The Americans

by John Jakes

  Nervous and defensive, Carter smiled. The smile struck Gideon as utterly insolent. He could barely keep from storming across the Oriental carpet and hitting his stepson.

  “You might call it that,” Carter answered finally. “Do you mind if I say good night?”

  “Not until we’ve finished with you. Stand up straight!”

  The younger man glared. But he stopped leaning against the doorframe. Fuming, Gideon went on. “You act as though rules are made for everyone but you. As though life consists of nothing but challenges to your cleverness. Apparently you never trouble to consider the propriety or the consequences of your behavior. What’s become of the Carter Kent who helped his stepbrother get into baseball games in Central Park? When you persuaded those slum roughnecks to let Will join in, you were doing something with a worthy purpose!”

  Carter looked baffled. “I helped Will because I like him. And because I enjoyed wrapping those clods around my little finger—” A glance at Julia. “Just the way you wrap up an audience.”

  “It isn’t the same!” she cried. “I’m not playing some— some intellectual game. I mean every word.”

  “I wish I knew what you were getting at, Mother.”

  “At being responsible, not merely successful,” Gideon broke in. “Somehow we’ve failed to make the distinction clear.”

  Julia caught his arm. Red-faced, he turned away, struggling to draw another breath. Carter did his best to act nonchalant. “May I go to bed now?”

  “You might as well,” Julia said. “And there’s no point in getting up for your classes. Eisler told us he’s going to the administration first thing this morning. I’m afraid you’re finished at Harvard.”

  Gideon had recovered and was breathing evenly again. There was iron in his voice as he said, “Nevertheless, Julia, I shall expect Carter at the breakfast table one hour from now.” He turned an implacable eye on his stepson. “We will discuss the reparations you must and will make to the owner of the wagon.”

  It was no satisfaction to Gideon that Carter finally looked stunned by the news of his dismissal from Harvard. He limped toward the staircase without another word. His wet shoe squeaked in the silence.

  When he was gone, Julia leaned against her husband and held on to him. “I really have failed to teach him anything.”

  “The responsibility’s mine too.”

  “What can we do with him?”

  Gideon told her the truth. “I don’t know.” He feared it was already too late to change Carter’s amoral approach to life. But he was obliged to try.

  ii

  Associate Professor Edmund Eisler hadn’t been uttering idle threats. The next afternoon at four o’clock, a special messenger delivered a notice from Harvard College stating that Mr. Carter Kent, Beacon Street, had been dismissed from the second-year class and could not under any circumstances be reinstated.

  It came as no surprise. In fact, Gideon had already planned his stepson’s future on the basis of an impending dismissal. At breakfast he had presented Carter with a series of ultimatums. He would take a job at Kent and Son and, from his salary, repay the fair price of the wagon in weekly installments. He would pay for the horse too if it failed to turn up. Carter was required to call on the bakery owner, admit his deception, and handle all the arrangements.

  On every point, Carter quickly murmured an agreement. But Gideon feared the young man was secretly unrepentant, and was only making a show to mollify his mother.

  No matter. He would pay for the damage he had done. Early the next day, he was put to work carrying paper from the warehouse to the pressroom of the publishing house. The paper was heavy, the work tiring. Carter didn’t complain. At least not within Gideon’s hearing. And although Carter did face the bakery owner and work out details of the repayment, Gideon was still suspicious that the change in his stepson’s attitude was merely temporary.

  He was right. It lasted just two weeks.

  On Tuesday, shortly after the noon break, Gideon summoned Carter to his office on the top floor of the building. Near the desk littered with ledgers, bills, and galleys stood Mr. Verity Pleasant, the stout, gray-haired superintendent of the pressroom. Pleasant was the great-grandson of Supply Pleasant, the editor of Philip Kent’s first newspaper, the Bay State Federalist. Verity Pleasant had begun his working career as an apprentice at Kent and Son, and had quickly advanced to his present position of responsibility. He had come to Gideon with a complaint that Gideon now presented to his stepson.

