The Linda Wolfe Collection

by Linda Wolfe

  Inside, where a harpist was entertaining in the ladies’ cabin and a Scottish bagpiper was pumping out tunes in the men’s quarters, Lino found himself amid the kind of luxury to which, but a year and a half ago, he had hoped to grow accustomed. He saw cabins whose carved wooden beds were covered in soft fabrics, public rooms adorned with paintings, and a salon in which a long table was set with breakfast foods: steaks and chops, ham, chicken and game, hot bread, omelets, fragrant coffee. Approaching the buffet, he ate the best meal he had eaten since his imprisonment. But when the boat was well up the river and approaching Bucks County, a ship’s officer asked for his ticket, and when Lino said he had none, the officer directed him to purchase one immediately. Lino didn’t want to. Reluctant to part with any portion of his four dollars, he told the officer he had no money. The officer was unsympathetic. He warned Lino he’d be put ashore if he didn’t buy a ticket, and when Lino made no move to do so, the officer ordered several crewmen to seize him.

  Lino resisted. The men held on. They held on so tightly they tore his shirt. He struggled against them. He begged and cajoled. But it was all to no avail. Near the tiny town of Andalusia, at a wharf that was the first stop for northbound steamboats, he was summarily thrown off the boat.

  On shore he stood dazedly, gazing in dismay at the departing boat. Then he began to shuffle away from the river. After walking about a mile he reached the town itself, with its cluster of small shops and taverns. He went into one of the smoky taverns and asked the tavernkeeper if he could have a room for the night.

  At twilight that evening Ellen Shaw, the Chapmans’ elderly housekeeper, was out in the barn milking the cows when she saw a stranger approaching through the spreading gloom. The family’s watchdog saw him, too, and began charging forward, his barks piercing the stillness of the countryside. Ellen called off the dog, and the stranger came nearer. “I need victuals,” he said, his accent foreign and sibilant. “Victuals and lodgings for the night.”

  Ellen didn’t like the looks of him. He was dirty, she noticed, his boots were muddy, and his shirt was a disgrace. Not worth anything, she thought. Still, the Chapmans were benevolent and kind to the needy. Sometimes they let them stay for a night or two in the cellar, in what they called the “beggar’s room.” Dutifully, she pointed out the way to the front door of the house.

  The stranger didn’t thank her, just sprinted toward the door and banged on it.

  A boy named James Foreman answered his knock. Lino asked if he could see the master or mistress of the house, and James, nodding, showed him into a big parlor room. It was filled with desks and books, and in the center of the room was a group of children hovering around a stout man and a tall, auburn-haired woman.

  Lino addressed the man, whom his guide indicated was called William Chapman. “I need a night’s lodging,” he said.

  William told him there was a tavern down the hill.

  “They refused me,” Lino said.

  William frowned. It was true that he and Lucretia kept a room for penniless travelers, and many people in Andalusia knew this. But he wasn’t eager to have this ragged-looking fellow spend the night. “There’s a tavern up the hill,” he said.

  Lino threw himself at William’s mercy, said in as clear English as he could muster how very tired he was, how he’d come all the way from Philadelphia—he didn’t mention that he’d been thrown off the steamboat—and how he hadn’t had a bite to eat the entire time. Then he grew even more creative, said he’d have money tomorrow, por cierto, said he was on his way to Bonaparte’s, where he had a friend who was a close companion of the former king, a friend who owed him money, and by this time tomorrow he’d be able to pay handsomely both for his room and for any food he might be allowed.

  Lucretia’s ears perked up at the mention of Bonaparte.

  She asked Lino his name. “Carolino Amalia Espos y Mina,” he said, the invented syllables rolling melodically off his tongue. Then, “My father’s a Mexican general,” he offered. “The governor of Upper California.”

  Lucretia was intrigued. She took William aside and suggested they let the man stay for the night.

  William acquiesced. “My dear, if you think so,” he said.

