe voluntary enlistments will be sufficient, and they won’t have to resort to the draft.”

            “Hope so,” Bert said after swallowing his meat.

            “You’ve definitely made your decision, then?” Adam inquired.  He had avoided the topic for so long that he wasn’t sure what his friend’s current feelings were.

            “I’d rather not be a soldier,” Bert admitted.  “I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

            Adam frankly agreed, but didn’t say so.  Instead, he tentatively asked, “Is a substitute a possibility?”

            Bert nodded.  “It’s a lot of money, of course, but I think Mother would insist on it.”

            Adam sliced into his beefsteak.  “Well, you’d better not plan on visiting them for a while, my friend,” he said lightly.

            “Hmm?” Bert mumbled past a full mouth.

            Knowing that Bert had probably not seen the article, either, Adam explained the new edicts from the War Department.  “That’s why Mr. Bainbridge urged me to establish my exemption; otherwise, I might never have made it to New Haven to start the new term!”

            “Good lands,” Bert gasped.  “Well, I guess I’m stuck here in New York until it’s settled one way or the other, but I hadn’t planned to go home before Thanksgiving, anyway.”

            “Bound to be settled by then,” Adam assured him as they both dug into the fried potatoes that came with their meat.

 

* * * * *

 

            With promises to meet in City Hall Park after two o’clock, Adam separated from Bert once they reached Broadway.  He went north to the park, grimacing again at the white tents dotting the lawn.  Nothing like the sight of soldiers drilling to make a man on his way to file an exemption cringe, he thought, as he strode purposefully past them and entered City Hall.

            It was a madhouse.  Adam quickly realized that he was not the only young man who had delayed this decision to the last minute, for hundreds packed the halls and stairways, all buzzing with their business like a swarm of bees.  In a way, that made him feel less an oddity, but it also sent a shiver racing up his spine.  He had to get this done today, and the length of the line snaking its way upstairs made him wonder if he could.  Not everyone was trying to avoid the draft, however; some were evidently there only to turn the mayhem to their advantage.  Adam hadn’t even reached the second floor before the first approached him and offered, for a fee, to fill out his exemption papers for him.  “I can handle that myself,” he’d grunted coldly, only to have to repeat himself every few minutes as he slowly made his way upward.

            On the first landing he frowned when he saw a gray-haired man surrounded by three of those here only for profit.  Each was offering to file exemption papers for the man, touting his expertise and the fairness of his fee.  Deciding that there was nothing honest about these men’s offers of help, Adam stepped out of line and walked over to the older man.  “Excuse me, sir,” he began.

            “Move on, sonny,” one of the three men surrounding the other snapped.  “A young whippersnapper like you can’t have the know-how to help this gentleman.”

            “More than you, unless my eyes deceive me,” Adam said sharply.  Ignoring them, he again addressed the gray-haired man.  “Please pardon my forwardness, sir, but would you mind telling me your age?”

            “None of your business!” shouted another fee-filer.

            “Why, I don’t mind,” the older man said.  “The Lord has blessed me with fifty years, young man.”

            “Then, sir, you don’t need to file exemption papers,” Adam informed him.  “No one under eighteen or over forty-five does.  You are automatically exempt.”

            The man stared at him, wide-eyed with hope of escaping the madhouse.  “Are you certain?”

            “Completely certain,” Adam said.  “Please don’t waste your time or money, sir.”

            “Doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” the third man sputtered.  “You can see he’s barely out of diapers!”

            The gray-haired man compared the three angry faces with the calm and kindly young one before him.  “I think I’ll trust the toddler,” he said, extending his hand toward Adam.  “Thank you, young man.”

            Adam shook his hand, and as the older man started down the stairs, he turned back toward the line, wondering if anyone would let him in or if he’d have to start back downstairs at its tail.  A hefty hand clamped down on his shoulder.

            “Not so fast, sonny,” an ominous voice snarled.  “You cost me my fee, so either cough it up yourself or—”

            “You have no fee coming,” Adam snorted.  “You’re nothing but a swindler, preying on those who don’t know better.”

            “And you’re nothing but an interfering brat, about to get his comeuppance,” a second swindler announced, punctuating his remark with a punch to Adam’s jaw.

            The blow, something he hadn’t expected here in the civilized East, took Adam off guard, but he quickly recovered and drove a solid fist into the other man’s stomach.  When the man dropped to the floor, Adam kept one eye on him, while facing the other two, fists raised at the ready.  Neither seemed inclined to try him.  One slapped the other’s arm and said, “Come on.  There’s other fish to fry.”  And the two of them tromped down the stairs.

            Behind Adam, a round of applause broke out and a voice up the line called out, “Up here!”  Seeing the man who had previously been behind him in line, Adam trotted up the stairs and again took his place.

            “Thanks,” he said, shaking the man’s hand.  “Good of you to let me back in.”

            The man shrugged.  “Oh, I just want a ringside seat, in case you decide to go at another one.”

            Adam grinned as he rubbed his jaw.  “Well, I’d rather not.”

            The other man, probably five years his senior, grinned back.  “Too bad.  We could use the entertainment while we wait.”

            “You can take your turn at entertaining us next time,” Adam suggested wryly.  “There’s enough of those pests infesting the place to give us both plenty of exercise.”

            Perhaps his reputation preceded him, but Adam had no more trouble with the pests that afternoon.  Instead, he almost enjoyed the long wait because he now had someone to share it with.  Eventually, he reached the County Clerk’s office, filed the proper papers and made his way past the throng still waiting in line.  Consulting his watch, he determined that it would be at least another half hour before Bert could reach the park, so he walked up Broadway to D. Appleton and Company and purchased a copy of Part III of Les Misérables.  Bert still wasn’t there when he returned to the park, so he dropped down on the grass next to the streetcar stop and began to read “Marius.”

             He was so absorbed in trying to discover what this completely new character had to do with his old friends, Jean Valjean and Cosette, that he didn’t notice when Bert dropped down beside him on the lawn.  “Hey,” Bert said, bumping Adam’s shoulder with his own.  “Are we still going to the park concert or would you rather go home and read that thing?”

            Adam laughed and closed the book.  “Like any petulant child, I want both, of course—music and the book—but not at home.  Let’s go on to Central Park, as we’d planned, and I’ll try not to rudely bury my nose in the book between numbers.”

            “Wouldn’t bother me if you did,” Bert said amiably.  “Perhaps I’ll find someone chattier than you at the park to keep me entertained.”

            Adam got to his feet, reached down a hand to pull his friend up and, with a positively impish twinkle in his eye, suggested, “If it’s someone chattier you want, I suppose we should go home, so you can invite Miss Rose along.”

            “Not that chatty,” Bert moaned.  “It’s been too long a week for that.  I prefer the relative quiet of the tubas and trumpets, in spite of the horrendous heat.”