  “Your work isn’t satisfactory to Mr. Pleasant.”

  Carter wiped an inky hand on his apron and resorted to a dazzling smile. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Pleasant. I thought I’d done everything you asked.” For an instant his dark eyes flickered with resentment. “Everything you ordered.”

  “Oh, yes, you’ve done everything that was asked,” Pleasant rumbled, “and quite a few things that were not.” He stabbed a thick finger at a folded sheet lying on the corner of the desk. “I have shown that petition to Mr. Kent.”

  “Oh.” Carter eyed the sheet, pondered a moment, then shrugged. “I’m sorry if the petition offends you, Mr. Pleasant. Or you, sir. But I definitely feel that fifteen minutes is not long enough for a midday meal. Most of the other men share my opinion, as their signatures on that paper should prove.”

  Pleasant couldn’t hide his contempt. Even Gideon’s relationship to the offender made no difference.

  “They share your opinion because you’ve palavered and wheedled and talked ’em dizzy. Half of them probably signed just to shut you up.”

  “No, sir, that’s not true,” Carter said. “They agree with me. In fifteen minutes there isn’t even time to step out for a growler of beer.”

  Gideon laced his hands together. “Nor is it allowed. I remind you that I set the rules in this business, young man. I set them after a meeting with the craft union once a year. At that meeting, the men have an opportunity to air every complaint, whether large or small. My employees are paid and treated fairly. Better, in fact, than in most printing houses. I admit the noon meal period is short. But the men also get to leave forty-five minutes early because of it. A year ago, they agreed they wanted it that way.”

  “Oh, we want to keep that early quitting time.” Carter nodded. “But we also believe the noon interval should be stretched to half an hour.”

  The floor vibrated from the rhythm of the presses and binding equipment. Gideon sighed and shook his head. “Why do you do this, Carter? You don’t really care about working conditions at Kent and Son. Why do you always have to try to take charge of a situation? Is it because deep down you’re doubtful of your own ability?”

  Carter glared. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about—sir.”

  “Nor do I,” Pleasant declared. “All I know is, I won’t have troublemakers in my pressroom. He cares for naught but the sound of his own voice, Mr. Kent. Since he’s your adopted son”—he reached behind him to the strings of his apron—“I suppose you’ll be wanting my resignation.”

  Gideon stayed Pleasant’s hand. “Absolutely not. When I brought Carter in here, his mother and I agreed he’d get no special treatment.”

  Handsome as a marble statue, Carter stood motionless in a beam of sunlight falling through the grimy window. His defiant eyes seemed to be testing the older man’s determination. How much of his lack of morality is my fault? Gideon wondered. And how much comes out of the past, from Louis?

  Gideon rose behind his desk. “No special treatment,” he repeated, to make sure Carter understood. “You’re discharged.”

  For a moment, Carter looked hurt. Then he stiffened. “Sir—”

  “You heard me. Go find a job on your own.”

  “What if I don’t choose to find a job?”

  “Then you can go to jail. I won’t pay a penny of what you owe for that wagon. Now get out of here.”

  “With pleasure!” Carter untied his apron and flung it on the floor. Then he stomped down the stairs.


  Verity Pleasant started to offer an apology for disrupting relationships in Gideon’s household. With a slashing gesture, Gideon waved him to silence. Pleasant left. Only then did Gideon raise one hand to cover his eye. He trembled with impotent fury.

  And he’s to be one of the stewards of the Kent family in the next century? If that’s the best we can offer, we’re finished.

  CHAPTER VIII

  EBEN’S FATE

  i

  CARTER WAS MISERABLE ABOUT being fired from Kent and Son. But he was damned if he’d let anyone know, even though the firing created all but unbearable tension at home. It was a source of bitter amusement to him that he really loved his mother and, in his own way, admired Gideon. But neither of them suspected.

  Gideon had said one thing that was completely true. Carter did have a compulsion to control things, whether it was the way Eisler conducted his classes, or the way Gideon conducted his business. He wanted to be in charge of whatever he did, whether the realities of the situation made that feasible or not. He didn’t know why he felt such a compulsion, but he’d long ago accepted it. The sooner Gideon and Julia accepted it too, the happier they’d all be.