  Eleven-year-old Mary Palethorpe was one of the children who was present in the schoolroom when Lino arrived. She and a handful of other young scholars, including the boy who had shown Lino into the house, as well as Huson Fassit from Philadelphia; Benjamin Ash from New York; and John Bishop, a Vermonter who was studying stammering control with William, ate supper with Lino and the Chapmans. There was enough important news in Bucks County that night to sustain the usual animated dinner table conversation. Jackson had dismissed his original cabinet, including the county’s own favorite son, Sam Ingham, and was trying to put together a new one. The Baltimore and Ohio Company was on the verge of opening the region’s first set of railroad tracks. A local woman named Joanna Clue, who’d been on trial for poisoning her husband with arsenic, had just been set free because the jury couldn’t agree whether the unfortunate Clue had died naturally or been murdered. But the conversation at the Chapmans’ big wooden table focused chiefly on Lino, and little Mary Palethorpe would never forget the spellbinding tale that poured from his lips as he elaborated with sparkling detail on the story he had begun to fabricate in the parlor classroom.

  His father was the governor of California, he said, and the owner of vast silver and gold mines in Mexico. He was the family’s only son and heir, and so his father had decided to send him to Europe to gain the kind of polish that befitted a young man of his station and prospects. He’d given him a trunkful of money, some thirty thousand dollars it was, and assigned him a guardian, a friend of the family. His guardian and he had sailed for Europe and traveled about happily until one morning in Paris, in a church where they’d gone to pray, his guardian suddenly keeled over and died. He’d been distraught after that, sick with grief at losing his only friend, especially in that cruel city where he could hardly speak the language and where who knew what thieves and scoundrels lurked. He’d been so beside himself that in a moment of madness—he was given to such moments, he explained, for he suffered from fits—he had torn off his expensive cape and suit and tried to make himself less conspicuous by dressing in workman’s clothes.

  That had been a terrible mistake, he went on. For soon some French police—they said they were police—had come to his rooms and informed him that they’d been assigned to confiscate the trunks of the dead man. They aren’t his trunks, Lino had protested. They’re mine. But the French, seeing that he looked merely like a servant, refused to believe him. They carted off everything. Todo, Lino said. My good clothes. My jewelry. My thirty thousand dollars.

  Mary was fascinated by this harrowing tale. She listened with wide eyes, etching into memory the poignant particulars, while Lino, only occasionally pausing for a bit of sustenance, proceeded to embroider further.

  I was muy pobre, he said, so poor I could not even pay my passage home. I knew no one. Ninguno. I was desperate. And then un estranjero, a good Samaritan, took pity on me and lent me one hundred dollars, and with that I sailed at once for Boston. For I had un amigo there I was sure would help me out. But when I arrived in that cold, cold city mi amigo was gone. Gone south, they told me at his house, south to Philadelphia. So I came down to Philadelphia. But he’s left there, too, gone I don’t know where. Still, all is not lost. Because mañana I shall go to Joseph. Joseph Bonaparte is also my friend. Or at least he is the friend of my father and of a friend of mine, Señor Casanova, who also owes me money and who is staying with Joseph. Mañana Joseph and Casanova will rescue me. For the sake of my father. The governor of California.

  After supper the Chapmans went to pains to make their unfortunate and apparently well-connected visitor as comfortable as they could. William lent him a fine linen shirt, and when it was time for bed, Lucretia took him not to the beggar’s room below but to an upstairs bedroom where the mattress was stuffed with feathers. Lino
slept well in the comfortable bed and in the morning didn’t go to Bonaparte’s, or anywhere else for that matter. He just lounged around the house.

  Lucretia talked to him at one point. She may have advised him to clean himself up before attempting to visit the ex-king. Certainly she took his grooming in hand. She brought to his room a selection of William’s shirts.

  William was irritated by her raid on his wardrobe. “What am I to do for shirts,” he complained, “if this Lino has them all?” But the next morning, upon learning that their visitor was indeed going to Bonaparte’s that day, he got over his pique. “Suppose you go with this gentleman and get someone to drive you,” he suggested to Lucretia, as intrigued as she was by the foreigner’s presumed eminence.

