The Americans

by John Jakes

  The school building stood on Boylston Street at Exeter, in Boston. After having been located near Massachusetts General Hospital for nearly forty years, the school had moved to this new, more modern structure in 1883.

  Will shivered as he hurried up the steps. Rain dripped from his hat, and despite kidskin gloves, his hands were growing numb. He carried a small, cheap satchel. The satchel contained his admission papers, including one which verified that he’d passed the examinations in English, Latin, physics, chemistry, and one elective—he’d picked botany— and had therefore been admitted to the medical school.

  The steps were slippery. Will kept his eye on them as he rushed to the top. Consequently he failed to see another young man coming up the stairs on the opposite side. On the landing, the two of them collided.

  Will’s left shoe slid out from under him. If he hadn’t grabbed the balustrade with his left hand, he’d have taken a bad fall. As it was, his flailing loosened his grip on the satchel. It shot away, flung into a high arc that ended a few seconds later on the pavement of busy Boylston Street.

  He clutched the stone railing and watched a team pulling a brewery wagon clip-clop over the satchel, knocking it back and forth under their hooves. When the wagon passed, he saw that the satchel’s clasp had broken open. He started to run down the steps. Suddenly the wind scooped the papers from inside the satchel and scattered them in all directions.

  “Oh my God,” he said in disgust, stopping.

  From the landing, the other young man said, “I’m really sorry, old fellow. My fault, I’m afraid.”

  Will turned and forced himself to say, “Just an accident. No one’s fault.”

  The other young man looked relieved. He was a year or two older than Will. And fat—Lord above, he was fat. If Vlandingham was a pear, this chap was a giant melon, with a smaller melon perched on top. Curly red-gold hair, soaked now, lay close to his head. His face and ungloved hands were white and soft as bread dough. His plain muffler and dark, tentlike overcoat looked homemade.

  The rain slacked off abruptly. Will was nervous about walking through the doors of Harvard Medical School for the first time. The building had a forbidding quality. So he was almost grateful for a distraction, although he’d have preferred some other kind. There was no point in rushing to collect his papers. They were ruined, soaked by muddy water and torn by the traffic. Even as he looked down, a swaybacked hack horse paused and made a steaming deposit on one of them.

  Will’s mouth dropped open. Students were coming up both sides of the staircase. Some—upperclassmen, to judge from their studied air of boredom—laughed at his bad luck. Others, inexperience clearly written on their faces, did not. But he quickly saw the humor in the situation and broke out laughing. The fat boy joined in.

  “New student, are you?” he said to Will. In marked contrast to his appearance, his voice was forceful, even a trifle bullying. He pronounced are as if it were spelled ah.

  “That’s right. My name’s Will Kent.”

  “Drew Hastings.”.

  They shook hands in a solemn way. Hastings’ hand was much stronger than it looked.

  “From Boston?” Will asked.

  “Born in Bangor, Maine. I live in Hartford, Connecticut, now.” It came out Hahtford.

  “Are you taking the four-year program?”

  A shake of the head. “Three. You?”

  “Four—if I can survive that long.”

  “Well, the addition of cum laude after my degree is a luxury the Hastings family can’t afford. That’s the only substantial difference between the programs, you know. After four years, you graduate doctor of medicine cum laude.”

  He sounded defensive. And what he’d said about the programs was oversimplified. Will saw no point in arguing, though.

  Hastings wiped a stubby nose that had developed a drip.

  “By George, I truly am sorry I didn’t see you.”

  Will laughed again and pointed to the paper on which the horse had relieved himself.

  “That’s a hell of a way to start, isn’t it? There’s one consolation. Things surely can’t get worse.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Hastings countered in a teasing tone. “Because of the local laws, the school is always short of cadavers. I hear underclassmen are sometimes sent out to dig up one or two.”

  “Dig?”

  “Figuratively or otherwise. No questions asked.” Hastings glanced at the papers littering the street. “I wouldn’t even bother to pick those up. Come on, let’s get out of this wretched weather.”