  He toyed with the idea of ignoring his stepfather’s latest warning. But if he refused to look for work, he might indeed be jailed for failure to pay a debt which he’d already agreed was his. The alternative was to run away— something he was not yet prepared to do. Still the idea had a certain appeal. If others kept trying to control his future—well, who could say what would happen?

  Reluctantly he set out to find work. He had no luck. Jobs were scarce that spring, and a slight weakening of the economy was being felt most keenly among the unskilled. After being turned away from the hiring offices of several mills on the outskirts of Boston, he reluctantly returned to the one area where he thought he might be successful—the docks. He hadn’t been back since the night of the trouble, and he was still a little fearful about the possibility of encountering Ortega. The man had promised to repay him for his interference—

  But necessity, and the memory of something Eben Royce had said, overcame his fear. Late one sunny afternoon, he went down to the pier where Royce would anchor when he returned with the day’s catch. Instead of an empty slip, Carter found Royce’s boat tied up, her sails furled. She looked as though she hadn’t put out into the ocean for days.

  “Captain Royce? Tillman? Hello, anybody aboard?”

  Gulls swooped over the bright water of the harbor, wheeling and crying. An old seaman mending nets further down the pier shouted to him, “Ain’t nobody about. Read the sign.”

  He pointed to a notice board at the head of the pier. Carter had passed it, but paid no attention. Now he hurried back to it, and in seconds found the handprinted advertisement to which the old man had referred:

  To be sold at

  PUBLIC AUCTION

  at her berth on Purdy’s Wharf

  the excellent & widely known

  FISHING SLOOP

  ATLANTIC ANNE

  Sale by order of the owner,

  Capt. E. Royce

  Carter stared at the notice for a long time; the date of the auction was the very next week. An ominous feeling came over him. What had forced the sale of the vessel that was Royce’s whole life? For an answer, he turned back toward the end of the pier. The old seaman, net slung over his shoulder, was just stepping over the gunwale of a ramshackle barge.

  “Ahoy there,” Carter called, waving. “I see the sign— but where’s Captain Royce? Is he all right?”

  “Some say he’s lucky to be alive,” the old man replied. “Others—me among ’em—think maybe he’d be better off if they done the whole job, ’stead of leavin’ him like he is.”

  And with a final suspicious stare at Carter, the man disappeared into the barge’s wheelhouse.

  What the old man said unexpectedly brought an image to Carter’s mind. He saw the vicious eyes of the man with the fishhook scar, and there in the bright sunshine beside the familiar, sail-dotted harbor, he shuddered.

  ii

  He walked a while before making up his mind to go to the Red Cod. After all, how much harm could come to him in the daylight? He knew from experience that there would be few if any patrons in the Cod at this hour. And he wouldn’t be forced to explain his absence to Josie; the serving girls didn’t start work until six o’clock or later.

  A bell was tolling in a nearby church as Carter opened the tavern door. For a moment he could see little in the dark interior. Then an unpleasantly familiar voice hailed him.

  “Well, if it isn’t Kent. Thought the rough crowd in here had scared you off.”

  Carter leaned on the serving counter and thumped down one of his last coins. “I’ll have a beer, Phippsy—without the insults.”

  While the wizened landlord filled the pewter pot, Carter overcame his embarrassment and forced out the next sentence. “And if anybody in the neighborhood is looking for help, I’d be glad to know that too.”

  Phipps served the beer, clawed up the coin and deposited it in his grimy apron. From the rear of the tavern floated the smell of the day’s batch of chowder. Phipps bunked and licked his lips.

  “You mean you’re hunting for a job?”

  “Correct.”

  “What happened to your fancy education?”

  “I decided I had enough of Harvard.”

  “Or they decided they had enough of you?”

  “Look, damn it—”

  “All right, all right!” Phipps broke in, obviously relishing Carter’s plight. “I’ve got nothing to offer here—”

  And I wouldn’t work for you if you did.

