by C. C. Finlay
“I wouldn’t trouble about that too much,” Lydia said. “If it’s anything like home, I expect they’ll find us.”
Chapter 8
At first, Proctor and Lydia stayed aboard the frigate while the crew and shipbuilders undertook repairs to fix the leak. He offered the excuse that they intended to continue to France when the ship resumed sail, the same excuse that Adams offered as he stayed aboard the vessel, and it allowed Proctor to stay close to him. But as soon as the crew stopped pumping, the ship took on water. La Sensible would not continue on to any other port soon.
Adams and his entourage disembarked and took lodgings in town. Proctor and Lydia could not afford to follow him, and as word came back after a week that Adams had hired a train of mules to begin the overland route to France, Proctor grew desperate.
“Just go and ask him for help,” Lydia said.
“I can’t do that,” Proctor replied.
“Certain men have a need to appear great by helping out others, and by doing favors that leave men in their debt,” Lydia said. “I saw it when I was in the Carolinas. Adams wants other men to see him as a great man.”
“All that may be true,” Proctor said. “But the attitudes of Massachusetts are very different from those of the Carolinas. New Englanders put a value on Independence and self-reliance.”
The words felt bitter on his tongue as soon as he spoke them. Proctor put a value on Independence and self-reliance. He had begged Emily Rucke, his former fiancée, for help in New York City after the fire, and he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to beg anyone for help again. He felt worse for taking charity than he did for going without.
“When you come up with a different plan, you let me know,” Lydia said and stomped away. It was the least servile she’d pretended to be since they left Boston. Proctor didn’t realize how much he’d missed the old Lydia until that moment.
Of course, she was right. He had to swallow his pride and go beg Adams for the favor of accompanying him to Paris.
The diplomat had been meeting with the dignitaries of the city, making his name and status known to anyone who might help him, and taking tours of such sights as the city offered. Proctor and Lydia went ashore and began inquiring after Adams. The answers led them toward the church of San Julian and its twin bell towers rising over the surrounding rooftops. The modest church, like many of the houses around it, seemed relatively new, and leaned toward a simple and functional design of stone and plaster. The two towers framed an entrance of three plain arches. The windows on either side of the arches and above them were squares of plain glass instead of the gaudy colored illustrations he had heard so often described. In all, the exterior could have been a meeting-house in Boston.
“It’s not what I was expecting,” Proctor told Lydia as they leaned against the cool stone wall opposite the entrance to the church. “I thought there would be more popery.”
“Popery?” she asked.
“Gilded idols and graven images, that sort of thing, I suppose,” he said. “I expected big statues of Our Lord, and carvings of Mary, draped in gold and jewels, with people kissing their marble feet.”
“You sound disappointed,” she observed.
He considered his reaction. “You realize that you are in a foreign country when the things you are sure of turn out to be untrue.”
“Then we are, all of us, always in a foreign country.”
“Perhaps,” he admitted, though the thought unsettled him.
Even though it was December, the leaves had not yet been visited by frost. Men, women, and children alike wandered the rocky, muddy streets barefoot and in short leggings. The people were dark-haired and dark-skinned, not as much as Lydia, but enough to look different to Proctor. Men and women alike wore their dark hair in plaits down their backs, reaching the waists of some men and the knees of some of the women. Proctor stood out as a foreigner, just like the men in Adams’s party or the French officers. Despite the differences, when Proctor saw a young couple strolling past the church, with the wife carrying an infant no older than Maggie, he felt a kinship to them and a sharp desire to be home.
The young man stepped away from his wife to say something in Spanish to a hunchbacked old woman lingering on the doorsteps of the church. She was wearing a ratty black robe, little better than rags, even by the poor standards of the country. Lank strands of loose white hair spilled out of her hood. She answered him angrily in a different language, flicking her hands at him and turning her back. He shoved her away from the church doors, shouting at her as he drove her down the street.
Proctor stepped away from the wall, intending to intervene, but Lydia put a hand on his arm and he stopped. “What?”
“You can’t solve every problem,” she said.
“But what he did, that wasn’t right,” he said.
“It’s what happens to old women,” she said, a little bitterly. “I’ve seen old slave women given their ‘freedom’ when they’re too old to work, turned away from the plantations they served their whole lives. They have to live in the woods and the swamps, taking such charity as the other slaves can spare. If they show up in public, they’re driven away. They call them witches and conjure-women, whether they are or not. It’s the way of the world.”
His jaw tightened. “Is that what you expected to happen to you?”
She glanced down and turned away.
“You can’t think we’d do that to you, turn you off The Farm?”
“It is harder than I expected, pretending to be a slave again,” she said, still not meeting his eyes. “I thought that bending my neck was my first nature, but when I put it on again it fits me like a pair of outgrown shoes, all pinched and hurting.”
“So you understand why I don’t think that man should be allowed to beat that old woman?”
“I understand that if you don’t catch Mr. Adams and convince him to take us to France, we’ll never do what we need to do to protect your wife and child, we won’t be able to save the Revolution, and we’ll never get home again. Look, there he is, and you would have missed him.”