            Laughing in agreement, Adam shoved him toward the horse car that had just pulled up to their stop.  To pass the time, he began throwing out names beginning with “L,” attempting once again to guess Bert’s middle name.  “Lael, Laird, Landon, Lancelot,” he tried.

            “No, no, a thousand times no,” Bert laughed.

            Adam’s eyes dropped to the book in his lap.  Inspired by the setting of Les Misérables, he tried another French name.  “How about Lafayette?”

            Bert gasped.  “How—I mean”—he tried to cover his gaffe by gazing out the window of the car.

Adam laughed in triumph and announced smugly, “I told you I’d figure it out.”  Then he shook his head in commiseration.  “Bertram Lafayette, huh?  What were your parents thinking?  We hang people in Nevada for lesser crimes!”

           

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Final Days and Plays

 

 

            Adam needed no more proof than the next day’s newspaper to demonstrate that he had done the right thing in filing for exemption on Saturday.  Government officials had assured the public that local travel would not be interfered with, but anyone going further than Brooklyn apparently had much to fear.  Police were patrolling the docks and checking the passports of everyone attempting to board a ship bound for a foreign port.  Woe betide the man who had gotten his travel documents within the last ten days!  It was assumed that he was fleeing the country to avoid the draft, and he would not be allowed to board, even if a weeping wife awaited him on the ship.

            In some cases the assumptions were obviously true.  Two men had disguised themselves as sailors and tried to board as part of the crew.  That failing, they had attempted to bribe the police officer with ten dollars.  Either the officer was honest or could only be bought for a higher price, for that attempt, too, failed.  Some with legitimate passports had boarded and then tried to pass their papers off to a friend on the dock.  That hadn’t worked, either.

            A ship was scheduled to leave for California the next day, and those passengers had been assured that they would not be detained.  While no passports were required for state-to-state travel, thirteen men on their way to Detroit had been arrested on the belief that they intended to abscond to Canada.  The article detailed no evidence of their intention, however, and Adam was left wondering whether he could have proven that he was headed for Yale, instead of making that a way stop to Canada or a less watchful port.  Now he didn’t have to.  Thanks to Mr. Bracebridge’s timely advice, he was free to make his own decision about enlisting.

            He was no closer to making that decision, however.  According to the Sunday Times, recruiting was going well in Connecticut.  With four regiments already in the field and three more to leave this week, the state had met its quota for three-year men and thought it would be able to raise seven regiments of nine-month soldiers.  Maybe he wouldn’t even be needed by the time he reached New Haven and had to make that final decision.

            But did other men’s service really lessen his duty to his country?  One article in that Sunday paper thrust the question straight into his face with its headline: What Have You Personally Done?  “Everyone who has enjoyed the blessings of Republican Government and of the Union should do his part to sustain them,” the editorial declared and suggested several ways to accomplish that: encouraging with words, donating money, volunteering, working for soldiers in the field and for the sick and wounded.

            Adam had tried to do those things.  He’d written Mark Wentworth a couple of times, although he hadn’t heard back from his friend and could only hope the letters had reached him.  Mail service to soldiers in the field seemed about as reliable as mail between here and Nevada, which had been especially bad this summer.  Though he hadn’t had much money to spare, he had donated some small items to the Sanitary Commission back in New Haven.  But in answer to the question posed in the paper—What have you personally done?—he could only reply, “Not much.”

            At least, he’d soon have the opportunity, albeit an unwilling one, to help the sick and wounded.  Predictably, Mrs. Whitney had made a point of learning more about the grand festival and picnic to support that cause, and virtually every mealtime brought some hint on the subject.  The men hadn’t made any promises, but Adam supposed they would all surrender in the long run.  After all, the cause was a worthy one, and to refuse the ladies an occasional such outing seemed nothing but churlish.  He would, however, refuse to take time off work for the afternoon festivities, despite the temptation of the concert from Dodsworth’s band.  Mr. Bracebridge had already been far too generous for him to request any further concessions, so the ladies would simply have to content themselves with the bal campêtre that evening.

 

* * * * *

 

            Bert had wanted to eat lunch at the Washington Market on Monday, and Adam had agreed, although he didn’t see much different on offer there than they could have found at the closer Fulton Street Market.  On a sultry summer day there was only one choice, anyway, in Adam’s opinion: chilled oysters, freshly shucked.  That and a beer satisfied him until Bert mentioned ice cream.  The cold dessert did refresh him, but Adam still insisted that they walk past the docks on their way back to the office, “to catch what breeze we can.”

            “You can’t fool me,” Bert teased.  “What you’re hoping to catch is some action between draft dodgers and the police.  I know how you westerners are.”

            Adam scowled.  “That, sir, is an insult to all peace-loving westerners.”

            Bert chuckled.  “I didn’t know there were any.”  He only laughed louder when Adam’s scowl darkened.

            As they ambled southward, Adam admitted, although only to himself, that he wasn’t really trying to catch a breeze.  He’d decided weeks ago that there wasn’t one to be found in lower Manhattan.  Bert was correct in guessing that he wanted a look at the outgoing ships docked along the North River, but wrong about his motive.  He would have been embarrassed to confess that he was feeling so homesick that the mere sight of a steamer bound for California drew him like a magnet.  He hadn’t had one letter from his family the entire summer, and while he knew it wasn’t true, he still felt forgotten and forsaken and very, very alone.

            A guilty conscience screamed that the silence was only payback for the way he’d neglected them since meeting Elizabeth, but he knew his father would never do that.  It was the mails, the stupidly slow mails, disrupted by Indian attacks and route changes, causing the silence and the sense of abandonment.  The eastern mails ran steadily, so he’d had letters from Jamie and, even more importantly, Elizabeth every few days, but he still missed hearing from Pa, Hoss and Little Joe, enough that he wanted to see that steamer, just to remind himself that there was a way back to them, any time he chose.

            As they approached Pier 3, however, he quickly discerned that the scene was closer to Bert’s joke than his tranquil vision of men, women and children on their way home or west to a new life.  “Something’s wrong,” he muttered.

            Bert’s hand closed around Adam’s biceps.  “Stay out of it,” he warned.

            Irritated, Adam pulled out of Bert’s grasp.  What did the man take him for, a complete fool?  “I just want to see what the problem is,” he said, inching forward cautiously.

            “Adam!” Bert hissed, but he trailed reluctantly in his friend’s wake.

            The clamor on the dock was all but unintelligible: men shouting, women sobbing, children wailing, policemen pulling people aside and leading them away.  Adam eventually caught the words “draft” and “passport.”  What on earth?  He checked the signs again and confirmed that this was, indeed, the steamer for California.  “But the paper yesterday said there’d be no problem with passengers leaving for California,” he protested to Bert.

            “Well, there’s obviously a problem today,” Bert said.  “Let’s get out of here, Adam!”

            To his dismay, Adam began striding briskly toward the nearest uniformed officer.  “Since when is a passport required for travel to California?” he demanded.