  “—but I hear the Northeast Fishery Company’s hiring. They’re always hiring. It’s dirty work.”

  “Where is it?” Carter asked.

  Phipps gestured. “The big building three squares north. Right at the head of the wharf. Can’t miss it.”

  “I’m in your debt,” Carter said, offering a mocking salute with the pot. He drank, then added, “I’d hoped maybe Eben Royce would take me on, but I see the Atlantic Anne’s up for sale. What happened?”

  Phipps frowned. “It’s too sorrowful to talk about. You better ask him.” He gestured past Carter.

  Carter turned and for the first time saw Tillman. The fat fisherman was seated at the same table he’d occupied on the night of the trouble with Ortega. He regarded Carter with watering eyes. He was drunk.

  Carter carried his beer toward the man, who stirred in a slow, slothful way and drained what was left in his own pewter mug. Most of it ran down his chin and dripped on the stained table. Tillman looked defeated and miserable— and Carter wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer to the question about Royce. Something grim had happened, that much was certain.

  iii

  Tillman wasn’t too drunk to take advantage of Carter’s curiosity. Of course he’d relate the sad story of Eben Royce—if Carter refilled his mug. Carter sat down, signaled Phipps and wrinkled his nose at the fat man’s sour smell. Presently, drink in hand, Tillman unburdened himself.

  “Goddamn shame, it is—fine man like Eben. Happened eight, nine days after the last time you was in here. Eben had his supper—that very table—and he was heading back to the boat when three men jumped him and dragged him up Hampshire Alley. They put a rag in his mouth to keep him quiet, then they went to work on him. They broke his legs, both wrists, and all his fingers. His hands are like this”—Tillman formed a claw—“and they’ll never be right again. Takes him two, three minutes just to pick up a spoon now.”

  Dry-mouthed, Carter swallowed and managed to say, “Good God, who did it?”

  “Eben says it was Ortega and his brother, who was in port a few days. Dunno the third man.”

  “What’s anyone done about it?”

  Tillman shrugged. “Nothin’, lad. Down here we don’t have much truck with the damn crooks on the police force. We settle things amongst ourselves. But Ortega left town right after
it happened, an’ no one’s set eyes on him since. His brother shipped out again. Round the world, this time. Least that’s the story. They say Ortega is down in New York, but figures to come back when he thinks it’s safe. So you ought to be careful, too.”

  Carter shivered again. “Did Eben really have to sell the boat?”

  “He says he did, which amounts to the same thing. With what they did to his hands, he surely can’t handle lines or the wheel or a net anymore. And you know Eben—a working skipper, and not content to be any other kind. I’ll tell you, Kent—he only seems to care about one thing these days.”

  “What’s that?”

  Tillman made smacking sounds as he drank, then squinted into the empty mug. Carter said he had no more money with him. It was a lie but Tillman accepted it with a sigh, then answered the question.

  “Gettin’ even. He’s just waiting for Ortega to show up. Oh, it’s bad business—” Tillman shook his head and gave Carter a melancholy look. “It put the whole crew on shore, but what’s worse, it’s did something terrible to a good man. It broke more than Eben’s bones. It broke his spirit. He’s always been sound and healthy—but since they hurt him, he’s acted queer. We asked him to stay on as the owner of the Anne, and let us do all the skippering, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He just sits in his rocker in his little room, talking wild talk about getting even with that Portugee.”

  Back in the kitchen, Phipps querulously called for more potatoes in the chowder. Carter heard a scurrying along the wall on the other side of the fireplace, but refused to look to see what kind of creature was at large. The fading daylight through the bottle-glass window cast a deep yellow glow on sections of the tavern floor.

  Tillman roused again. “I think Eben would be mighty glad to see you, if you’d care to drop in. He doesn’t get many visitors.”

  “Sure, of course.” Carter nodded with a quick, uneasy smile. “I’ll try to get to his place first moment I can. But I’m in a tight spot, Tillman. I need money. I’m trying to find a job.”