The Americans

by John Jakes

  “My, my,” she sighed, “what a lot of big words. You act like they’re all mighty important. You’ll feel a lot better as soon as you decide they aren’t.”

  He gave her a long, thoughtful look. “I think you may be right. There’s one thing I’m going to do well at Harvard, at least. I’m talking about paying that bastard back.”

  “I know something you do very well,” she said, leaning over to kiss his ear. His cheek itched from contact with a piece of her false hair. The hair was made of tow, he suspected. On occasion his mother wore expensive natural hair imported from France, but tavern harlots couldn’t spend that kind of money just to enhance a hairdo.”

  Phipps banged his palm on the counter. “Josie! Get back to work. He don’t get to feel till he pays up.”

  “Told you,” Josie whispered with a resentful glare at her employer. She slid off Carter’s lap, causing him to lose the pleasurable stiffness he’d been enjoying ever since she plumped her hefty buttocks onto his lap. What a pity that stiffness was all he’d enjoy this evening. He had decided to dispense with Josie’s services. He’d need every cent to rent the equipment necessary for carrying out his splendid scheme.

  “Be ready for me soon?” Josie asked as she started off.

  “I imagine,” he replied in a vague way. “Right now bring me a pot of beer, will you? And tell Phippsy to go to hell.”

  While another patron grabbed Josie’s wrist and engaged her in conversation, Carter noticed the leather-faced Phipps watching him through the slow-moving smoke. Carter would have liked to smash the landlord’s face for him, but he was determined to avoid trouble tonight. He wanted to concentrate on planning his revenge against the man he loathed above all others.

  iii

  Associate Professor Edmund Eisler taught German. He had given Carter failing marks twice the preceding year, had failed him again at the end of the first term this year, and had made it clear that he intended to fail him a fourth time in the spring. Carter had asked university officials why, when he was required to repeat the introductory German course, he was put back into Eisler’s section. The answer was blunt: Eisler had requested it.

  In Carter’s opinion the man belonged in the Prussian army, not in a classroom. His curly blond hair lay over his forehead in damp, effeminate ringlets. He had protruding blue eyes, and a superior manner, and loved to strut in front of his classes with a gold-knobbed cane in hand. He issued study instructions as if they were military orders, emphasizing them by whacking the cane on the desk.

  What had really precipitated the trouble between them was a tea Eisler and his dumpy wife had given for the professor’s students during Carter’s first term at Harvard. There Carter had met the Eislers’ daughter, a yellow-haired, dumpling-shaped girl whom some of Carter’s fellow students said would take on any boy who asked. Over hot tea and lemon snaps, Carter asked—but not softly enough; the professor was standing just a step behind him.

  Eisler’s daughter protected herself by pretending moral outrage. And from then on, Eisler was the foe.

  He missed no chance to demean Carter. It was widely known in Cambridge that Eisler’s wife had social pretensions, and curried the favor of women considered to be leaders of Boston society.

  Once, after a particularly heated exchange, Eisler had sneered, “Why should I expect anything but boorishness from you, Herr Kent? I know, after all, what your stepfather did to McAllister.”

  The more Eisler bore down on Carter’s deficiencies as a student of language—“You speak German as if you were an immigrant from the moon—and a rather dim-witted immigrant, at that”—the more Carter resisted. When Eisler assigned homework due the next day, Carter finished a day late. When Eisler doubled the assigned work as a means of reprisal, Carter handed the assignment in a week late—or not at all.

  In class, they argued over everything; Carter had a talent for that. They went round and round on subjects as diverse as the pronunciation of the umlaut and the worth of the campus humor magazine, the Lampoon, the efficiency of Boston’s Metropolitan Horse Railroad and, not many weeks earlier, the music of Richard Wagner, which Eisler adored. Knowing absolutely nothing about it, Carter classified Wagner’s work as turgid and bizarre, two words he’d read in a newspaper article about the composer. This last, supreme insult had provoked an outburst from Eisler which reminded Carter of where he stood.