            Stern-faced, the policeman swiveled toward him.  “Trying to board, are you, young fellow?  Well, I’d best see a passport from you, then!”

            “I’m not boarding,” Adam growled.  “I work here in New York.”

            “Then go on about your business and stop interfering with the law,” the policeman ordered sharply.

            “What law prevents free travel, state to state?” Adam demanded.

            The policeman turned back toward him and might well have taken him into custody, along with the other men being rounded up, had not Bert snagged his elbow and dragged him back from the docks into a side street.  “Let go of me,” Adam protested.

            “If you promise not to go back there,” Bert snapped.  “Getting yourself arrested won’t do anything to help them!”

            Adam exhaled forcefully and gave his friend a crisp nod, reluctantly admitting that there was nothing he could do to stop the enforcement of the law, no matter how ridiculous or unjust he thought it.  It wasn’t until the next day that the newspaper provided some explanation for what he’d seen.  Apparently, Police Superintendent John Kennedy had sought the advice of the War Department and determined that since the California-bound ship’s itinerary included passage through a foreign country, either Panama or Nicaragua, a passport was needed.  Predictably, no one had one, so every man of military age had been removed from the ship.

            “That’s ridiculous!” Adam exploded to the other residents of the boardinghouse over dinner that night.  “No one has ever needed a passport to visit another state.”

            “Are you certain?” Pearl inquired.  “You’ve told us that your family traveled overland, and, of course, that was entirely within the United States.  Perhaps your family simply didn’t acquaint themselves with the legalities of going by sea.”

            “And you were quite small, weren’t you, too young to understand all the details of the journey?” her mother pointed out.

            “Yes, of course,” Adam admitted readily, “but my father later traveled to New Orleans by steamer and railroad across Nicaragua.  No one demanded a passport then.”

            “Nor should it be demanded now,” Mr. McCrory declared.  “After all, how likely is it that many young men would choose a destination like Panama or Nicaragua, even to escape the draft?  It is, as Adam says, ridiculous to penalize the entire population on the basis of such a slim possibility.”

            “Hear, hear,” Bert chimed in.  “It’s as much an overreach as that restriction on travel between here and Brooklyn.”

            “That’s been cleared up,” Grace protested.

            “And I’m sure this nonsense will be in time,” Bert said.

            “Not in time for the men booked on that ship,” Adam grunted, “and it’s not as though they could take another the next day.  Ships for California don’t leave that often.”

            “Honestly, Adam, I don’t see why you’re so bothered,” Pearl said, forking a few green beans.  “I thought you were returning to New Haven, not Nevada.”

            “Our Adam is not a selfish lad, concerned only for his own welfare,” Mr. Randolph said with a fond nod toward Adam.

            “As we all should be,” Grace stated sanctimoniously, casting a chiding glance at her sister.

            “Oh, botheration,” Rose pouted.  “Can’t we talk of something less tiresome than those silly old draft dodgers?  We should be making our plans for the picnic!”

            Adam thought there could not possibly be a topic more tiresome than that one, but it suddenly became all the ladies wanted to discuss, and being gentlemen, the men had to oblige them.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam stopped at the table on the edge of the wood and paid the entry fee for himself and Pearl Whitney.  Mr. McCrory had heroically volunteered to be feisty young Rose’s escort, and Adam and Bert had flipped a coin to determine which young lady each of them would accompany to the picnic.  The two older girls were, predictably, delighted when the pleasure of their company was requested, while Rose, even more predictably, had pouted at being stuck with an older, completely ineligible man for the afternoon.  But she had evidently determined to make the best of it, for she was bubbling with excitement as she walked into the park.  “Ooh, let’s see if they have the donkey rides running this afternoon,” she declared, pulling Mr. McCrory along behind her.

            Adam exchanged a glance and a nod with Bert to indicate that they would both owe Mr. McCrory another all-male night on the town for putting up with this, especially if the older man had to actually mount a donkey to keep Rose amused.

            “Shall we visit the shooting gallery?” Grace suggested.  “I’m sure a westerner like Adam will amaze us with his prowess!”

            “I’m seriously out of practice,” Adam excused and pointedly turned to his own companion for the afternoon.  “What would you like to do first, Miss Pearl?  Would you care for some refreshment, perhaps?”

            “Perhaps a cool drink,” she said.  “The day is incredibly warm.”

            “As usual,” Adam observed with a smile as he took her arm.  “Is it always this sultry in New York or have I simply come during an unusually warm summer?”

            “I do believe it has been warmer than usual,” she said as they strolled away from the other couple, “but summers are always quite warm in New York.  That’s what makes outings like this so appealing.”  After they had collected two glasses of lemonade, she suggested that they enjoy them as they walked under the shade trees along the East River.

            As eager as she to find a cooler spot, Adam happily complied.  In addition to the shade, a cool breeze off the river refreshed them.  “The trees here must be original growth,” he observed.  “They’re much taller and older than the ones in Central Park.”

            “Jones’ Wood was once considered as a location for that project,” she told him.  “In some ways, it’s a pity it wasn’t chosen.”

            “Yes, I find this much more to my personal taste,” Adam admitted, “but in time the other will be even more imposing, and the area is larger, better if the city continues to grow, as I presume it will.”

            “Does this remind you of home?” she inquired.

            Adam laughed lightly.  “As home might be a hundred years from now, when all the wildness is tamed out of it.  I’m afraid I won’t like it nearly as much then.”

            Pearl took another sip of her lemonade.  “A pity we had to miss all the political speeches and the concert.”

            Adam stiffened.  “I explained that I couldn’t leave work early.”

            “Oh, I know,” Pearl said hastily.  “I wasn’t concerned for myself, you understand, but I thought it a shame that you couldn’t hear the noted speakers.”

            Adam stifled the urge to laugh, for if there was anything he had no desire to hear it was another political speech, urging all able-bodied men to offer themselves in the service of their country.  “Yes, well, I do enjoy good rhetoric, of course, but I have had quite ample opportunity to hear it recently.  I’d much prefer to simply relax and enjoy the scenery and speak of other things.”

            “That sounds delightful,” Pearl said with a coy veiling of her eyes.  “Perhaps we might discuss your impression of Victor Hugo as a writer, then?  I noticed you had been reading his new novel and wondered if you thought I might find it of interest.”

            “Definitely!” Adam said with enthusiasm and launched into a review of the novel that would have made anyone want to read it.  As they walked and talked beneath the trees, he found himself unexpectedly enjoying the outing he had dreaded for days.  When he’d first met Pearl, he’d assumed that her professed interest in books had been mere artifice to attract a college man, but her comments and questions today were so cogent that he realized he had underestimated her mind.  Now he wondered if he hadn’t deprived himself of some stimulating conversation this summer by avoiding a woman he had viewed as only interested in snaring a man.  She couldn’t compare with his sweet Elizabeth, of course, and he could scarcely have squired her about much without building false hopes.  Still, he might have been more considerate, less eager to judge before he knew her well.  Perhaps, in future, he should be less quick to write people off, but a man did have to be careful with women . . . or he might find himself tied permanently to one he’d thought of as only a friend.

