The Americans

by John Jakes

  “Well, ah”—that shy, nervous smile—“I have some.” He looked closely at his companion. “Because we’re friends I must issue a warning to you. I’m going to get the Boss.”

  Carter chuckled, although in a nervous way. “That’s hardly news. You’ve been after Buckley for years. I think he got that idea when you helped defeat the city charter revision he and that Republican Bill Higgins cooked up.”

  “It was a fraud,” Willie said, squinting at the ocean. “It would have resulted in even stronger boss rule—why are you smiling?”

  “Because sometimes, I’m damned if I can figure you out. Willie the millionaire—Willie the aristocrat—Willie the workingman’s friend. It doesn’t fit together.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Willie acknowledged with a slight smile. “I don’t know where I came by that streak of democracy. Probably my father picked it up wandering around the desert searching for a mother lode. You don’t meet princes or plutocrats in the diggings, and you soon come to appreciate how hard most men work for the little they get. But you’re quite right. I do stand with the gripman.” He was referring to the mythical San Francisco cable car worker who set the standards for what the paper would publish, and how it would publish it. Carter had frequently heard the litany: “If it wouldn’t amaze the gripman, don’t print it. If he wouldn’t understand it, rewrite it. If it’s against his interests, I’m against it too.”

  “In any case,” Willie went on, “I’m compelled to tell you that powerful forces are forming an alliance against the Boss. It isn’t merely a newspaper crusade.”

  “Yes, I’ve caught hints of that.”

  Willie bent forward, a queer, storklike figure in the splendid sunshine; he seemed to be peering at his friend to make certain he understood. “Buckley’s going down, Carter. The machine will fly apart. Don’t get hit by the pieces.”

  Carter took a deep breath. “I appreciate the warning. And I won’t. First and foremost, I look after Carter Kent.”

  Willie coughed. “I really am not comfortable in this role—”

  Carter frowned. “What role?”

  “Middle man. I was—asked to approach you.”

  “By whom?”

  “Certain gentlemen who must as yet remain anonymous. Certain influential people organizing a reform coalition whose object would be Buckley’s ouster.”

  He understood then. “You’re talking about Democrats. Members of the Boss’s own party.”

  After some deliberation, Willie said, “I won’t deny that assertion. These gentlemen are wondering how badly you want to protect yourself from a debacle that will surely destroy a great many careers. Enough to cooperate, perhaps? Pass along information if it’s ever requested?” Hastily he raised his hands. “This is all theoretical, you must appreciate—”

  Carter gazed at the sunlit water and the wild, lonely coast running into the south. This was something new— something disturbing, and not at all clear cut. Democrats were conspiring against Democrats. Willie was clearly interested in seeing Carter save himself, yet at the same time was uncomfortable over the treachery that would be involved.

  He thought of the past. Of all the hard lessons he’d learned. Would he ignore those lessons now? When the question was framed that way, it took him only an instant to make his decision.

  “I’d be happy to have an exploratory discussion with these gentlemen, Willie. At some safe, confidential location, naturally. I’m not saying I would cooperate. But I’ll discuss it.”

  With a relieved smile, Willie whacked his stick on the rail. “Splendid. That’s all I need to know. You have a promising future, and I hate to see it cut short, though I was hesitant to make the overture. You’ve served old Chris Buckley well up to now.”

  “He’s gotten value for what he’s paid,” Carter said. “He’s old enough to know that on a sinking ship, one man doesn’t ask another for permission to jump into the lifeboat.”

  Willie murmured something that sounded like “Mmm,” and leaned his elbows on the rail, scanning the sea.

  Astern, members of the cruise party were coming out of the saloon, laughing and talking loudly. Carter tried to subdue the remorse he felt about his decision. Buckley had befriended and trusted him, and now he was preparing to betray that trust if it became necessary to save his own hide.

  Well, what of it? The lifeboat analogy was valid. Even if it did make him feel guilty.