  “You are an idiot, Herr Kent.” He always said Herr Kent—the pompous ass. “You speak with the experience of an infant and the intelligence of a flea. You don’t care what you say so long as you can bully and wheedle others into believing it”—that was true enough—“and you are not fit to be a Harvard student. I shall not rest until I see your repulsive presence removed from this campus.”

  So there they stood, clear enemies. For weeks, Carter had been hunting for a way to avenge himself against the unremitting abuse. The encounter with old Phippsy had done the trick.

  “Jackass,” he whispered again, savoring the word as much as he savored the beer Josie brought him a moment later—just before the real trouble began.

  CHAPTER II

  BRAWL

  i

  BY THE TIME CARTER finished a second pot of beer, the chill had left him. Josie was sending questioning looks his way, as if to ask whether he’d forgotten about going upstairs. He was spared the need to invent an excuse by a flurry of cheerful greetings at the front door. When he saw who had come in, he smiled too.

  Captain Eben Royce was a small, trim man who made his living with his own fishing smack. Boston-born and raised, he was fifty or more, but only his lined face and graying hair gave away that fact; he had the energy of someone half his age.

  Royce and Carter had struck up a conversation the first time Carter had visited the Cod. They’d gotten along well, becoming occasional drinking companions. Royce was a tolerant man.

  Hearing that Carter attended Harvard, he’d smiled and shrugged. “If you prove yourself worthy in other ways, we’ll not hold that against you.”

  Royce had a good many friends in the tavern, and each wanted a bit of his time. This proved a little awkward for his companion—a stunning dark-haired woman about ten years Carter’s senior, and four inches taller than Royce.

  The woman had high cheekbones, a full mouth, smooth skin, and shining dark hair that fell across the shoulders of her threadbare cloak. The cloak emphasized rather than concealed the lines of the large breasts which heightened her aura of robust sexuality.

  Carter had never seen the woman before. But he knew her name was Helen Stavros, and that she was Greek. Royce had formed a liaison with her about six months before. He bragged about her constantly. “A beautiful, angelic face—and a disposition to match.” From a man toughened to the ways of the world and the disappointing weaknesses found in most human beings, it was a compliment indeed. Gazing at the woman now, Carter understood what his friend meant. He envied Royce.

  Royce socialized with acquaintances a moment longer, then took the woman’s arm and guided her to a table at the very back of the tavern. He ordered bowls of chowder and pots of beer, then began to circulate again. Soon he reached the fireplace. He shook Carter’s hand with great warmth.

  “Didn’t expect you here. Thought you’d be celebrating Georgie’s birthday up at Harvard Square.”

  “The girls up there aren’t my kind.” Carter shrugged. “I must say, Eben, your lady is all you said she was.”

  Royce beamed. “Aye, she’s a beauty, ain’t she? Never thought a female could persuade me to think about changin’ my bachelor status.”

  “I wouldn’t expect a woman that handsome to be unmarried.”

  “She wasn’t till her husband died. Two years ago, it was. She and Stavros came from a little village called Poros, on an island near Athens. Her husband sickened in our climate and died pretty quick. But their town was a fishing town— which is why she don’t mind the way I smell.”

  He cast an almost worshipful look toward the woman, who sat calmly
surveying the rafters of the room. Carter surmised she was intentionally avoiding the gaze of the other men. Many were watching her closely.

  “She says she’s right fond of me, Carter. Right fond— and I guess that makes me the luckiest man in Boston.”

  “I agree with you that she’s beautiful,” Carter told him, meaning it.

  “G’wan, now—she’s taken,” the fisherman laughed, knuckling Carter’s shoulder in a good-natured way. “How you getting along with all those perfessers?”

  “Worse than ever.”

  “Well, my offer stands. If that stuff gets too disagreeable, I’ll put you to work on the Atlantic Anne. Hard work keeps a man out o’ trouble.”

  “I can find other ways to stay out of trouble, Eben.” Carter said it with a smile, but he wasn’t entirely joking.

  Royce shrugged, and walked behind the bench to speak to his employee, Tillman. Helen Stavros was spooning chowder from a cracked bowl. The Cod wasn’t the sort of place a decent woman would dare enter alone. But with Eben present, no one molested her—and Carter’s estimate of the woman’s character increased even more when he saw that she did absolutely nothing to give the captain cause for jealousy.