  Will didn’t move. “What’s the matter?” Hastings asked. “Haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

  Will’s chin came up a little. “Not on your life.”

  “Then let’s go in.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll get my satchel. The papers are ruined but maybe the satchel isn’t.”

  “Suit yourself,” Hastings said with an amiable shrug. He turned and marched through the doors.

  Students continued to stream up both stairways. They paid no attention to Will as he returned to the street and rescued the mud-spattered satchel. Doing that gave him a few minutes to gather his nerve and reflect on the remarkable events that had brought him here, to this place, at this moment.

  He had learned a great deal on the long journey that had taken him to Theodore Roosevelt’s ranch in the Dakota Bad Lands, to Lon Adam’s side at the campfire, to Vlandingham’s table at Sherry’s Restaurant, and then to Harvard. At last he could see the continuity of the journey. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but each step had led inevitably to the next. And from here, he knew exactly where he wanted to go.

  To possession of a mansion like William K. Vanderbilt’s.

  To prominence as a member of Society.

  To a good marriage with someone who could help him establish a practice among the best people, as Vlandingham’s wife had done.

  And most important of all, to fulfillment of his promise to his stepbrother.

  Slowly, he started up the steps again. Halfway to the landing, he quickened his pace. Started taking the steps two at a time. One journey was over, another beginning, Roosevelt was wrong, he thought as he strode to the doors. There was no need to make a choice. But if there ever were such a need, he was sure about which way he’d go.

  He would go Vlandingham’s way.

  ii

  That same night, Gideon turned over in bed and punched his pillow. Julia murmured in the dark, “Can’t you sleep, darling?”

  “No.”

  “Are you upset about something?”

  “On the contrary, I feel wonderful. I’ve been thinking of Will, that’s all. He said his first day at Harvard was just fine.”

  “I’m glad. But I’m terribly sleepy.”

  “All right, I’ll be quiet.”

  He kissed her cheek, then slipped his arm around her and held her close. A sudden painful pressure at the midpoint of his chest reminded him of time hurrying on. But now it no longer mattered quite so much. Idealism had finally won out over less laudable characteristics. Gideon’s son—his best hope for leadership of the family—was on the right path at last.

  Book Three

  THE UPWARD PATH

  CHAPTER I

  IN GALVESTON

  i

  THAT AUTUMN, AS WILL was starting the long climb to the goal he’d set for himself, Carter was wandering with no goal, and a doubt in his mind as to whether he would ever find any work that suited him. He’d left Texarkana in the spring, drifting south. He’d tried cattle ranching and a number of other jobs. All had proved unsatisfactory. He spent no more than a week at any of them, always moving on. As a golden October began, he reached the Gulf Coast of Texas with just a few dollars in his pocket.

  From Galveston Bay he took a ferry out to the thriving port city at the east end of Galveston Island. A man in Houston had told him there was always cargo to be handled at the harborside, and strong backs needed to handle it. Perhaps he was drawn to the long
, flat island with its subtropical vegetation because it was a shipping center. It smelled of the sea. It reminded him of home.

  The bad memories of his last months in Boston were fading; some of them, anyway. He missed the bustle of the docks, and the carefree life of people who made their living from fishing and maritime commerce. He felt at ease as he wandered by the piers and saw the baled cotton, the barrels of flour, the drums of rope, and the crates of cigars waiting to be shipped.

  He spent the afternoon of his first day in Galveston strolling residential side streets near the center of town. He passed low adobe walls with luxuriant gardens on the other side. The heavily shaded houses, mostly with a Spanish flavor, looked substantial and not inexpensive. Palmetto leaves rattled their spearlike foliage in the warm sea wind. He could imagine how sweet and soft the air must smell in the springtime, when the magnolias and azaleas were blooming.

