The Pursuit Of…: A Worth Saga Prelude

by Milan, Courtney

  John’s head had snapped up on the words safe to stay. “They’re alive?”

  “Why wouldn’t they be? Noah left me something to give you with their direction, and I had a letter for you just two days ago. Let me find it…”

  He turned to a cabinet, and John staggered, holding on to a table. “They’re alive.” His eyes glistened with a wet sheen. “They’re alive, Henry. They’re alive.”

  “Good thing you weren’t worried about it.”

  John smiled.

  “Ah!” Mr. Allan said, turning around, papers in his hand. “Here they are!”

  At that moment, the door swung open behind them, letting in a burst of cold air. Henry turned.

  Five men stood there. One held a rake; one a rope. Two of the others wielded pitchforks. The fifth man—empty-handed—was Mr. Suspicious, the man who had answered the door for John earlier. He stood straight; the smell of alcohol on his breath mixed with something more pungent.

  “There he is!” Mr. Suspicious proclaimed, pointing an accusing finger. “Get him!”

  Henry didn’t think. He stepped in front of John.

  This, it turned out, was a brave but entirely futile gesture. They didn’t care about John.

  They cared about John so little that Henry stepping closer only egged them on. One man grabbed hold of Henry’s right arm; another took his left. Mr. Suspicious stalked directly in front of Henry and glared at him, his gaze raking from Henry’s eyes down his torso.

  “I’d never forget a man,” Mr. Suspicious pronounced. “It’s him. It’s definitely him.” So saying, Mr. Suspicious punched him in the kidneys.

  Henry felt pain flash through him along with an inexplicable sense of amusement. Ha. They’d been after him anyway. How foolish of him to volunteer himself! On the one hand, he hadn’t known. On the other hand—

  “How do you like the weather now?” Mr. Suspicious bellowed.

  “It’s very nice,” Henry said, doubling over in pain and confusion.

  “What is this all about?” Mr. Allan asked.

  “I would know this man anywhere!” Mr. Suspicious gestured dramatically. “He’s the one what popped my knee at Valley Forge and invalided me out. He was talking of the weather and all that in the middle of battle! I could never forget.”

  Henry’s stomach felt like a mass of bruises. That had never stopped him from talking.

  “In my defense,” he said, “talking about the weather is hardly an identifying characteristic. Many people do it!”

  “Shut up, you.”

  “In fact, you started the talk of the weather,” Henry went on, “so how do we know you’re not—what am I supposed to be again?”

  He got a knee in the stomach for his troubles.

  “He’s a British officer,” Suspicious went on, “and what, I ask you, is a British officer doing behind enemy lines while his superiors supposedly negotiate their surrender? Spying. That’s what I say.”

  “Spying on a carpenter?” Henry said in disbelief. “How would that—”

  “He admits it! He’s an enemy spy! Kill the redcoat! Kill the redcoat now!”

  “I didn’t admit anything!” Henry said. Which was probably good, because unfortunately just about everything Suspicious had said was true. “I’m not, I’m a—”

  Medieval knight was the first thing that came to mind, and Henry just managed to catch those words before they came out of his mouth. Cheesemonger would have worked, except they’d eaten all the cheese. “I’m a—”

  “Spy!” Someone bellowed. “He’s a spy! Hang him!”

  It was strange how the world worked. Henry had spent months wondering how to live. He hadn’t wanted to die, but dying in a blaze of glory for his principles had always seemed better than any of the alternatives. So much so that every time he’d faced death on the battlefield, he’d not been afraid.

  Now John was leaving and Henry had to go back and he had nothing, absolutely nothing. It was absurd that at this moment he realized that he wanted to live. He wanted it quite desperately. He wanted to figure out how to be who he was. He wanted to prove to himself, to John, that he was someone worthwhile. He wanted to live for years and years.

  Amusing that he should learn that just as he was about to die. One man grabbed his elbow. The other took hold of the rope and gestured to the door. “The square out there,” he said, “there’s a—”

  He never got to finish his sentence.

  “He’s not a spy,” John interrupted in amused tones. “He’s just outraged that you don’t know who he is.”

  The men stopped. They turned to John.

  “You don’t know who he is? You really think he’s a British officer?” John shook his head. “He was there when we stormed Redoubt Ten together and ended the war at Yorktown, but by all means, imagine him a spy.”

  “But—”

  “I watched him almost die for another soldier so the redoubt could fall, but by all means, believe him a spy.”

  Mr. Suspicious frowned. “Who are you?”

  “John Hunter, formerly a corporal of the Rhode Island Regiment under Captain Stephen Olney. I was at Yorktown,” John said. “Mr. Allan here has known me a good decade—he can vouch for me. Or, if you don’t believe me, write to Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton and tell him you think that Henry Latham, of all people, is a British spy.”

  “Colonel Hamilton?” Mr. Suspicious paused, his suspicion flickering. “Washington’s aide-de-camp? He knows him?”

  “I’m not saying this man here saved his life, but…” John trailed off. “Sometimes men look like other men. It’s nobody’s fault. Believe what you will. I’m just saying that I’ve never heard of a British officer who could recite the Declaration of Independence as if it were a prayer.”