            Later, they ran into Rose and Mr. McCrory, and mostly to give the poor man a breather, Adam agreed to try his luck at the shooting gallery.  “And you said you were out of practice,” Pearl chided when both she and Rose walked away with their arms full of prizes.

            “Less than I thought,” Adam admitted, pleased to see that his skill had survived almost a year’s hiatus.

            The three couples gathered together later for a simple picnic meal before the dancing began beneath lights strung from tree to tree.  Throughout the grand bal campetre they stayed together, switching partners frequently, so that no man became exhausted from romping with Rose.  Grace lived up to her name by being the smoothest dancer, but Pearl was accomplished as well, and Adam gladly glided around with her for most of the dances, including the final waltz.  As pleasant a way as he’d found yet to lend his aid to the war effort.  But if that were so, why did he still feel as if he’d done nothing?

 

* * * * *

 

            Recalling Pearl’s disappointment at missing the afternoon band concert at the picnic and also realizing that there would be few such opportunities remaining before he returned to New Haven, Adam suggested that they all make another excursion to Central Park on Saturday, to enjoy the music.  Everyone except Mr. McCrory, who was working, met at the horse cars again and traveled together.  The afternoon passed much as had the earlier one, but more warmly, for they were all better acquainted now and the girls less competitive for the new man’s attention.  It reminded Adam of the picnics he and his family had shared with friends back in Nevada, and he wondered if Hoss had celebrated his birthday with one this year, as he often had before.  Still no letters from home to answer such questions, but Adam hoped that would change soon.  In the meantime, the residents of the Whitney boardinghouse had become a sort of family, and now that he would soon lose it, his appreciation for their company seemed to grow daily.

            Feeling more prosperous than on their earlier outing, Adam suggested that they take a boat around the lake at the foot of the Terrace.  He and Bert divided the fee between them, each paying forty cents for the party to board.  The boatman, uniformed in duck linen trimmed in sea green, slowly began his circuit of the lake.  “We’re going all the way around, aren’t we?” Rose asked eagerly.

            “All the way,” Adam promised her with a chuckle and an indulgent smile directed at her two sisters.  He looked toward the far end of the boat.  “Comfortable, Mrs. Randolph?” he called.

            “Oh, yes,” she called back.  “What a treat this is—and so comfortable!”  She glanced up at the red, white and blue awning shading her from the sun’s heat.

            “We’re sailing right past the swans,” Adam said, pointing ahead, pleased to see her clasp her hands in delight.

            As they came to the narrow waist of the lake, they passed under the graceful wrought-iron span of Bow Bridge.  “I hear music,” Pearl said.

            “Yes, I hear it, too,” Adam said.

            “Over there,” the boatman said.  “Always play during concerts.”

            Adam saw a boat loaded with musicians just up the lake from them.  In order to avoid keeping the older people out too late, they had skipped the latter part of the band concert, but he thought it even more enjoyable to hear the music wafting across the ripples toward them.

            “It’s not as pretty on this side,” Rose pouted.

            “Oh, I think it is,” Grace objected.  “I suspect Adam appreciates this side more,” she commented with an ingratiating side glance at him.

            Adam nodded.  The Ramble edged this larger part of the lake, and its wildness appealed to him more than the cultivated look of the lower section of the park.  “You wanted to see it all,” he reminded Rose.

            “Well, yes,” she admitted, though it was obvious she was becoming bored with the slow movement around the shores.  She was still less interested in getting off and walking, though, so at each of the six opportunities to do that, she kept her seat.  At the third landing Grace suggested that she and Adam might take a walk and catch up at the next landing, and though Adam knew she was only trying to get him alone, he welcomed the chance to stretch his legs and see the Ramble more closely.  Citing the need to meet the others, he successfully countered her every attempt to dally with him in the secluded woods, and they rejoined their party at the next landing to continue their passage back to the Terrace.

            “A lovely afternoon, gentlemen,” Mrs. Whitney summed it up as they returned to her home.  “Thank you for suggesting it, Mr. Cartwright.”

            “It was my pleasure,” Adam assured her, meaning it more than he had on either of their earlier outings.

 

* * * * *

 

            Rising early on Sunday, Adam took the opportunity to read the newspaper before any of the others joined him in the parlor.  Among the usual war news and lists of casualties he saw a notice that the supply of Springfield muskets for the soldiers had been exhausted, and they would now have to be armed with Belgian rifles.  It was of no consequence to him personally—at least, not yet—but the mention of Springfield made him think of Josiah Edwards.  Adam shook his head, recalling all the rifles he’d seen on their tour of the Arsenal there.  So many, but still not enough—just like the almost daily reports of recruits being mustered in.  So many answering the call, but still the cry for more, as if the gaping maw of War had an insatiable appetite.

            Also on the front page, though, he read a succinct and stirring reminder of what it was all about.  Horace Greeley, editor of the Tribune, had written a challenging letter to the President, demanding an explanation for the course he seemed to be pursuing, and the Times this morning carried the President’s answer:

 

“I would save the Union. I would save it the shortest way under the Constitution.  The sooner the national authority can be restored the nearer the Union will be ‘the Union as it was.’  If there be those who would not save the Union unless they could at the same time save Slavery, I do not agree with them.  If there be those who would not save the Union unless they could at the same time destroy Slavery, I do not agree with them.  My paramount object in this struggle is to save the Union, and is not either to save or destroy Slavery.  If I could save the Union without freeing any slave, I would do it, and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves, I would do it, and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone, I would also do that. . . . I have here stated my purpose according to my view of official duty, and I intend no modification of my oft-expressed personal wish that all men, everywhere, could be free.”

 

            Adam set the newspaper aside and pondered whether that represented his own feelings or not.  He was pretty sure they did represent his father’s.  Pa had always said it was an Eastern conflict, one that was none of their business out West, but if it had come down to watching the country he loved disintegrate or trying to preserve it, Adam had a feeling Pa would side with the Union.  Was preserving the Union enough for him, though?  Was it worth expending so much blood?  Though he’d never viewed himself as an abolitionist, Adam abhorred slavery, so the thought of sacrificing so many lives, only to leave that abominable institution intact, curdled his stomach.  “The Union as it was”—no, Adam found that an unsatisfactory goal.  He also found it a highly untenable one, for how could any country be ripped apart as this one was now and expect to patch itself back together exactly as it had been before?  Change would come, inevitably, but would the change be for better or for worse?  If he could have answered that, he could have decided which path he needed to follow, but there were no guarantees when the winds of change began to blow, and that kept his mind shifting with every turn of the breeze.