The door to the church was pushed open, and Adams emerged with his two sons. He was followed by an entourage that included a priest, several local officials, and some French naval officers. Proctor hopped across the street, slowing down to appear casual. “Mr. Adams, what a coincidence. It’s good to see you again.”
Adams’s round face turned to Proctor in surprise, a mixture of recognition and confusion written on his features. “And you are?”
“Proctor Brown, sir. Your fellow passenger from the Sensible.”
“You remember him, Father,” John Quincy said. “He worked more shifts at the pumps than any of us.”
“Ah, well, yes, thank you for that,” Adams said. “How may I help you?”
Proctor stood up straight and clasped his hands behind his back. “As you may know, it will be some months before the Sensible resumes her journey to France. I hear that you are traveling over the mountains in order to get there sooner. I was hoping that I might be able to join you.”
“It is reported to be a difficult journey. The governor of Galicia himself warned me not to take my children along because of the danger …”
While he was speaking, a cat appeared out of an alley, a thin black thing with white whiskers and a streak of white fur along its head. It ran straight for the children. Charles and John Quincy bent to pet it, and it purred enthusiastically as it swirled around their ankles. The elder Adams trailed off, annoyed, and a tingle of anxiety shot through Proctor.
“I think I would be a great addition to your journey, surely in no more danger than anyone else, and quite able to help if the need arose.”
“What?” Adams said. “Oh, yes, of course you could. No doubt. How is your Spanish and your French?”
“I have neither,” Proctor admitted. “It is one reason why I’m eager to join the company of someone like yourself, more capable of communication with the local peoples.”
; Adams’s face grew less enthusiastic. “If you know Latin, then Sobrino’s Spanish dictionary should provide you with an able vocabulary with only a few weeks’ application.”
“Father,” John Quincy interrupted. “May we bring the cat along with us? Look how thin she is—we could feed her scraps from our own meals.”
“In a moment,” Adams said, still watching his son.
“I’m afraid I don’t know Latin either,” Proctor said. “But I have letters permitting me to draw on funds once I reach Paris, and will gladly repay you the cost of mules and board for the journey—”
Adams started at Proctor’s voice. “I’m sorry, but did you say that you were expecting me to pay for your transportation?”
“I would repay you in full. I can show you my letters.” He could show Adams his letters again, as he had already presented them once on the ship. He had his hand in his pocket for the letters, and his fingers fell around the lock of Deborah’s hair. The spell that he had used to make Adams forget him had worked too well. Maybe a different setting would erase the effect.
Adams held out his hand to forestall the letters. “Forgive me for being blunt, but I don’t know you. It would be a dereliction of my responsibility to the government I represent to use its hard-raised funds to support a private citizen on the promise of repayment. If you can acquire funds and join us on your own account, that would be one thing, but under the circumstances—”
The cat was vigorously rubbing against the ankles of Charles and John Quincy, and nipping at their fingertips. “Father—”
“I’m sorry, but we can take on no strays!”
The boys’ faces fell, and Adams winced at seeing their expression. But Proctor understood that the words were intended for him. “Please, sir, I beg you—”
“It doesn’t become a healthy young man to beg,” Adams said. “Nor does it reflect well on our young nation, which must learn to stand on its own two feet and contribute to the well-being of the community of nations of which we hope and expect to be a part. Please leave the cat behind, boys.”
Adams turned and led his children away. Lydia came up and stood behind Proctor as the rest of the group followed Adams in a slow trickle down the street. “You did the right thing,” she said.
“I did not do it successfully,” he said. His heart fell as he thought about Deborah and Maggie. He was a thousand miles away from taking his next step to finding the Covenant and defeating their plans. “How do you feel about walking to Paris?”
“It’s better than swimming,” she mumbled. “Which is what I thought we might be faced with, when the ship was sinking.”
“Monsieur Brown?”
They turned at the voice. Proctor did not recognize the gentleman at first, until he imagined a uniform filling out the man’s spare form, and a cockade and wig framing the beaked nose. “Captain Chavagne,” he said, bowing his head.
“I could not help but overhear the difficulty of your situation,” the captain said. “Since we did not deliver you as agreed, I am afraid that we cannot keep any payment.” He reached out for Proctor’s hand, and Proctor felt the hard coin-filled knot of his purse pressed into his palm.
“I don’t know what to say,” Proctor stumbled. “Merci?”
“Oui, c’est ça, ‘Merci.’ Très bien. De rien.” The captain nodded respectfully. “I have never seen elm pumps work so long without plugging. I believe that you earned your passage to Ferrol. Good day and good wishes, monsieur.”
Chavagne walked away, taking long steps that carried him back to the other group as it disappeared down the street.
Proctor held up the purse. “It looks like we can pay our own way. Adams cannot refuse us now.”
Lydia sighed with relief. “God is looking out for us. Did you drop something?”
Proctor had been spinning around, searching. “I was looking for the cat. I thought I ought to buy something else for another stray, just as an offering of thanks, but it’s gone.”
Despite Adams’s protests that he did not like to travel on Sunday, they began the journey to France on a Sunday afternoon, the day after Christmas. The skies were gray and foreboding, and the air was cold enough to leave one feeling miserable all the time.