  One of the men with a pitchfork let the point drop six inches. “Well, then. That’s as good a test as any. Let’s hear it.”

  Henry took a breath. One of his ribs sent a stab of lightning through him, but he could have said these words through any amount of pain. He straightened, coughed, and started. “When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another…” The words came easily, smoothly, cascading one after another.

  Behind the men, John gave Henry a nod. He looked down at the papers in his hand, reading through them, shaking his head.

  “We hold these truths to be self-evident.” Henry was speaking to John, not anyone else. He’d said these words more than once on their journey; he’d always meant them. He felt that he’d mean them for John for the rest of his life. “That all men are created equal.”

  After the first sentence, Mr. Suspicious waved the others down.

  John folded the papers. He hefted his bag.

  John was leaving. They’d agreed that they would separate here. This was no surprise. Still. Henry was stuck here reciting words written by slave owners.

  “…That they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights…”

  John raised his fingers, not in a salute. He touched them to his lips and met Henry’s eyes. It felt like a promise of everything they couldn’t have.

  “That among these are life, liberty…”

  “Blimey,” Mr. Suspicious said beside Henry. “You really mean it, don’t you? You’re crying. You’re a true patriot, aren’t you? I’m terribly sorry.”

  Not as sorry as Henry was. John slipped out the door on the pursuit of happiness.

  Chapter Ten

  “John!”

  Henry caught up to John fifteen minutes later, just outside the docks.

  John had not actually expected Henry to come after him, but now that he had done so, he found it impossible to believe he could have been put off so easily. He’d spent five hundred miles eating terrible cheese in the hope that it would change after all.

  “Henry.”

  They looked at each other.

  “I’m leaving,” John finally said. “My arm’s healed
, and I know where to go. I’ve a letter that’s a mere week old that says everything’s well. And the longer you wait, Henry, the harder it will be for you to return.”

  “I know,” Henry said. “I know. And, John…I need to go back to my family. I want to prove I can make something of myself.”

  “That’s nonsense. You are something. You, as yourself.”

  “I want to make something more. I didn’t hunt you down to argue with you, John.”

  “No?” A glimmer of amusement touched John’s lips. “That’s a first. Why did you hunt me down, then?”

  “To tell you…thank you.” Henry swallowed. “And to beg you to write to me. I want to know…”

  Everything, Henry didn’t say. John didn’t know how he heard it anyway.

  “Thank you,” Henry said. “For saving my life just now. For the entire journey. It’s not that you changed my life. You made me see I was changing it.”

  John looked over at Henry. They were in broad daylight, on the docks. They couldn’t embrace. They couldn’t even touch. They were drawing eyes enough as it was.

  “Thank you,” John said, “for giving me something to believe in. Maybe a slave owner wrote those words, but they convinced people to fight for the proposition that all men were created equal.” He looked around the docks, saw the suspicious looks cast in his direction. These people had tossed his family out; equals they were not. Not yet. Still… “Maybe,” John said, “some day, some of them will even believe it. I cannot tell you how utterly necessary you have been to me.”

  “As necessary as you are to me,” Henry whispered. “No matter where I go, or what I do, you and our time together will always be the foundation.”

  “Go.” John’s voice broke. He could not help it. “Henry, go now, before I do something foolish like grab hold of you and refuse to let go. Go.”

  “Write to me,” Henry said. “Write. You can reach me at my terrible father’s home. It shouldn’t be so hard to get a letter delivered. Just send it care of, um…the Duke of Scanshire?”

  “Oh God.” The roll of John’s eyes was affectionate. “Of course he is a duke.”

  “He’s definitely terrible. You’ll write?”

  John turned away, but not so quickly that Henry missed his reply.

  “Every day,” John said. “Every morning. Every night.”

  * * *

  The letters from John’s sister were comfort and companion on the remaining weeks of John’s journey.

  We were told to leave, the letter that she had left with Allan said. Now that Noah’s freed, there’s talk of us becoming a burden on the charity of others. Never mind that we’ve done well enough for ourselves all these years. Still, we’re leaving. We’ve met up with other freedmen, and we’re heading north…

  Then, the latest letter: We’ve found a space in Maine, where it can just be us, nobody else to bother us. Come join us as soon as you’re able. May our love speed your feet.

  Some kind of love sped his feet—her letters, the thought of his mother in a safe space before a fire as winter came on. Imagining Henry’s return to his terrible father. Henry was not here, but John imagined them having a conversation every day. It would flow over every possible topic.

  He thought of Henry with every meal, with every bite of cheese that was insufficiently terrible, with every silent dinner where there was nobody about to exclaim Squirrel! Who knew squirrel could be so delicious?

  * * *

  It was early December when John found himself at the outskirts of the village, standing beside what was undoubtedly a farm. The directions had taken him this far, but no signs declared names. There was, however a black woman tending the winter frames in her garden. She looked up when she saw him and smiled.

  “Ahoy.”

  “You. You seem familiar.” She took three steps toward him, squinting. “Ah, that’s it. You’ve the look of Lizzie Hunter.”