 

* * * * *

 

            Adam almost knew what he was about to hear when Mr. Bracebridge called him and Bert into his office on Wednesday.  “I suppose you’ve both heard about the war meeting at City Hall Park this afternoon?” their employer inquired, proving that Adam had guessed correctly.

            “Yes, sir,” Bert answered.

            “Do you wish to attend?” Bracebridge asked.

            “I don’t,” Adam replied quickly, “especially if I’m needed here, sir.”

            “Mr. Morganstern?”

            Bert shrugged.  “It doesn’t matter one way or the other to me, sir.  I don’t suppose it would be much different from the one we attended earlier this summer.”

            Mr. Bracebridge responded with a slightly skewed smile.  “No, I would think not.  As usual, all businesses have been requested to close at 3 p.m., but we are up against a deadline at present, so unless you are particularly interested in more political speeches, I would appreciate your remaining here today.  Don’t hesitate to tell me if you wish to be excused, however; I won’t stand in your way.”

            “I’d prefer to work,” Adam said.

            “I will, too,” Bert agreed readily.

            “I appreciate it.  I’m sure there’ll be other opportunities to hear some of the generals,” Mr. Bracebridge said, “at least for you, Mr. Morganstern.”

            Adam turned away to hide his smile.  He probably would not have another opportunity himself, and that thought couldn’t have pleased him more.  The columns of the New York Times soon proved him wrong, however.  No sooner had this rally been held than the next one was announced, for the evening of September 1, still prior to his departure for New Haven.  The maw of War, he mused—insatiable.

 

* * * * *

 

            According to plan, Adam and Bert met Charles McCrory at the lower end of City Hall Park after work on Friday and walked together to its northwest corner.  They crossed the street and made their way to Delmonico’s.  Though this was intended to be a special night, Adam had been concerned that the restaurant might be a little rich for their blood, but Mr. McCrory had assured him that, so long as they kept to the downstairs dining hall, they’d find the food within their means.  “Lawyers’ assistants, journalists, even dry goods clerks eat here all the time,” he’d said.  “I have myself, on occasion.”  From the attire of those on that level, Adam knew he’d been told the truth, for the three of them were probably better dressed than ninety percent of their fellow diners—only, of course, because they’d brought dress clothes to work with them and changed before leaving their respective offices.

            “Quite a menu,” Adam observed as he read down the lengthy list of selections.  “I scarcely know what to choose.”

            “Oysters, judging by your most frequent lunchtime selection,” Bert teased.

            Adam arched a reproving eyebrow.  “That’s because of the heat.  No, I want something completely new tonight, in keeping with the occasion.”

            “Well, you could always have the salsify au jus,” McCrory suggested lightly.  “Oyster plant, by its common name, and said to taste like the real thing, though I can’t vouch for it personally.”

            Adam laughed.  “Just for that, I will, with the squab, I think, and—let’s see”—his brow wrinkled as he studied the menu—“oh, the spinach in cream sauce, perhaps.  Exotic enough to seem special without overwhelming my palate with too many new tastes.”

            “Pheasant for me,” Bert declared.

            “My, aren’t we grand?” Adam joked.  “With artichokes and eggplant, I presume?”

            Bert snorted, for as Adam well knew, his taste ran more toward meat and potatoes of the heartiest varieties.  For him, even the roast fowl was an exotic departure.  Mr. McCrory’s appetite was smaller than either of the younger men, so he settled for trout and asparagus.

            “So, is it like oysters?” Bert asked when Adam had tasted his root vegetable.

            Adam shrugged.  “A bit more insipid, with a touch of sweetness, but if I really stretch my imagination, I can get a sense of oysters—with none of their coolness,” he added with a laugh.  “It’s been a fine dinner, however.  Thank you for suggesting it, Mr. McCrory.”

            “You’ll be even better pleased with the theater, I believe,” McCrory said.  “The Winter Garden always presents fine productions with the best actors.”

            “Have you seen this play, ‘The Hunchback,’ before?” Adam inquired.

            McCrory nodded.  “Very romantic.  Just the sort of thing young men enjoy.”

            Adam laughed.  “It sounds more like the sort of thing young ladies enjoy.”

            “Which is exactly why we haven’t told them what we’re up to,” Bert put in with a sly grin.

            “Three young rakehells on the town again,” Adam said with a saucy wink.

            “I’ll raise my glass to that.”  Charles McCrory lifted his wine glass, and the others raised theirs in toast to another night of masculine solidarity.

            After the meal they made their way up Broadway and entered the newly reopened Winter Garden Theater.  “Much improved,” Mr. McCrory said with satisfaction as they walked down the freshly carpeted middle aisle of the main floor.  “The walls used to be a dingy red,” he added once they were seated.  “This is much better for the actors’ skin tone, don’t you think?”

            Adam nodded.  It wasn’t something he’d given any thought to before, but he supposed this delicate blue would reflect more naturally under the gas lights.  The touches of gold ornamentation made the theater look rich, but he was most fascinated by the panels inscribed with names, many familiar, but more not.  “Are they all playwrights?” he asked, having recognized Shakespeare, Bulwer-Lytton and Sheridan as authors of plays he’d seen.

            “Or famous actors,” McCrory replied.

            “Oh, yes, there’s Junius and Edwin Booth,” Adam said.  “They toured California, you know.”

            “You saw them?”

            “Yes,” Adam said.  “Excellent players.”  He laughed.  “Of course, back then I was so excited about seeing any play that I thought they were all marvelous.”

            “The Booths are, by any estimation,” Bert observed.  “I noticed that Edwin is scheduled to appear here this season.  I’m not sure you’ll get the chance to see him before you leave us, though, Adam.  A pity it’s Edwin Adams and not Booth in tonight’s offering.”

            “Adams is a fine actor, as well,” McCrory promised.  “He’s the love interest for Miss Bateman in this play, and I think you’ll find them both most convincing.”

            As the drama developed, Adam decided that not only were Miss Bateman and Mr. Adams convincing in their portrayals of the lovers, but that their acting skill was the only thing that saved the play from being as insipid as the salsify he’d eaten at supper.  Their conflict began reasonably enough: the unlikely union of a simple country girl with a baronet used to city life.  Adam found himself in the same situation, only in reverse, with his town-bred Elizabeth, so he leaned forward in his chair throughout the first act, eager to hear arguments that might one day persuade her to give up New Haven for life on the Ponderosa.

            The second act, however, gave the country girl her first taste of life in the lap of luxury, when some unstated business brought her and her guardian, Master Walter, to the city.  Here, Julia fell prey to the delights of new dresses and dances that lasted into the wee hours of the morning, and the love she had once felt for Sir Thomas seemed eclipsed by a newfound love for his money and the title she would soon assume as his wife.  Overhearing her express ardor for his worldly goods and position, but not his person, Sir Thomas became incensed and declared that if all she wanted was his name, then his name was all she would get.  He would fulfill his vow to marry her, but would leave her the same day, never to see her again.  Equally irate over his insult, she declared that she’d just marry someone richer, with a higher title, the Earl of Rocheford.  So much for true love! Adam thought as the curtain fell.