  He fought the guilt and, ironically, just as he was beginning to overcome it, Willie caused it to flood back by saying, “A shame your stepbrother couldn’t join us.”

  “Oh”—this shrug was far too studied, Willie noticed— “he preferred to stay and see the sights. Besides, wives are never comfortable on these little trips.”

  “You’ve seen very little of your stepbrother.”

  “That’s true.” Anger welled up, but Carter forced a brittle smile. “We don’t have much in common anymore.”

  “I think you told me just before he arrived that he was a doctor.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Quite ambitious, too.”

  Carter’s face hardened. Eyes fixed on the immensity of the Pacific, he said, “I was wrong about that.”

  Then the past, and the ties of blood, obliterated cynicism and tore the next words-from him. “My stepbrother is the decent one in our family. I’m afraid I’ll have to be content being the successful one.”

  Willie turned his head sharply, and started to speak. But he didn’t know how to answer such a strange remark—one so filled with pain, as was Carter Kent’s face.

  EPILOGUE … AND MAKE A MARK

  A FEW DAYS BEFORE Christmas that same year, Gideon was moved to compose a year-end editorial for the Union.

  On the evening he went into his office at home to work, the house on Beacon Street was already festively decorated. The rooms were fragrant with the smell of pine boughs, candle wax, popping corn, and the spiced apples Julia was preparing in the kitchen. A special effort to give the house a holiday air had seemed desirable since all three of the younger Kents would be arriving by train to spend the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Carter was coming all the way from the West Coast.

  While Gideon located paper and a pen, he tried to banish thoughts of his failing health. Of late the pains in his chest had become more frequent and more severe. Just the short walk from the dining room to the office left him winded.

  He laid his writing materials on the desk, then warmed his hands at the fireplace. The office felt cozy. A heavy snow had fallen during the afternoon, settling in large, loaflike mounds on the sills. The storm had passed rapidly out to sea and now the evening was clear and starry. Distantly, carolers sang.

  It would be a treat to have the entire family together, even though there were definite signs of strain. It was no secret that Will and Carter had quarreled when Will and Jo were in San Francisco on their wedding trip. Will took all the blame. And he’d sent Carter a formal apology. Neither of them would go into detail about the cause of the quarrel—Julia had questioned Carter in several letters—but both young men let it be known that they had fundamental disagreements which would forever keep them from being as close as they once were.

  Perhaps that kind of tension and separation was to be expected, Gideon thought as he walked slowly back to his desk. He and his brothers, Matt and Jeremiah, had taken separate paths. The country was becoming a sprawling, diverse place too—so why think it unusual for an American family to display some of that diversity?

  The Kents were certainly doing so. Will, for example, showed every sign of becoming a reformer—the kind of man damned in public and feared in private by those he opposed. In the short time he’d been in practice in the Mulberry Bend, with his friend Drew as his partner and his wife managing the office and serving as a visiting nurse, Will had become a friend and staunch ally of Jacob Riis. Riis’s book on the New York slums had created a powerful movement for reform. Will helped that movement by writing to, and testifying befo
re, any state or municipal agency responsible for enacting and enforcing health or real estate laws.

  Once Gideon had feared that Will cared about nothing except personal security and prestige. How wrong he’d been. Will’s decision to marry Jo Hastings had wrenched the young man around a full hundred and eighty degrees. Gideon was immensely proud of his son. Eventually, in his own way, Will would live up to the family tradition, and carry it on. He would make a lasting mark.

  Carter was another matter. He was still working for Boss Buckley, but watching local developments very closely. In a recent note to Julia, he’d said that Buckley’s enemies were trying to empanel a special grand jury in Sacramento. The jury’s stated purpose was to investigate the activities of San Francisco’s paid lobbyist. But that was only a diversion. Buckley, and the Buckley organization, were the true targets of reform elements in the Democratic Party. Carter claimed the reformers really wanted Buckley’s power for themselves.

