Sons of Fortune

by Jeffrey Archer

  Martha Gates was the next to arrive, and Ruth repeated everything that she’d picked up. She confirmed that Fletcher had three broken ribs, a broken ankle and a ruptured spleen, but it was the loss of blood that was causing the professionals to be anxious.

  “But surely a hospital as large as St. Patrick’s has a big enough blood bank to cope with that sort of problem?”

  “Yes would be the usual answer,” replied Ruth, “but Fletcher is AB negative, the rarest of all the blood groups, and although we’ve always maintained a small reserve stock, when that school bus careered off Route 95 in New London last month and the driver and his son turned out to be AB negative, Fletcher was the first to insist that the entire batch should be shipped out to the New London hospital immediately, and we just haven’t had enough time to replace it.”

  An arc lamp was switched on and lit up the hospital entrance. “The vultures have arrived,” said Ruth, looking out of the window. She turned and faced her daughter-in-law. “Annie, I think you should talk to them, it just might be our only chance of locating a blood donor in time.”

  When she rose on Sunday morning, Su Ling decided not to wake Nat until the last possible moment; after all, she had no idea what time it was when he’d crept into bed.

  She sat in the kitchen, made herself some fresh coffee, and began to scan the morning papers. Fletcher’s speech seemed to have been well received by the citizens of Madison, and the latest opinion poll showed the gap between them had narrowed by another point, bringing Nat’s lead down to three percent.

  Su Ling sipped her coffee and pushed the paper to one side. She always switched on the television just before the hour to catch the weather forecast. The first person to appear on the screen even before the sound came on was Annie Davenport. Why was she standing outside St. Patrick’s, Su Ling wondered? Was Fletcher announcing some new health care initiative? Sixty seconds later she knew exactly why. She dashed out of the kitchen and up the stairs to wake Nat and tell him the news. A remarkable coincidence. Or was it? As a scientist, Su Ling gave scant credence to coincidence. But she had no time to consider that now.

  A sleepy Nat listened as his wife repeated what Annie Davenport had just said. Suddenly he was wide awake, leaped out of bed quickly and threw on yesterday’s clothes, not bothering to shave or shower. Once dressed, he ran downstairs, pulling on his shoes only when he was in the car. Su Ling was already behind the wheel with the engine running. She took off the moment Nat slammed the car door.

  The radio was still tuned into the 24-hour news station, and Nat listened to the latest bulletin while trying to tie up his laces. The on-the-spot reporter couldn’t have been more explicit: Senator Davenport was on a ventilator, and if someone didn’t donate four pints of AB negative blood within hours, the hospital feared for his survival.

  It took Su Ling twelve minutes to reach St. Patrick’s by simply ignoring the speed limit—not that there was a lot of traffic on the road at that time on a Sunday morning. Nat ran into the hospital while Su Ling went in search of a parking space.

  Nat spotted Annie at the end of the corridor and immediately called out her name. She turned and looked startled when she saw him charging toward her. Why was he running? was her first reaction.

  “I came just as soon as I heard,” shouted Nat, still on the move, but all three women just continued to stare at him, like rabbits caught in a headlight. “I’m the same blood group as Fletcher,” Nat blurted out as he came to a halt by Annie’s side.

  “You’re AB negative?” said Annie in disbelief.

  “Sure am,” said Nat.

  “Thank God,” said Martha. Ruth quickly disappeared into the intensive care unit, and returned a moment later with Ben Renwick by her side.

  “Mr. Cartwright,” he said thrusting out his hand, “My name is Dr. Renwick, and I’m…”

  “The hospital’s senior consultant, yes, I know you by reputation,” said Nat, shaking his hand.

  The surgeon gave a slight bow. “We have a technician ready to take your blood…”

  “Then let’s get on with it,” said Nat, pulling off his jacket.

  “To begin with we’ll need to run some tests and check if your blood is an exact match, and then screen it for HIV and hepatitis B.”

  “Not a problem,” said Nat.

  “But I’m afraid, Mr. Cartwright, I’ll also need at least three pints of your blood if Senator Davenport is to have any chance of survival, and that will require several indemnity forms signed in the presence of a lawyer.”

  “Why a lawyer?” asked Nat.

  “Because there’s an outside chance you might suffer severe side effects, and in any case, you’ll end up feeling pretty weak yourself, and it may prove necessary to keep you in the hospital for several days just to administer extra fluids.”

  “Are there no extremes that Fletcher will not go to to keep me off the campaign trail?”

  All three women smiled for the first time that day as Renwick quickly led Nat off to his office. Nat turned around to speak to Annie, to find her being comforted by Su Ling.

  “Now I have another problem to consider,” admitted Renwick as he took a seat behind his desk and began sorting through some forms.

  “I’ll sign anything,” repeated Nat.

  “You can’t sign the form I have in mind,” said the consultant.

  “Why not?” asked Nat.

  “Because it’s an absentee ballot, and I’m no longer certain which one of you to vote for.”

  51

  “Losing three pints of blood doesn’t seem to have slowed down Mr. Cartwright,” said the duty nurse as she placed his latest chart in front of Dr. Renwick.