            The remainder of Knowles’ play seemed determined to prove Shakespeare’s adage, “The course of true love never did run smooth”—in spades!  First, Sir Thomas lost his title and was forced to take a position as secretary to the earl his former fiancé now planned to wed.  Once he had nothing to offer her, Julia decided she really did love him after all, but she couldn’t marry him because she was now pledged to another.  To walk away from her vow would bring dishonor on the father she’d never met, the one who for some unknown reason had asked Master Walter to raise her.  Though the Earl was only marrying her to wear her as a pretty jewel on his arm, he refused to release her.  There seemed no way out until Master Walter revealed that he was, in reality, Julia’s true father, and as such, he refused her permission to marry the Earl, not only paving the way for her to unite with her true love, Thomas, but also revealing that he himself was the true Earl of Rocheford and had only hidden his identity from her because he feared she could not love a father who was a hunchback—as convoluted a plot as Adam had ever witnessed on stage.  Shakespeare, it wasn’t, he concluded as the trio of men left the theater, but despite that, he’d enjoyed the evening, and it had, at least, left him with the impression that if Julia and Thomas could work through their ridiculous troubles, then surely, when the time came, he and Elizabeth would be able to find a middle ground between their differing lifestyles.

 

* * * * *

 

            The table was piled with mail when Adam arrived home from work on the first day of September.  As he riffled through it, he found the usual letters for him from Elizabeth and Jamie, but when his fingers closed around a fat envelope with “Franktown” as its postmark, he all but tore up the stairs to read in the privacy of his room.  For once the letter from Elizabeth lay neglected while he broke the seal and read his first news of the summer from home.

            Pa hadn’t been able to mail anything until he received Adam’s first letter from New York City, for he’d had no idea where to direct it until then.  He had, however, written regularly and saved each sheet to send when he had an address.  The news stretched back to the end of June, starting with details of ranch life, spring roundup and the planting of the garden (with the dubious help of Little Joe).  The Thomases, Adam learned, had moved to Virginia City.  Nelly was not happy about it—no surprise there—but Clyde expected to prosper in his new job as blacksmith for one of the mines.  Pa described the town picnic and dance held for the Fourth of July, and Adam smiled when he read that Little Joe had been hoping that Adam would come to the nation’s birthday party.  So the little fellow hadn’t forgotten him; that was good to hear.

            There was more serious news about the Chinese being blamed for a fire in Virginia City.  Pa said that he’d managed to persuade a few people to scratch their names off a petition to force the Chinese out of town, but wasn’t sure whether he’d accomplished much, other than demonstrating his skill with fisticuffs for the unintended entertainment of his younger sons.

            The description of Hoss’s birthday celebration was unexpectedly serious, as well, for Hoss had at first vehemently rejected the idea of any kind of party.  Adam sobered as he read how a volcano of hurt had come erupting out of his younger brother, who had been so upset at how Pa acted toward Little Joe on Hoss’s previous birthday that he’d vowed never to have a party for himself ever again.  Adam lay back, musing for a few minutes.  He couldn’t recall any specific incident regarding his youngest brother on that particular day, but all the days following Marie’s death had been difficult.  Pa just hadn’t been himself, and he had seemed especially neglectful of Little Joe until that horrific night when they’d almost lost him.  That had snapped Pa back into himself, but apparently scars had been left on Hoss’s tender heart.

            Turning back to the letter, Adam ached inside as he read his father’s expression of regret for how he’d acted back then, and he shook his head sadly at Pa’s apology for burdening his oldest son with too much responsibility.  It was the past, over and done with, apologized for already, and he wished with all his heart that he could be home to throw a consoling arm around his father and assure him that all was forgiven.  He could write it in a letter, of course, but sometimes written words seemed so inadequate—and, given the uncertainty of the mails, so agonizingly slow.

            At least today, though, he could finish the story, for Pa next wrote about the simple celebration Hoss had agreed to have and the more festive trip to the circus that Pa had tricked his boy into.  Adam laughed as he read the description of the youngsters’ reaction to the three-headed chicken, dramatically proven to be a hoax when one head suddenly fell off.  And how he wished he could have been sitting right next to Little Joe when he saw the marvelous trick ponies, who could count out numbers with their dainty hooves!  As he read page after page of Pa’s letter and then Hoss’s and, finally, Little Joe’s, which was mainly pictures of the circus acts, it was as if the walls of his room fell away and he could almost smell the fragrance of pine and sage, instead of the smoke from a hundred chimneys.

 

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

 

As incredible as it seems now, the scenes depicting travel restrictions imposed during the summer of 1862, as the first draft was being threatened, are all factual, as reported in the columns of the New York Times.

 

“The Hunchback,” written by James Sheridan Knowles, can be read in its entirety at Google Books.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Time for Decision

 

 

Adam pressed hard on the sides of his carpetbag, trying in vain to bring them close enough for the latch to close.  Finally, he stood back, exhaling in exhausted exasperation, and glared at the recalcitrant piece of luggage.  He had more to pack in than he’d brought from New Haven, of course, but surely not that much.  He shook his head with chagrin as he admitted that he probably had overestimated the capacity of the carpetbag when he’d decided to do some Christmas shopping here in the big city.  Maybe I should have bought an extra bag, while I was at it, he thought ruefully and then shook his head at his foolishness.  He didn’t need that much space, just a little bit more than he had.

            He opened the carpetbag again, pulled out a few small items he could carry in his pockets, rearranged the remainder as compactly as possible and made another assault on the bag.  Still a tough tussle, but he finally managed to close the latch and sat down on the edge of his bed to relish the small victory.

            The little room looked bare now, with all his belongings packed, but it was decorated with memories.  It had been a profitable summer, especially in his growth as a potential architect, but also in his enjoyment of cultural offerings and his appreciation for a wide variety of people.  He’d miss Bert, in particular, and Mr. Bracebridge, of course, but since he had the promise of another internship next summer, he’d see them again.  He wasn’t as certain about the people here at the boardinghouse.  A lot could change over that many months.  This room might be taken by then, and even if it were available next summer, nothing could guarantee that people as old and frail as the Randolphs would still be here.  He’d miss them all, even the man-chasing Whitney girls.  There were worse fates, he admitted with a grin, than having three reasonably attractive young ladies vying for his attention.

            Pulling out his pocket watch, he checked the time.  If he left now, he’d be at least half an hour early for his train, but better that than being late, he decided as he pocketed the watch and stood up.  You never knew: the horse car might be full, requiring him to wait for another; worse, the police might be checking exemption papers at the station, taking up more time.  He patted his inner coat pocket to assure himself that he had his papers at the ready, if they were needed; then he picked up his carpetbag and the most recently published section of Les Misérables, which he’d purchased just yesterday, and headed downstairs.