  The worsening situation, as well as Carter’s own ambition, had prompted him to think of moving to a larger— and safer—arena. Washington. By means of his friendship with young Hearst, he thought it might be possible to gain the notice of Senator Hearst and, through him, some kind of political appointment in the nation’s capital. Once there, he’d have a whole range of new options available. But he had to protect himself until it all worked out. He’d hinted to Julia that he had made a secret overture to the San Francisco reform group.

  He closed his letter by saying that some might consider his plans a betrayal of his employer, but he did not. It was a matter of survival. He was sure Buckley would have done the very same thing in his position.

  In Gideon’s opinion, Carter was not precisely dishonest, but he was a young man who savored power, and wanted more. Whether that power would corrupt him completely, Gideon couldn’t say. It corrupted many politicians—and Carter already showed signs of being tainted.

  Yet politics might be the only arena in which Carter could accomplish anything even remotely worthwhile. He’d evidently made a good record in San Francisco. He’d risen rapidly in the local party organization. Gideon suspected that his stepson would make a mark, though whether it would be an entirely admirable one remained to be seen. If he went to Washington—a pit of trimmers and privilege-seekers—the-outlook was doubtful.

  Make a mark. The words that came to mind so easily were a painful reminder of his own shortcomings.

  Another constriction in his chest bent him over his desk for half a minute. After the pain passed, he took several deep breaths, nearly gasping to get them. When his breathing became more or less normal again, he glanced at the portrait of the family’s founder.

  As always, the determined set of the jaw and the faintly truculent expression in the painted eyes brought a smile to Gideon’s face. How he wished he could have spent even five minutes with old Philip. He knew they would have liked and understood one another.

  Yet thoughts of Philip, and Philip’s remarkable life—so well summarized by the briquet, the tea bottle, and the Kentucky rifle—only served to reinforce Gideon’s feeling of inadequacy. Soon he turned away from the painting.

  Eleanor would be home for Christmas too, along with her husband. The remodeling of their theater, which Eleanor had proudly named the Goldman, was going well. She was starting to plan her opening cycle of plays. Ibsen mostly. She’d come in for a lot of criticism because of that choice. She seemed to be thriving on it.

  The change in Eleanor was a distinct one. He’d realized it the last time he’d spent a few days in New York. His gamble that afternoon following the disastrous luncheon with the vice president had come out in his favor; Eleanor certainly wasn’t locking out the world any longer. She’d joined the women’s movement, and started organizing producers and performers to fight a threatened theatrical monopoly scheme. Gideon was overjoyed to see a new, thoughtful, and militant Eleanor emerging.

  Her only setback of late was a happy one. Just a few days ago, in a letter bubbling with good cheer, she’d revealed that she was expecting a baby—and eagerly looking forward to it, even though the pregnancy would keep her from performing on her own stage in the fall.

  Gideon felt confident of the family’s future now. Carter might not be a trustworthy steward of the Kent traditions, but Eleanor would be, and so would Will. At long last, both young people were developing an understanding and appreciation of those traditions. That turn of events would help make it a fine Christmas. Only one thing might taint the holiday—

  Make a mark.

  Not many days hence, it would be 1891: the year in which he would turn forty-eight; the start of a new decade.

  Time was rushing on. The industrial nation was expanding and changing at a furious rate. The changes, the swift passage of time, and the certainty that his health was failing all heightened the gloomy feelings which had tormented him of late.

  Inevitably, his eye was drawn back to the mementoes— those symbols of the family’s strength, and the source of his desperate discontent. He studied the tea bottle. What could he leave that was truly his own contribution? The splinter from the mast of Old Ironsides was someone else’s; he had merely rediscovered it. Matt could leave his paintings, and the Renoir cartoon. But everything Gideon thought of—a copy of the Union, a book from Kent and Son—struck him as too ordinary.

  The problem still unsolved, he turned to the work which had brought him to the office. He reached for the old Bible—his father’s pulpit Bible—which he kept on the corner of his desk. He opened to the New Testament.