  Carter frowned suddenly. The noise level had dropped all at once. Heads again turned toward the front door. Carter looked that way and saw a man enter. He had never seen him before, but obviously many of the other patrons had.

  ii

  The man was stouter than Eben Royce, thicker of waist and arm. Carter reckoned him to be about forty. His clothes were old, drab, and dirty. A small gold ring, badly tarnished, pierced the lobe of his left ear. Shiny black hair curled out from under a woolen cap. He had a curving nose and a petulant mouth. From the stranger’s clothes as well as from his expression, Carter formed an immediate impression. This was a man who cared about neither his appearance nor the feelings of anyone else.

  Never had Carter seen a crowd so instantly divided as when the man swaggered toward the bar. Phipps and many others sent dark looks at the new arrival. But friends greeted him, and Carter heard one call, “Hello, Ortega. Where’s your brother tonight?”

  “Stoking a boiler somewhere between here and Liverpool,” the man answered, in heavily accented English. “Be back in a month or so.”

  Ortega, eh. Spanish, Carter guessed. Later he discovered his guess was wrong, and that Ortega was the Portuguese version of the name; in Spain it would have been Ortegas.

  The man stepped up to the serving counter. Carter saw no sign of a weapon, but the patrons on either side of the stranger made room—clear indication that they feared him. The new arrival smiled at Phipps in an insincere way.

  “A mug of your usual. É una porcaria.”

  When Phipps shook his head to show he didn’t understand, the swarthy man grinned all the wider. “Your usual. Swill. Pig slop. That’s all you serve in this place. I wouldn’t come here except that some of the company is interesting.”

  He pivoted, leaned on his elbow and let his eyes rest on the Greek woman. Evidently he’d spotted her as he was coming in. There was no mistaking his interest. Above him a sperm-oil lantern hanging from a beam cast the sharp shadow of his nose across the upper part of his cheek. Just below the shadow line, Carter noticed what he hadn’t noticed before—a small white scar in the shape of a fishhook.

  The man’s eyes raked the Greek woman’s face and torso. He paid no attention to the pewter mug Phipps slid to him, calling out, “Eh, puta, trabalhas aqui?”

  She avoided his eyes and kept silent.

  “Can’t speak Portugee? I asked if you work here.”

  “Leave her be, Ortega,” Phipps said, though his voice was none too strong. “She come here with Eben Royce.”

  Phipps turned, as if to point out the fisherman. The startled expression that appeared on his face made Carter lean out past the end of the deacon’s bench and look behind him, where he expected to find Royce talking to a crony.

  The fisherman was nowhere in sight. For the first time, the Greek woman saw that too.

  iii

  “Where the hell’d he go?” Carter whispered to the man at the table nearest the bench.

  The man hooked a thumb at the side door. “Slipped out a couple of minutes ago. Tillman had some’pin to show him.”

  Carter turned back, saw Ortega scrutinizing the area around and behind the bench. Seeing no one he recognized, the Portugee smiled in a smug way and walked toward the table where the Greek woman sat rigid with tension. Carter decided Ortega wasn’t a sailor like the brother someone had mentioned; he didn’t have the recognizable gait of a man accustomed to tilting decks.

  The woman looked past the Portugee and searched the room, fear showing clearly on her face now. Her eyes touched Carter’s. Oh, no, he thought. I’ll have no part in this quarrel.

  But those eyes held him—begged him—and he knew that if he looked away, she’d think him a coward. Besides, Royce was a friend, she was Royce’s woman, and she was in trouble. If he could just delay any trouble for a few moments, surely Royce would return.

  He waited another few seconds to see whether anyone else would get up. No one did. He swallowed hard, tried to ignore his suddenly tight stomach and stood.

  iv

  Phipps’ eyes warned him not to interfere. So did a patron who plucked at his sleeve as he passed and whispered, “Leave him alone, lad. He’s half crazy.”