            Bert and Mr. McCrory were at work, of course, but the others were all gathered in the parlor when Adam entered to say his final farewells.  The Whitney girls declared themselves heartbroken at his departure, although their mother looked more stricken than they.  Adam wasn’t sure whether that was because she’d now have to find a new boarder or because none of her girls had landed this particular man.  Dear Mrs. Randolph had tears glistening in her eyes as she kissed his cheek, and her husband took Adam’s hand with almost fatherly warmth and urged him to keep safe on his journey.

            “Well, I’d best be on my way, if I’m to reach the station before the train departs,” Adam jested.  He was in no real danger of that yet, but his stop by the parlor had already eaten up about half of his spare time.  He couldn’t afford much further delay.  Everyone called “Good-bye” and “Safe journey” as he left the boardinghouse and headed up Grand for Bowery, where he caught the horse streetcar and rode to the 27^th Street station and purchased his ticket on the New York and New Haven Railroad.  The train pulled in, he boarded and promptly opened his latest volume by Victor Hugo, which absorbed him until he reached New Haven that afternoon.

            The first face he saw, when he left the train, was that of Jamie, but before he could even clasp hands with his friend, there was Elizabeth, arms about his neck, crying out how much she’d missed him and how good it was to have him “home.”

            “Would you like me to take your bag to our room?” Jamie suggested with a barely contained smile when Adam finally broke free of the embrace enough to notice him.

            “Oh, yes, and then we can have a glass of tea together and catch up on all the news that wouldn’t fit in our letters,” Elizabeth urged, her hand still possessively on Adam’s arm.

            Adam frowned slightly.  He’d hoped to spend this evening with his friends, perhaps over Golden Buck at Mory’s, and the next day with Elizabeth, but the frown faded as he gazed into her eyes.  She’d missed him, as much as he’d missed her, and filled with the emotion of that, he knew that she deserved first place in his time, as well as his heart.  Practically, however, he foresaw a problem.  “I can’t have you lugging my bag up four flights of stairs,” he told Jamie.

            Jamie rolled his eyes.  “I’m stronger than you give me credit for, chum.  I managed to tote all my belongings up those stairs without the aid of your muscular arm, you know.”

            Adam grinned and handed over the carpetbag.  “It’s heavy,” he warned.  “Books.”  Seeing Jamie’s eyes light with interest, he laughed and said, “Help yourself.”

            “Oh, I will,” Jamie agreed happily.  “Climbing four flights merits its reward, after all.  See you for supper?”

            “Yes,” Adam replied, not daring to look at Elizabeth.

            When Jamie had left, Elizabeth threaded her arm through Adam’s.  “I should be quite peeved with you, for choosing his company over mine,” she scolded gently.

            Adam touched her lips with a light kiss.  “I’d planned to take you to dinner tomorrow,” he said, “when I wasn’t so exhausted from the trip that I couldn’t fully enjoy your company.”

            She sighed contentedly.  “Your plan is much better.  Tea?”

            “At our place,” he whispered.  He led Elizabeth out into the street, and though he had, at first, eyes only for her, he began to notice the people they were passing and his brow wrinkled.  “Unusual number of blue uniforms strolling about,” he observed.

            Elizabeth gave them a casual glance.  “Not really,” she said.  “We see quite a few soldiers about town nowadays, Adam, because of the new units forming.”

            “Yes, of course,” he mumbled.  Foolish to have thought I left all that behind in New York, he told himself.

            “It’s quite exciting, don’t you think?” Elizabeth said with an admiring glance at the nearest man in blue.

            “You think so?” Adam asked flatly.

            “Oh, yes!” the oblivious girl gushed on.  “So many men signing up to do their patriotic duty can only mean the war will soon be over and Father can come home.”

            Adam smiled then, certain he’d feel the same way if it were his father at the battle front.  They spent a cozy hour at the restaurant, sharing news of their summer over tall glasses of iced tea, and then he walked her home, with promises to spend the entire next day at her beck and call.  His head was in the clouds as he walked toward the college yard, so full of dreams of tomorrow that he didn’t hear the shout of greeting until his name had been called a second time.  Spinning around, he was at first surprised to see a man in the blue uniform of a Union soldier and then shocked to realize that the soldier was someone he knew, someone who had sat but a few seats from him all of his first year at Yale.  “Jim?” he asked.  “Is that you?”

            “Was it the haircut that confused you?” James Brand asked with a grin, raising his visor cap to reveal newly shorn locks.

            “No . . . what sat atop it,” Adam drawled.  “You’ve joined the army?”

            James popped a sassy salute.  “Private Brand of the 27^th Connecticut, reporting for duty, sir.”  He laughed.  “Proving, of course, that they’ll take anyone.”

            Adam walked forward to shake the other man’s hand.  “They could find no finer man,” he said, meaning it, for James Brand had earned the respect of all his classmates for the solidity of his convictions and his commitment to excellence in his studies.   “Are you free this evening?  I’m meeting Jamie for supper, and we’d be pleased to have you join us.”

            James grinned broadly.  “We’re supposed to be in camp, down at Grapevine Point, but they’ve been pretty lenient with us, so far.  In fact, I came out this evening, hoping some of my fellow students had come in early, and I’d have a chance for a little Yalensian fellowship before I march off to war.”

            “When will that be?” Adam asked as they started toward the college yard.

            James shrugged.  “No date set yet.  We still need to fill up the regiment before we muster in.”

            Fill up the regiment—the words tossed Adam’s soul into a vortex, the same one whose swirling ripples he had battled all summer long.  Fill up the regiment—yes, he could help do that, but should he?  He had his exemption papers; he wanted to continue his education.  But if the issue were settled, why did those few words—fill up the regiment—sound so much like a clarion call.  Where did his duty lie?

            They climbed to the top floor of South Middle and found both Jamie and Marcus Whitmore.  Both stood at once when the others came in, and hands were shaken all around.  James was immediately besieged by questions provoked by the sight of his uniform, but he waved them off.  “Later,” he insisted.  “Adam here has invited me to join you for supper, and I promise to become positively loquacious over a plate of good food.”

            The other three laughed, confessed themselves starving, as well, and they all agreed to dinner at Mory’s.  “Are there many of our classmates in your regiment?” Jamie asked as they waited for their food to arrive.

            “Several,” James replied and ticked off a number of names.  “Add that to the men who left school to enlist last spring, and the Class of ‘66 is well represented in the field.”

            “Why did you decide to enlist, Jim, if you don’t mind my asking?” Marcus inquired shyly.