  Right after breakfast Lucretia, Lino, and Ben Ash, who’d been recruited to do the driving, set out in the Dearborn carriage. Lucretia was excited. Lino had said Bonaparte was a friend of his father’s and of his own friend Casanova, and that Casanova was not just an ordinary companion of the great man, but his intimate. She imagined that today she would surely see the fabled house, perhaps even meet the former king.

  As to Lino, he was scheming. He had no friend Casanova, but he was banking on Bonaparte’s reputation. The ex-king of Spain was known as an unusually charitable man, and one who was particularly generous to emigrants from France, Spain, and Mexico, whose crown he had once been offered. He gave work to the poorest emigrants and lodgings and loans to impoverished aristocrats and merchants. His kindness had often been imposed upon, in some cases quite flagrantly, and the onetime ruler was said to be learning circumspection, but Lino was hoping he was still an easy mark.

  En route to Bordentown Lucretia urged Ben to make haste on the long drive, and by midafternoon she was experiencing at first hand the legendary grounds of the Bonaparte estate and the views she had heard so much about, the swans gliding on the glistening lake, the miniature forests of oak and pine, the dazzling flower beds, and the profusion of marble gods and goddesses scattered about the lawns—naked, each and every one of them. The carriage progressed for miles through this wonderland of landscaping, until at last it pulled up at the entrance to the grand mansion, where Lucretia and Lino descended. At once they were greeted by a servant dressed in impeccable livery. Without hesitation, Lino asked the imposing retainer to show them to Señor Casanova, the gentleman from Spain who was staying at the mansion.

  The servant replied that no Spanish gentleman was in residence, although two had been there recently and left two days ago.

  Lino was unfazed. He coolly suggested that since his friend had departed, perhaps he and Lucretia could be received by His Royal Highness.

  “Count Bonaparte has company,” the servant replied. “He cannot be seen for two or three hours.”

  Lucretia did some quick calculations. They could wait two or three hours until the servant informed the count of their presence. But there was no guarantee that they would be received, and by the time they got word, it would be close to evening. “I have to return to my school tonight,” she said to Lino, and, unwilling to risk getting home late, suggested they go back.

  They did. They drove straight home to Andalusia, and everything was the same for Lucretia as it had been before, except that she’d finally been to Bonaparte’s, even if she’d been just to the entryway. And except for the fact that while they were driving Lino said he wished he could stay at her house and study English with her. When he did, it was as if some darkness within her lifted, as if the oil lamps that lit her school had suddenly been replaced with those new gas lamps that flickered light even into the corners of rooms.

  Back home that night, she gathered the children for evening prayers, beseeching God to bless them all and keep them from sin, and after the prayers, told William what Lino had said about staying on.

  He’d speak to their visitor about the matter, William offered, and he went and had a private talk with Lino. When he returned he reported that their visitor had offered to pay them a handsome sum for the privilege of staying on—two thousand dollars a year for room, board, and tuition—and that he had given his approval.

  Lucretia passed the exciting news on to Ellen before she went to bed that night. Señor Lino would be studying English with her and William, she said, and staying for an indeterminate period of time, perhaps as long as three years.

  Ellen didn’t approve. “You’d best let him alone,” she snapped. “He’s a Spaniard. A body don’t know what he might do.”

  “He’s a fine young man,” Lucretia burst out. “I’m going to treat him like one of my own sons.”

  If Lucretia’s interest in Lino was, at first, maternal, William’s was financial. Lino had not only offered to pay munificently for the Chapmans’ services, but he’d assured William that he’d have no problem obtaining the money. His father, the governor of California, would happily foot the bill, he’d said. All that was necessary was for William to write to his father explaining the arrangement.

  Accordingly, a week after the newcomer took up residence in the house, William penned at Lino’s direction a letter addressed to “His Excellency, the Governor of the Province of California, Don Antonio Mara Esposimina.”