  As the sun began to drop over the coast Jean Lafitte had sailed some seventy years earlier, he ambled back to the main section, admiring the city’s Custom House, its solid-looking theater, its Cotton Exchange. Across from the last, he saw a clean-looking saloon whose gaudy sign announced it as the Sam Houston Rest. He fished in his pocket, counted his money, realized he was hungry, and with his bedroll over his shoulder and his secondhand Montana peak hat shading his face, crossed the dusty street and pushed through the saloon doors.

  It was his first mistake.

  ii

  The place was popular, and noisy. Seamen and stevedores lined the bar. Carter had finished a tough piece of steak and was mopping up the gravy with a slab of bread when a round-faced stranger in a derby approached his table. The man had bland brown eyes, a stubby nose, and a short beard fringing his chin. He was about thirty-five, conventionally dressed. A merchant, Carter guessed.

  “You look like a stranger in Galveston,” the man said with soft Southern speech and a friendly smile.

  Wary, Carter returned his bread to his plate. “You’re right.”

  “Mighty nice town. Mighty nice weather most of the year. About one more month and we’ll see the end of hurricane season. Then we’ll rest a lot easier.”

  The man took off his derby and offered an apologetic smile. “Don’t mean to intrude. It’s just that the barkeep pointed you out as a newcomer, and my brother-in-law, he’s lookin’ to hire a young man like you.”

  The man’s apology reassured Carter. He relaxed and prepared to finish his bread and gravy. But first he said, “To do what?”

  “Porter in a boardinghouse. Out on the edge of town.”

  A porter? Carter rebelled at the idea. There should be better work available. Of course no work was very attractive to him. But he was nearly broke. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to explore this opportunity, maybe even take the job for a few days. That would give him time to look for something better.

  His distrust of the stranger was quickly disappearing. The man was holding his derby in his hands, and with those round cheeks and that fringe of beard, he looked like a slightly overweight saint.

  “I might be interested in talking to your brother-in-law,” Carter said. To make sure the man knew who was in charge, he added, “As soon as I finish my meal and my beer. Meantime, why don’t you sit down?”

  “Thanks kindly.”

  The man bobbed his head, took a chair and held out his hand. “Name’s Olaf. James Olaf. I’m a Kentucky Scotsman on my mother’s side, and immigrant Swede on my father’s. Care for a cigar?”

  Carter pushed his plate away and hesitated only a moment. A cigar would taste fine with the last of his beer. He accepted, bent to the match Olaf extended, then leaned back in his chair and introduced himself.

  The meal had been his first solid one in a couple of days. He’d eaten so fast, he felt uncomfortable, a little dizzy. The cigar seemed to enhance the feeling. But he was so used to being tired and light-headed from lack of food and exposure to the elements, he didn’t think much about it.

  Sunshine slanted through a dusty window a few feet away. A ship’s horn sounded in the harbor. Gulls cried in the fading autumn day. A sad season. A lonesome season. But they were all lonesome when you were wandering far from home.

  “Shall we go?” Olaf asked presently, a touch of impatience in his voice.

  A little glassy-eyed, Carter leaned back. “I’ll be ready soon.”

  “Yes, of course. Didn’t mean to rush you,” Olaf murmured. Carter tilted his stein and drained it, thus missing the quick flash of hostility in his benefactor’s deceptive eyes.

  iii

  He should have been warned by the men loitering on the steps of the boardinghouse that sat on the Gulf side of the island, just outside of town. It was a large place—three stories—built on rotting pilings sunk in the sand. There was a palmetto thicket to the west, but no vegetation around the house itself except for a couple of patches of sea oats bending in the sunset breeze. Several miles out on the white-capped Gulf, a sidewheeler spewed black smoke from its funnels as it plowed in the direction of New Orleans.

  Carter’s attention was focused on the two men, emaciated and dirty, who were lounging on the steps. One had a ring in his ear—an unpleasant reminder of Ortega. The other was whittling. Carter couldn’t bring himself to look at the knife. He knew both men looked shady, yet at the same time he didn’t care. He was still pleasantly tipsy from the beer—unusual for just one stein to do that to him— and so he wasn’t as cautious as he should have been.