            James leaned forward, his eyes intent.  “Not for any momentary excitement or love of adventure, I assure you,” he said.  “Not for any hope of honor, either.  This country has given so much to me, ever since I came here from Canada when I was the age of you lads, and I could not rest if I did not stand with her in this, her hour of need.  I’ve abhorred the thought of slavery from my childhood up, and I have no doubt that it will go down in the blood of this rebellion.”  Emotion thickened the residual Scottish brogue of those childhood years as he said, “Simply put, I enlisted because I believe that God and humanity demand it.”

            “That says it all, doesn’t it?” Marcus said, eyes shining with inspiration.

            “Oh, not you, too,” Jamie protested.  “You can’t mean to enlist!”

            “Why not?” Marcus demanded.  “Because you think I’m not man enough?”

            Adam kept his mouth shut, but admitted inwardly that he had trouble imagining gentle, soft-spoken Marc with a rifle in his hands.

            “Of course not,” Jamie sputtered, “but think!  To give up your education . . .”

            Brand raised a hand.  “I don’t mean to sway any man’s decision, but there’s no reason it has to be one or the other, Jamie.  The 27^th is a nine-months’ regiment, so, yes, I’ll be delaying my education a year, but certainly not giving it up.  I’ll be back.”

            “You can’t guarantee that,” Jamie countered hoarsely.

            “No,” Brand admitted, “but if it comes to it, I believe I will have laid down my life in a just and holy cause.”  He reached over to clasp the younger man’s shoulder.  “And I’m trusting in your prayers, the fervency of which I well know, to bring me safely through.”

            The food arrived, and the subject was dropped as four hungry lads devoured heaping plates of Golden Buck and grilled sardines, but an air of soberness hung over their table and hovered above them as they left.  When they came to the corner where they needed to go separate ways, Adam and Jamie each gave James a warm handclasp, coupled with best wishes from Adam and promises of daily prayer from Jamie.  Marcus hung behind as the other two college students turned to leave.

            Looking over his shoulder, Jamie saw his friend in earnest conversation with the soldier.  “He’s going to do it,” he sighed.

            “A man has to do what he thinks is right,” Adam said, his eyes lingering on the other pair.

            Jamie, who had always been so close to Adam that they almost shared each other’s thoughts, whispered, “And what do you think is right . . . for you?”

            Bringing his gaze back to the face of his best friend, Adam smiled quizzically.  “I’ve debated that all summer, chum.”

            “I’m not enlisting,” Jamie said bluntly.  “Call me coward, if you must.”

            “Never,” Adam said firmly.  “For you, it’s definitely the right decision.  You couldn’t be a soldier, Jamie.”

            Jamie’s face twisted in a sour smile, and he made the same charge that Marcus had earlier.  “Because you think I’m not man enough?”

            “Of course not,” Adam declared as fervently as Jamie had before.  He might have cited health concerns, but there was a stronger reason.  “You could never take another life,” he said plainly, “and a soldier has to be prepared to do that.”

            “Are you prepared to do that?” Jamie asked soberly.

            It was a question Adam had settled long ago.  He came from a rough territory, where that decision might have to be made on a second’s warning, and he knew: if his family or his land were threatened, he’d shoot, hoping not to kill, but willing to do what he must to protect what he cherished.  “Yes,” he replied simply.  “I’d be prepared to do that if I had to.”

            Jamie hadn’t pressed the subject, perhaps fearing to push his friend in a direction he prayed he would not go, but as Adam lay alone in his bed that night, he pondered the question again.  Was he prepared to kill another man, not to protect his own family or his private land, but to defend the nation?  Was he prepared, as James Brand had phrased it, to lay down his life for the just and holy cause of liberty and justice for all, the promise of the Pledge of Allegiance?

            Restless, Adam threw back the covers and walked into the next room, the shared chamber that separated his bedroom from Jamie’s.  Sinking into the well padded armchair by the open grate, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands raking through his tousled hair as he searched his soul one final time.  Classes would begin the day after tomorrow, and his decision had to be made by then . . . tonight . . . now.

            Slavery was a vile curse on the land of the free and the home of the brave: it had to end.  As Jim had put it, God and humanity demanded it, and that same cry reverberated in Adam’s heart.  Though Pa had done his best to spare his young son the grim realities, Adam had seen slaves in St. Joe and had wondered, even then, why boys exactly like him except for the color of their skin had had to spend their days sweating in the fields, instead of exploring the adventure of learning.  Freedom for boys like that, to raise themselves from a humble beginning as he had, was a cause worth giving one’s life for, but he’d held back, hoping and praying that enough other men would hear the cry and preserve the Union without his help.  He’d thought he could let those men fight and die in his place, those nameless, faceless strangers, but here on the streets of New Haven, the battle had become personal.  Not just strangers, but familiar faces and fast friends like Jim and Marc were offering their lives—and he couldn’t let them do it alone.  He belonged at their side, sharing the cause in which they all believed, and suddenly the decision he’d debated all summer became as automatic as deciding whether to defend Pa or Hoss or Little Joe.

            The thought of Pa brought a chagrinned twist to his mouth.  Pa would kill him—assuming some Johnny Reb didn’t beat him to it.  Throughout the summer Adam had chafed at the slowness of the mail.  Now he welcomed it, dreading the explosion whose repercussions he was certain he’d feel all the way from Nevada.  Even with normal service restored, however, by the time Pa heard the news, the deed would be done, and sooner or later, surely, Pa would forgive him.

            Adam yawned and headed back to bed.  Tomorrow would be a busy day.  He’d have to tell Jamie, hard since he’d have to do it in person, and unlike Pa, Jamie could argue back.  He’d make his friend understand, though.  Then there were financial arrangements to be made, for he wouldn’t let Jamie suffer for his decision.  He had a substantial sum from his summer’s work to deposit in the bank.  With the army providing for his personal needs, he wouldn’t need it, and he wanted to make certain that Jamie had access to the account, so that he could afford to keep this chamber, even if he couldn’t find another man to room with him.  He’d need to tell Elizabeth, too, but he anticipated nothing but patriotic pride from her.  She’d be thrilled to stroll around town on the arm of a man in blue.

            He slipped under the covers, sitting there with his arms circling his knees and gazing out the window at the stars twinkling in the summer sky.  Soon, perhaps even by tomorrow night, he’d be camping beneath them.  He’d looked forward to the comfort and convenience of living on the college grounds, but he’d spent his boyhood sleeping under an open sky and had no qualms about facing it again.  That had been in pursuit of his father’s dream, though it had become his, as well.  Now he was gazing steadfastly ahead into a different dream, not for himself alone, not even for those he loved best, but for a whole race of people he’d never met, and God willing, its pursuit would be as fruitful as the journey west had been.

 

~ ~Notes~ ~

 

James Brand’s reasons for joining the Union army are paraphrased from his autobiography, written for his children and available online at http://www.worldcat.org/title/james-brand-twenty-six-years-pastor-of-the-first-congregational-church-oberlin-some-chapters-from-his-life/oclc/4596207/viewport

 

The End

© January, 2012