  For his editorial he planned to write a few paragraphs on the decade just ahead, taking as his text Acts 2, the nineteenth verse, in which God said, And I will shew wonders in heaven above, and signs in the earth beneath. The signs referred to were dire ones: blood, smoke and fire, the signs of the last days of mankind. Gideon meant to use the text in a more positive way, to characterize his vision of the coming ten-year period and the new century just beyond.

  Of course his pessimism had not been removed overnight by the happy changes in the family. He still saw too much materialism in America—a materialism that threatened to corrupt too many of its citizens, as it had corrupted the Pennels. Last summer the patriarch of the Pennel family had been found hanging from a bedroom chandelier in his Westchester mansion. A day or two later it had become. evident why he’d taken his own life. A shopgirl had gone to a West Side abortionist, been irreparably hurt, and had dragged herself to a charity hospital. Before she bled to death, she had summoned a reporter and named Thurman Pennel as the man who’d paid her to destroy his child.

  Pennel’s daughter was currently living in St. Louis. Hester Davis of the Union had told Gideon that after Will had jilted her, the girl had been unable to find another suitor of quality. So she’d married a man of considerable wealth but no social standing—a Midwestern hardware merchant twice her age. Presumably she was now a ruler of whatever passed for Society in St. Louis. Mrs. Pennel was reportedly bedridden in a Long Island sanitarium for the nervously disturbed.

  Gideon felt sorry for the Pennels now. Yet compassion didn’t eradicate his feeling that they were worthless, venal people. People unmoved by principle, indifferent to corruption, driven by greed and concerned only with whether or not others admired and envied them.

  In Gideon’s opinion there were too many people like the Pennels in America. Perhaps it was merely part of a cycle that would reverse itself if the electorate again turned to leaders of substance—men who put principle above the kind of conventional thinking typical of party hacks. Among the Republicans, Gideon considered young Roosevelt such a man—a potential leader able to inspire people to heed their highest impulses instead of their lowest. On the other side of the political fence there was an impressive though rather shy professor of jurisprudence and political economy at Princeton. Gideon had met him recently. His name was Wilson.

  Other things contributed to Gideon’s hope. One was the country’s incredible productivity. Year
after year, America was setting records for industrial output—and doing it despite depression and political in-fighting.

  Another strong point was the wondrous flood of inventions for which the American system provided a strong material incentive. A week earlier, he’d taken one of his infrequent forays as a working journalist and had visited the expanded West Orange, New Jersey, laboratories of Thomas Edison.

  Edison had showed off the machine with which he was currently tinkering. It was a device for rapidly projecting a series of still photographs so as to create the illusion of motion. Amazed and impressed, Gideon went on to New York with a valise full of notes which he turned into a report on the current activities of America’s foremost mechanical genius.

  Signs and wonders.

  He glanced up, pen in hand, but the first word of his editorial was still unwritten. A dozen carolers had stopped beneath the office window. He listened to their song, “Adeste Fidelis,” the old, familiar hymn of praise and faith. He found himself softly singing a phrase or two. Inspired by the song, a sudden insight flashed into mind. Faith was not only the essence of the great Christian holiday soon to be celebrated—the essence, indeed, of all the world’s religions—it was the essence of America as well. What but faith in the goodness and uniqueness of its essential principles could unite and sustain a country as diverse as America? What but faith could have enabled the country to survive the trials of the Revolution, the chaos and grief of a civil war—or the rapacity of a small class of men such as Louis Kent and Thurman Pennel?

  Faith was the essence of the family, too. Faith—its other name was hope—had brought young Philip from Auvergne to Boston. And now that the family was becoming diverse just like the nation, faith in commonly shared principles was all that could hold it together in the coming years.

  Other Kents before him had left tangible symbols to show their faith in the family and in its future. That was what bothered Gideon most. For months, he’d been trying to think of what he could leave. He didn’t know.