  “Maybe not,” said Renwick, flicking through the pages, “but it sure made one hell of a difference to Senator Davenport. It saved his life.”

  “True,” said the nurse, “but I’ve warned the senator that despite the election, he’ll have to stay put for at least another two weeks.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that,” said Renwick, “I anticipate that Fletcher will have discharged himself by the end of the week.”

  “You could be right,” said the nurse with a sigh, “but what can I do to prevent it?”

  “Nothing,” said Renwick, turning over the file on his desk so that she couldn’t read the names Nathaniel and Peter Cartwright printed in the top-right corner. “But I do need you to make an appointment for me to see both men as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, doctor,” replied the nurse, making a note on her clipboard before leaving the room.

  Once the door was closed, Ben Renwick turned the file back over and read through its contents once again. He’d thought about little else for the past three days.

  When he left later that evening, he locked the file away in his private safe. After all, a few more days wouldn’t make a great deal of difference, after all what he needed to discuss with the two men had remained a secret for the past forty-three years.

  Nat was discharged from St. Patrick’s on Thursday evening, and no one on the hospital staff imagined for a moment that Fletcher would still be around by the weekend, despite his mother trying to convince him that he should take it easy. He reminded her there were now only two weeks to go before election day.

  During the longest week in his life, Ben Renwick continued to wrestle with his conscience, just as Dr. Greenwood must have done forty-three years before him, but Renwick had come to a different conclusion; he felt he’d been left with no choice but to tell both men the truth.

  The two combatants agreed to meet at six A.M. on Tuesday morning in Dr. Renwick’s office. It was the only time before election day that both candidates had a clear hour in their agendas.

  Nat was the first to arrive, as he had hoped to be in Waterbury for a nine o’clock meeting, and perhaps even squeeze in a visit to a couple of commuter stations on the way.

  Fletcher hobbled into Dr. Renwick’s office at five fifty-eight, annoyed that Nat had made it before him.

  “
Just as soon as I get this cast off,” he said, “I’m going to kick your ass.”

  “You shouldn’t speak to Dr. Renwick like that, after all he’s done for you,” said Nat, with a grin.

  “Why not?” asked Fletcher. “He filled me up with your blood, so now I’m half the man I was.”

  “Wrong again,” said Nat. “You’re twice the man you were, but still half the man I am.”

  “Children, children,” said the doctor, suddenly realizing the significance of his words, “there is something a little more serious that I need to discuss with you.”

  Both men fell silent after hearing the tone in which they had been admonished.

  Dr. Renwick came from behind his desk to unlock his safe. He removed a file and placed it on the desk. “I have spent several days trying to work out just how I should go about imparting such confidential information to you both.” He tapped the file with his right index finger. “Information that would never have come to my attention had it not been for the senator’s near-fatal accident and the necessity to check both your files.” Nat and Fletcher glanced at each other, but said nothing. “Even whether to tell you separately or together became an ethical issue, and at least on that, it will now be obvious what decision I came to.” The two candidates still said nothing. “I have only one request, that the information I am about to divulge should remain a secret, unless both of you, I repeat, both of you, are willing, even determined, to make it public.”

  “I have no problem with that,” said Fletcher, turning to face Nat.

  “Neither do I,” said Nat, “I am, after all, in the presence of my lawyer.”

  “Even if it were to influence the outcome of the election?” the doctor added, ignoring Nat’s levity. Both men hesitated for a moment, but once again nodded. “Let me make it clear that what I am about to reveal is not a possibility or even a probability; it is quite simply beyond dispute.” The doctor opened the file and glanced down at a birth certificate and a death certificate.

  “Senator Davenport and Mr. Cartwright,” he said, as if addressing two people he’d never met before, “I have to inform you that, having checked and double-checked both your DNA samples, there can be no questioning the scientific evidence that you are not only brothers,” he paused, his eyes returning to the birth certificate, “but dizygotic twins.” Dr. Renwick remained silent as he allowed the significance of his statement to sink in.

  Nat recalled those days when he still needed to rush to a dictionary to check the meaning of a word. Fletcher was the first to break the silence. “Which means we’re not identical.”

  “Correct,” said Dr. Renwick, “the assumption that twins must look alike has always been a myth, mainly perpetrated by romantic novelists.”

  “But, that doesn’t explain…” began Nat.

  “Should you wish to know the answer to any other questions you might have,” said Dr. Renwick, “including who are your natural parents, and how you became separated, I am only too happy that you should study this file at your leisure.” Dr. Renwick tapped the open file in front of him once again.

  Neither man responded immediately. It was some time before Fletcher said, “I don’t need to see the contents of the file.”

  It was Dr. Renwick’s turn to register surprise.

  “There’s nothing I don’t know about Nat Cartwright,” Fletcher explained, “including the details of the tragic death of his brother.”

  Nat nodded. “My mother still keeps a picture of both of us by her bedside, and often talks of my brother Peter and what he might have grown up to be.” He paused and looked at Fletcher. “She would have been proud of the man who saved his brother’s life. But I do have one question,” he added, turning back to face Dr. Renwick, “I need to ask if Mrs. Davenport is aware that Fletcher isn’t her son?”