  “Come on in,” Olaf said, a comradely arm across Carter’s shoulder; yet there was pressure in Olaf’s hand, as if he were hurrying Carter past the loungers. One said something Carter couldn’t hear. The other snickered.

  Inside, there was little light, and a heavy smell of cigar smoke and beer. In a minuscule room to the right of the frowsy entrance hall, Carter saw two more roughnecks leaning on a bar made of a plank and two ship’s kegs. In a chair in a corner sat a yellow-haired girl in a chemise. Skinny, yet touchingly pretty. Twenty or so, Carter figured, smiling at her. She smiled in return, smoothing the front of her chemise so that her small breasts stood out.

  “We like to make our boarders comfortable,” Olaf said with an understanding chuckle. “Seamen expect certain amenities any place they stay—” He had led Carter to the back of the hall, and now pushed open a door to a kitchen. A heavy black woman was frying potatoes at an iron stove.

  “Horace here?”

  “Gone to Houston overnight, Mist’ Olaf. Business. Your sister went too.”

  Olaf looked upset. “Horace didn’t tell me he’d be away.”

  “Came up sudden like.”

  “Yes, but I brought this young man here to talk about the porter’s job.”

  The black woman studied Carter through the smoke rising from her skillet. Quickly she lifted the pan from the stove top and cooled it, hissing, in a bucket of water. “Mist’ Horace say he be back on the first morning ferry. We ain’t full tonight. The young gen’man could have a bed, I s’pose.”

  “Capital idea,” Olaf said, beaming. “We’ll even give him a drink on the house. Thank you, Maum Charlene,” he added with great politeness.

  In the makeshift barroom, only the girl remained. Olaf introduced her as a distant cousin of Horace’s, from up San Antonio way. Her name was Lu Ann. “You’re welcome to chat with her, Mr. Kent, but I’m afraid the largesse of the house doesn’t include her favors. Any arrangement you make with her is strictly a cash transaction.”

  Carter nodded blearily, still feeling the effect of the beer. “Fair enough,” he mumbled. Olaf poured him a drink of surprisingly good bourbon, and left.

  He sat down and began to chat with Lu Ann. She offered him another cigar, and after a few puffs he grew foggier still—drunkenly dizzy—and before long found himself toasting the little yellow-haired whore.

  “To you, Miss Lu Ann. The most beautiful girl in Texas. The world, maybe.”

  She laughed, showing bad teeth. “My, my, Mr. Kent. You have a charming way to talki
n’, indeed you do.”

  “You inspire it, ma’am,” he said with a grin, knowing that he shouldn’t let down so completely, yet too tired and drunk to care. “I do believe I’ve fallen in love with you.” In his state, it was almost true.

  She reached out, dropped her hand between his legs and began to stroke slowly. “I declare, Mr. Kent—you just take a girl’s breath away. I s’pose we could do somethin’ about the way you feel, though I hate to bring up such a thing as the price of our enjoyin’ ourselves in my room.”

  He told her he still had two dollars. It was enough.

  He finished the cigar, which he had decided smelled curiously sweet—or was that Miss Lu Ann’s scent? He followed her up to her quarters—the door had a tin numeral on it—where she disposed of her chemise, and he was soon floundering on top of her. Of the rest, he remembered very little.

  In the middle of the night he rolled on top of Lu Ann for a second romp, gushing out a lot of silly words about her beauty, and when it was finished, he slept long and hard. He roused in response to someone shaking him.

  “ Lu Ann?” he mumbled, his eyes not yet open.

  “Wake up,” said a familiar voice. “Wake up and pay your bill.”

  Carter sat up and reached for his drawers, befuddled by the sight of James Olaf with a marlin spike stuck in his belt, a piece of paper in his hand, and a decidedly ugly expression on his face.

  iv

  “Pay—?” Carter repeated.

  Olaf thrust the paper at him. “Four hundred and six dollars.”

  He didn’t think he’d heard correctly. “For what?”

  “Read, for Christ’s sake!” Olaf shook the paper.