It had been six weeks since Proctor left Deborah and Maggie, and the thought of them enjoying Christmas dinner in front of a warm fire, with snow on the ground outside and without him, made him feel lonely and sorry for himself. He would have been willing to start for France on Christmas Day if it meant that he’d return home sooner.
Adams came out to begin the journey. Proctor tipped his hat, only to have Adams ignore him. The diplomat had been put out to discover that Proctor had found means of paying his own way, and though he would not go back on his word to allow Proctor and Lydia to accompany them, he remained frostier than the air.
Adams had hired three calashes, but they were older than any Proctor had ever seen in Boston, and in worse repair. The leather, whether in seats or harness, had never known the touch of oil, and was sunbaked and cracked. The tack was falling apart and knotted together with twine. The calashes were a perfect match for the mules, the only animals that could be bought or hired in the area. The mules were lean and shorn from ear to tail of almost all their hair to prevent the infestation of parasites. Adams and his sons took one calash, Adams’s secretary and the boys’ tutor took another, and two other Americans who had attached themselves to Adams took the third. The servants rode mules, as did Proctor and Lydia. Mr. Lagoanere, the American agent in northern Spain, accompanied them on the first part of the journey. Lagoanere was the sort of man who weighed a little too much for his frame, paid a little too much for his clothes, and drank a little too much at meals: in short, the sort of congenial companion who made almost anyone feel superior in his presence.
Though it was described as the easiest part of their passage, Proctor found the roads in such poor repair that he thought the country abandoned. It was different from going across the remote parts of America—those had a feeling that they were waiting to fill up. The Spanish countryside gave an impression of long occupation and ultimate surrender. Men had tried to live well here and, after many generations, had failed. Now the only people who remained were those too stubborn to try somewhere else.
The steep ascent was mountainous and rocky, and they finished it near dark. The calashes groaned and complained as they bounced over the deep ruts and fallen rocks, until Proctor thought something would crack. The mules proved sure-footed in the harsh terrain, but the ride was jarring.
When they arrived in Betanzos, an ancient city set on steep slopes, Proctor turned to Lydia. “I think that’s about twelve miles done. Only nine hundred and eighty-eight more to go.”
“If they’re all as rough as these, can I go back and wait for the ship to be repaired? I promise to meet you in France.”
Mr. Lagoanere helped them find rooms for the night. “The very best that are available,” Lagoanere told all the Americans. Proctor didn’t understand the apologetic tone in the agent’s voice until he saw the rooms. The floors were bare ground, carpeted with straw, while the walls and ceiling were covered with soot from the open-floor ovens. Everything smelled like smoke. The mattresses were dirty cloth stuffed with smashed straw and crawling with fleas. Proctor would have complained, but the family who owned it ended up sleeping on the floor in another room.
Lydia did a very discreet spell that caused the fleas to leave the mattresses. “Just like Moses, chasing off the plague of flies,” she said. It was the least they could do for the family they displaced. “But if every night is like this, I am definitely going back to the ship.”
The Adamses were in a different house, since John Adams was unwilling to share quarters with someone who wasn’t part of the official American party. That was fine with Proctor. He stood in the doorway to see how Adams and the others were doing. Charles and John Quincy sat in the doorway of their house, silhouettes playing with a thin black cat. “Isn’t that the same c
at we saw in front of the church?”
Lydia came and stood at his side. “How can you tell in the dark? There are black cats anywhere you go.”
Lydia was right. It was just a passing fancy. He turned back into their own room. “It will have to be better tomorrow.”
The roads the next day were steeper and rockier. It was still early in the cloudy morning, and they were twisting around a narrow road with a steep drop on one side when a loud crack sounded. The black cat leapt from the calash carrying Adams and his sons. At the same instant, it pitched abruptly to one side with a snapped axle.
The mules knew their business, however, pulling instead of panicking, and they dragged the carriage to a safe spot before the momentum carried it over the cliff.
Proctor looked for the cat, but it had disappeared. “It had a white streak across the head, just like the one outside the church,” Proctor said, stretching in his saddle.
“I thought you were imagining it,” Lydia said. “But now I’m not so sure.”
Something large and wet hit Proctor’s face, and he looked up to see if a bird was flying overhead. Another drop hit him and another. Just what they needed—rain.
By the time they fixed the axle and continued on their way, the rain was steady and dismally cold. They traveled no more in the whole day than they had in half a day before. The town they arrived in that night was smaller, the houses were cruder, and the mud-floored rooms were shared by people and their animals. The ventilation was so poor the rooms filled with smoke, and the room that served as the bedchamber was also the kitchen and storeroom. Baskets of rapeseed, oats, and Indian corn lined the walls.
“I overheard Mr. Adams talking with his secretary,” Lydia said as they looked at their beds.
Proctor was trying the spell to chase the fleas away. He remembered reading how Aaron had caused a plague of lice on the pharaoh, and he thought again how much miracles were magic by another name. Lydia had been the first one to tell him that. He bent to peer at the mattress to see if anything was crawling on it. “What did the secretary say?”