  “Sir,” William wrote, “I have the pleasure of addressing you on a subject that will doubtless be very interesting to you. On the 9th instant your son Lino Amalio Esposimina came to my house. He has a great desire to learn the English language, finding that travelling in the United States is attended with considerable difficulty without a ready knowledge of that language. He writes to you by this conveyance, and will acquaint you with his circumstances. He will continue here until he hears from you, during which time it is his intention to exert himself in acquiring such an addition to his English education as the time may admit of.”

  Then William appended one of his publications, suggesting that the governor read it and give publicity to the cures that he had effected with the speech impaired, adding proudly that he had had “four hundred and eleven [such] pupils, of both sexes, and all ages and conditions in life: of that number, several have come to me from Europe, the West Indies, and great distances in the United States.”

  He signed it, “Your most obedient servant, William Chapman.”

  When he was done he directed Lino to write to his father, too, and inform him of where he was and why he proposed to stay.

  Lino, who was hoping to obtain as many copies of William’s signature as he could in order to practice forging his flourishes, said he didn’t want to have to write to his father because he was ashamed of his poor handwriting. Would William write his letter for him? And sign it for him, too?

  William saw nothing wrong with endorsing a letter from Lino to his father. But he felt it was only proper for the esteemed governor to receive word of their arrangement not just in English but in Spanish, and he himself didn’t know any Spanish. “Lino,” he told his prospective student, “you know I do not understand your language. If you will write the letter, I will sign it.”

  Satisfied, Lino wrote something out in Spanish, and William autographed the bottom, remarking as he scrawled his name, “I have done for you what I never did for anybody in the world. It shows the confidence I have placed in you, for I have signed what I do not understand.”

  Lucretia also wrote a letter that day. She wrote to a Doña Maria de Calme Mirones in Mexico City—Lino’s mother, or so she believed. Her letter was less formal than William’s, a mother-to-mother sort of note, praising Doña Maria for having brought up such a fine son as Lino and expressing pleasure at how much that son delighted her own children. “Dear Madam,” she wrote, “I am happy to inform you that it will be the pleasure of my husband and myself to treat your son as OUR own child, while he remains in our house, and I sincerely hope he will not soon leave us, as myself and family are already much attached to him. Though he speaks the English language but imperfectly, yet he is very intelligent, and has given us interesting accounts of his family, in the English language. His
manners are so mild and engaging that he wins the affections of everyone in our house; even our youngest child (a little boy three years old) is delighted to remain by him while taking our meals at the table.”

  When the letters were finished Lino said he would take them to the Mexican consul in Philadelphia and ask him to send them by diplomatic pouch to the American consul in Vera Cruz, who would forward them on.

  She’d like to go with him to Philadelphia, Lucretia volunteered. She could pay a call on her old employers, the LeBruns. She could also introduce Lino to William’s tailor. If he was going to be visiting people like the consul of his country, he ought to start getting himself some decent suits.

  William’s tailor, Richard Watkinson, had a shop on Chestnut Street. The street was the most fashionable in Philadelphia and its tailors the most expensive—they produced suits that were renowned for making men look as elegant as Parisian boulevardiers. Lucretia, accompanied by Lino and two of her children, drove the Dearborn to Watkinson’s, hitched the horse to a post, and went into the shop alone. Lino’s clothes were so ill-fitting—he was wearing not only a shirt of William’s but a pair of William’s oversize pants—that she wanted to prepare the fastidious tailor for the sight of him.

  Inside, she told Watkinson that she’d brought him a new customer, a young man who had been very unfortunate. “He has no money,” she said, “having lost upward of thirty thousand dollars somewhere in France. He wants to go to see his consul, but hasn’t a suit fit to visit in.” Then she asked Watkinson to make the young man a suit on credit, assuring him that the consul would be forwarding a letter requesting funds from his father, a prominent general, who would send the money directly.