  Carter heard, but he was committed. Ortega reached the Greek woman’s table and stopped there. Behind him, Carter walked past goggle-eyed men at the serving counter. The Portugee heard Carter’s footsteps. He turned and gave him a quizzical smile, as if he couldn’t believe anyone could be so stupid as to challenge him.

  With contemptuous politeness, the Portugee asked, “Do you want to get through here? Do you want me to step aside so you can reach the place you obviously belong? The outhouse, I mean.”

  Someone snickered. Carter tried to keep his voice steady. “I just want you to leave that woman alone.”

  Again that raking scrutiny. The man scratched the fishhook scar with one grime-crusted fingernail. “Your name Royce?”

  Desperate, Carter called on the talent that had sometimes served him well before. “I’m Eben Royce’s cousin.” He heard murmurs of surprise, hoped the reaction of the crowd wouldn’t give him away immediately. The Greek woman was staring at him. He hurried on. “There are a lot of Eben’s first and second cousins in the neighborhood, so if you bother his woman, you’ll have a lot of people down on your—”

  “Mentiroso,” Ortega interrupted, his crooked white teeth shining when he grinned. “In case you don’t understand Portugee, I said you’re a damn fucking liar. Captain Royce is a man with no relatives, that much I know.”

  He leaned forward, resting his hands on the back of a heavy chair. “But I don’t know who you are—except a very stupid young man.”

  Still grinning, he whipped the chair up so fast Carter had no time to react before the Portugee smashed it against the side of his head.

  Carter crashed backward, and would have cracked his skull on the serving counter except for the men standing close by, who pushed him away. He struggled upright, rage and fright warring within him as Ortega’s hand slid under his tattered coat. Someone gasped when the Portugee’s hand flashed into sight again, a short length of metal glinting in it.

  Ortega’s face looked unhealthy in the lantern light. He licked his lips, anticipating his pleasure as he began to move the knife blade in a small, provocative circle.

  “Come on, meu amigo. Let’s show the lady what you’re made of, eh? I’ll cut your insides out and strew them all over this floor.”

  Ortega lunged then, and Carter heard shouting—most of it directed against the Portugee, but some in support of him. Carter dived to the floor to avoid the slashing blade. He landed on his belly and Ortega checked his lunge. The Portugee raised his right heel and brought it driving down toward Carter’s neck.

  At the last instant, Carter rolled, esc
aping the blow that might have crushed his neck. It glanced off his collarbone; “Bastardo!” Ortega yelled, and raised the knife in preparation for a downward slash at Carter’s exposed throat. Carter was trying to roll again when he saw a chair sail into sight, smash a hanging lantern, then strike the Portugee on the side of the head.

  The impact staggered Ortega. He would have fallen on top of Carter—impaling him with the knife—if Carter hadn’t twisted onto his back and rammed his boot hard into Ortega’s groin. The Portugee let out an involuntary cry. Men laughed. One or two clapped. Ortega turned red from humiliation as he lurched away. Carter saw blood oozing in the man’s curly black hair. The chair had struck harder than Carter had thought.

  The Portugee was still off balance. He fell, and Carter rolled wildly to avoid the knife. He got out of the way just as the other man crashed to the floor, the point of his blade penetrating the pegged boards where Carter’s head had been a moment earlier.

  Above him, vengeful and powerful-looking despite his small frame, Eben Royce—who had evidently flung the chair—attacked Ortega from behind with an ash-blackened poker. Ortega was groggy but he saw the weapon, and frantically crawled under a nearby table. Down came the poker, so hard that the flimsy table broke in the center. Ortega covered his head as wood rained down.

  Carter struggled to his feet. Fights had broken out all over the tavern. Pro-Ortega patrons were punching and kicking those who were against him; Carter saw paunchy Tillman grab two men by their collars and ram them headfirst into the fireplace. Only when they screamed did he let go and seek someone else to punch.

  Phipps rushed back and forth, vainly trying to break up the fights. He protested once too often, and someone broke an oak trencher over his head. Wailing obscenities, he folded and hit the floor.

  Royce turned his attention to Carter. “I shouldn’t have gone outside with Tillman an’ left her alone. ’Preciate your steppin’ in when you did. I owe you for that. Now get out of here ’fore the coppers show up.”