  John’s heart leapt in his chest. “Lizzie Hunter? Not Lizzie Allan?”

  “They’ve taken her name. You must be that fine older brother she’s always boasting about.”

  They were here. John inhaled and felt almost weak. “She does…go on a bit.”

  The woman straightened and held out a hand. “Mrs. Wexford. My husband is about, and— Alice!” That last came out on a bellow.

  A young woman materialized from the barn, skinny and gawky. “What, Ma? I milked the cow. I told you already.”

  “Alice, this is Corporal Hunter. He’s home from the war. Take him to his family, and for God’s sake, let everyone know he’s back. There’ll be a feast tonight.”

  Home. John had never been to this place, but he felt himself growing roots with every step.

  What was home, then, but a place where people cared about your life, your liberty, the pursuit of your happiness? Mrs. Wexford had only just met him, but she smiled at him, misty-eyed, because he belonged here and he’d come back.

  He’d never been here before, but that was precisely how it felt—as if he had just come back.

  This village felt like home in a way Newport never had. He felt that sense of belonging more and more with every step. Black children rolled a hoop down the street, laughing at each other. Every two steps they were interrupted by another person demanding an introduction. Was this Lizzie’s brother, finally? They’d heard so much about him. They felt like they knew him already.

  He felt as if he knew them, too, brothers and sisters in a war for independence that they had not yet stopped fighting.

  “Here.” Alice Wexford stopped in front of a door. Instead of knocking, though, she called out. “Mrs. Hunter! Your brother’s come! Hurry!”

  The door opened a scant few seconds later.

  Lizzie, Lizzie. His little sister—now round with child like a prize pumpkin—her hair back, a floury apron wrapped around her—

  She burst into tears and threw her arms around him. “John. You’re back.”

  He hadn’t let himself dream of this moment, not truly, not until now. She smelled of bread and Lizzie and home.

  “There, there,” John said. “I promised I’d come back, didn’t I? You should believe me more often.”

  She sniffed. “You should promise less and stay home more.”

  He was home. Everything was perfect.

  There was a feast that night, and introductions to people he’d never met but who felt like old friends nonetheless. Home. He was home.

  Still, that evening, he slipped away from the impromptu gathering and wrote his first letter, because sometimes home could be two places all at once.

  * * *

  December, 1781

  My dear Lord Henry,

  My family is alive and well. They’ve joined a community of freedmen, and between the dozen of us, and with some help from a Quaker parish who feels the injustice done to us, we have every intent to purchase an island of our own. It is large and entirely inhospitable—hence our being able to afford it—but we have hope and determination, and so long as we make it through this first winter, all should be well…

  July, 1782

  My dear John,

  I told you to desist. I must repeat myself. If you ever call me “Lord Henry” again, even in jest, I shall be forced to take drastic measures. It turns out that I am as good a liar as you believed. My superiors were, primed by my prior mishaps, all too willing to believe in my stupidity. After everything I’d done amiss before, my hitting my head and not remembering a thing and waking up naked in Yorktown? Apparently it was all too believable. The court-martial was nothing. They were delighted by my plan to sell my commission, as I am demonstrably less than useless as an officer.

  I spent a week thereafter delighting everyone. It will never happen again.

  My father was initially overjoyed by my plan to stand for election to Parliament at the next opportunity. He crowed to all and sundry that he had finally “made a man of me”—as if he were personally responsible for you Americans deciding to revolt and all that—and held a
grand dinner so I could meet his friends.

  In his mind, I am still not intelligent enough to develop thoughts of my own, so imagine his shock when I spoke in favor of abolition of the slave trade. Our discussion on matters of the East India Company were also helpful. I broached the concept, and someone asked, “But how will we have our cotton?”

  I thought this a reasonable response: “Well, if we cannot have cotton except by means of threats, bribery, and corruption, perhaps we should not have cotton.”

  You would have thought I had shot a man. I published an opinion piece in the Times the next week, entitled “Perhaps we should kill fewer people” and it has caused a scandal. It is, perhaps, not the scandal my father expected me to cause in my youth, but he has expressed absolutely no gratitude for my circumspection. There is no reasoning with him on the matter; he stands firm. Killing a man for his coin is definitely wrong, but killing giant masses of men for tea, cotton, and sugar is our particular national business and must not be scrutinized.

  Being a pariah has never been so much fun…

  September, 1783

  My dear Henry,

  …Over winter, I intend to oversee our first major project—the creation of a handful of sloops meant for fishing. Fish can be salted and saved for the bitterest days; they can also be traded for warmer clothing, which is a necessity. But I’m hoping for something a little more frivolous. I dream of goats—there’s cheese to be made, if you recall.

  I have told tales of the cheese. The cheese is legendary here already, and nobody but me has ever eaten it.

  The grand experiment will take longer, but my hope is that in a few years’ time, we will have our first real trading vessel.

  Along those lines, I finally told my mother and sister who I’d been writing to these last years. I had no choice in the matter. My mother looked at me, and there’s nothing to be done when she looks like that.