  “Not that I know of,” replied Renwick.

  “What makes you so sure?” asked Fletcher.

  “Because among the many items I came across in this file was a letter from the doctor who delivered you both. He left instructions that it was only to be opened if a dispute should arise concerning your birth that might harm the hospital’s reputation. And that letter states that there was only one other person who knew the truth, other than Dr. Greenwood.”

  “Who was that?” asked Nat and Fletcher simultaneously.

  Dr. Renwick paused while he turned another page in his file. “A Miss Heather Nichol, but as she and Dr. Greenwood have since died, there’s no way of confirming it.”

  “She was my nanny,” said Fletcher, “and from what I can remember of her, she would have done anything to please my mother.” He turned to look at Nat. “However, I would still prefer that my parents never find out the truth.”

  “I have no problem with that,” said Nat. “What purpose can be served by putting our parents through such an unnecessary ordeal? If Mrs. Davenport became aware that Fletcher was not her son, and my mother were to discover that Peter had never died, and she had been deprived of the chance of bringing up both of her children, the distress and turmoil that would quite obviously follow doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  “I agree,” said Fletcher. “My parents are now both nearly eighty, so why resurrect such ghosts of the past?” He paused for some time. “Though I confess I can only wonder how different our lives might have been, had I ended up in your crib, and you in mine,” he said, looking at Nat.

  “We’ll never know,” Nat replied. “However, one thing remains certain.”

  “What’s that?” asked Fletcher.

  “I would still be the next governor of Connecticut.”

  “What makes you so confident of that?” asked Fletcher.

  “I had a head start on you and have remained in the lead ever since. After all, I’ve been on earth six minutes longer than you.”

  “A tiny disadvantage from which I had fully recovered within the hour.”

  “Children, children,” admonished Ben Renwick a second time. Both men laughed as the doctor closed the file in front of him. “Then we are in agreement that any evidence proving your relationship should be destroyed and never referred to again.”

  “Agreed,” said Fletcher without hesitation.

  “Never referred to again,” repeated Nat.

  Both men watched as Dr. Renwick opened the file and first extracted a birth certificate which he placed firmly into the shredder. Neither spoke as they watched each piece of evidence disappear. The birth certificate was followed by a three-page letter dated May 11, 1949, signed by Dr. Greenwood. After that came several internal hospital documents and memos, all stamped 1949. Dr. Renwick continued to place them one by one through the shredder until all he was left with was an empty file. On top were printed the names Nathaniel and Peter Cartwright. He tore the file into four pieces before offering the final vestige of proof to the waiting teeth of the shredder.

  Fletcher rose unsteadily from his place, and turned to shake hands with his brother. “See you in the governor’s mansion.”

  “You sure will,” said Nat, taking him in his arms. “The first thing I’ll do is put in a wheelchair ramp so you can visit me regularly.”

  “Well, I have to go,” said Fletcher, turning to shake hands with Ben Renwick. “I’ve got an election to win.” He hobbled toward the door, trying to reach it before Nat, but his brother jumped in front and held it open for him.

  “I was brought up to open doors for women, senior citizens and invalids,” explained Nat.

  “And you can now add future governors to that list,” said Fletcher, hobbling through.

  “Have you read my paper on disability benefits?” asked Nat, as he caught up with him.

  “No,” Fletcher replied, “I’ve never bothered with impractical ideas that could never reach the statute books.”

  “You know, I will regret only one thing,” said Nat, once they were alone in the corridor and could no longer be overheard by Dr. Renwick.

  “Let me guess,” said Fletcher as he waited for the ne
xt quip.

  “I think you would have been one hell of a brother to grow up with.”

  52

  Dr. Renwick’s prediction turned out to be accurate. Senator Davenport had discharged himself from St. Patrick’s by the weekend, and a fortnight later no one would have believed he had been within hours of dying only a month before.

  With only a few days left before the election, Clinton went farther ahead in the national polls as Perot continued to eat into Bush’s support. Both Nat and Fletcher went on traveling around the state at a pace that would have impressed an Olympic athlete. Neither waited for the other to challenge them to a debate, and when one of the local television companies suggested they should face each other in three encounters, both accepted without needing any persuasion.

  It was universally agreed that Fletcher came off better in the first duel, and the polls confirmed that impression when he went into the lead for the first time. Nat immediately cut down on his travel commitments, and spent several hours in a mock-up television studio being coached by his staff. It paid off, because even the local Democrats conceded that he had won the second round, when the polls put him back into the lead.

  So much rested on the final debate that both men became overanxious not to make a mistake, and it ended up being judged as a stalemate or, as Lucy described it, “dullmate.” Neither candidate was distressed to learn that a rival station had aired a football game that had been watched by ten times as many viewers. The polls the following day put both candidates at forty-six percent, with eight percent undecided.

  “Where have they been for the past six months?” demanded Fletcher as he stared at the figure of eight percent.

  “Not everyone is as fascinated by politics as you are,” suggested Annie over breakfast that morning. Lucy nodded her agreement.