William poured the brandy and felt all too sure that, beyond that wall, George was pouring brandy too.
As Davy Pagan had said, it was a long way to fall. And George had fallen long and hard that first time. It had lasted for weeks, even after William had brought him home from the mill. There had been no controlling him. “If they all believe me to be a jugsucker,” he’d say with a bitter laugh, “I might’s well live up to my reputation. Reputation’s mighty important, don’t I know it!”
Sometimes he would try, and try valiantly, to shake off the hold that liquor was getting on him. Sometimes the family would get him dried out a bit, and he would profess shame, and pray alongside his father and mother, and go to church meetings with the family, and go on long hunting and exploring trips with William, to places where no liquor was.
But sometimes, after he had kept himself sober for a long time, he would come to table all glassy-eyed, enunciating words so carefully that he was incomprehensible, and they would know then that he had been nipping again, in the pantry, in his room, and was trying to seem sober to please the family, for he knew they hurt for him.
What saddened them most to see was how he would feign contempt for public affairs. Public service had ruined him and broken his heart, so he would pretend he was utterly indifferent to it. He had resigned as principal surveyor of the bounty lands, leaving Bill Croghan in that post. When the Indian councils he had arranged for April had gone neglected by the new Indian Commissioners, and the Wabash tribes and Shawnees had resumed their marauding, there had as usual been delegations of people coming to ask him to lead again. To their entreaties he had just smiled in a mocking way and replied, “You’d better not give me an army just now, because if I had one I’d be tempted to lead it against the Capital rather than the tribes.” As a private man he found that he could say just about whatever he pleased, and he enjoyed, when he was a little in his cups, the freedom to mock the state government. But they all knew there was a bitter pain behind that mockery, and he was only protecting his own wounds when he talked that way.
Aye, William thought as he capped the decanter and picked up the tray with the filled glasses. He’s into it in there again, I’m sure.
And just then he heard through the thick wall the dull thuds of a body falling down.
God, George. Oh, God.
GEORGE SAT IN HIS ROOM AT HIS PARENTS’ HOUSE AT MULberry Hill, a candle burning on his desk, a fire in the hearth nearby, and an unopened jug sitting on he mantel. He was writing. Sometimes he would keep the jug there during his dry spells just as a challenge, to see how long he could keep himself from breaking the wax seal. The longer he managed to do this, the stronger he felt he would become. Sometimes he would look at it and almost grow dizzy at the thought of opening it. But he would resist. When he was sober he was aware how his problem worried his parents and he would resist for their sake. Sometimes he would think that if he were far away from them, he would start opening jugs and never stop until he had found permanent peace six feet under the ground. But most of the time he would try to stay sober, try to think his way out of his problems, try to find a way to resume the ascent he had begun during the war.
It was hard to leave the jug sealed this night. Ben Logan had come to see him, and had left him with the feeling that any hope of being relieved of the war debts was really in vain.
Governor Randolph had asked Logan to get together all the records of the expenditures in the western campaign, so that Virginia’s war debts could be settled up with the United States. The governor, aware of what he had done to George, had been afraid to ask George himself, and so had written to Logan, who then had brought the letter to George. Now that his fury toward the governor had cooled, George felt he could write to the governor in a cordial way and explain, once again, the matter of the vouchers. In the years since the war, Virginia had maintained an Accounting Commission, with traveling officials and bookkeepers, to try to determine the liabilities. George wrote, as calmly as he could:
I can assure you, Sir, that this was delivered eight years ago, as I have told you and the Commission repeatedly, and lodged in the Auditor’s office.… When I reflect on these accounts, and the great expense that hath already attended the settlement of them, it appears obvious to me that all my support of an active war for seven years, when reduced to Specie, will be found to amount to a less sum than has already been spent on this Accounting Commission since the war, owing to our frugal manner of living and the want of almost every necessary.
He put down the quill, shook his head, poured sand over the ink and then funneled it back into its jar. He looked at what he had written and decided it would be useless to elaborate still again. That was all that could be said about it. Now there remained only to comment once upon the sorry manner in which he had been treated after the Bazadone affair.
I have been obliged to lay aside instructions and act discretionary sometimes. I dared to do this as the salvation of the country was of more importance to me than the rank I bore.
After a while George got up and walked to the window, and stood there with his hands behind his back, gazing at the dark silhouette of himself refected, all wavy and distorted, on the uneven surface of the glass. It looked as if he were dissolving at the edges—which was not unlike the way he felt sometimes. Smiling ruefully at that, he turned and went to the fireplace. He stood with his hand resting on the mantelpiece one tempting inch from the jug. For a long time he stood that way. Then, instead of reaching for the jug, he reached down and got a poker and adjusted the logs. They glowed orange and bathed his hand and face in dry heat. Then he went back and sat down again at the desk and picked up his pen.
After suffering the fatigues that I have undergone—and yet have to pay large sums of money for supplys that the state could not get credit for,—A person might reasonably suppose that of course I must be unhappy. The reverse hath taken place. Conscious of having done everything in the power of a person under my circumstances,—not only for the defense of the country, but to save every expense possible,—I can with pleasure view countries flourishing that I have stained with the blood of its enemies. I am
Your Excellency’s Humble Servt,
G.R. CLARK
There, he thought. I guess I never need have another word with that man.
He felt cold now, and went to the fireplace again. He kicked the front log with the toe of his boot, his hand again resting on the mantelpiece one tempting inch from the jug.
Fires don’t seem to keep me keep warm since that winter of ’79, he thought.
Seems only one thing will.
He touched the jug with his fingertips, then the palm of his hand.
He felt warmer already.
But it made him sad, because he knew he was going to open it.
“O ETERNAL GOD, CREATOR AND PRESERVER OF ALL MANKIND, Giver of all spiritual grace, the Author of everlasting life.”
Everlasting life, Elizabeth Clark thought, eyes down but feeling the tall presence of Richard Clough Anderson at her right, and feeling the new heavy circle of gold on her left hand, Everlasting life. Us together forever. This is the beginning of that.
“Send thy blessing upon these thy servants, this man and this woman, whom we bless in thy Name; that they, living faithfully together, may surely perform and keep the vows and covenant betwixt them made, and may ever remain in perfect love and peace together, and live according to thy laws; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Then the minister reached for Elizabeth’s right hand and guided it to Richard’s right hand, and Richard seized it with a warm, fervent, damp grip. She had been trembling until now, but at the touch at last of his hand she was not trembling anymore, but her heart was coming up like a sunrise. The minister said, “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
Back among the people she heard someone sniffle, and she was sure it was Fanny. They had become so especially close, so confidential with each other, in the last days before
this frightening and glorious day. Elizabeth had professed to Fanny that Dick Anderson made her want to live forever; she would never want to die, never want one of them to have to live on without the other. And she had said to Fanny, “Make a prayer with me, in secret, and we’ll never tell Dick or anyone that we made it, for it might go against his ambitions: help me pray he will never ever go away to any war again. Because he’s a man and he’s a soldier, and they don’t know how precious their lives are.”
And Fanny had understood her feelings exactly, and had said, “I’ll make you a trade deal, that you’ll pray the same for James O’Fallon when I marry him, may it be soon.” And they had prayed their secret prayer together.
“I pronounce that they are Man and Wife, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. Now you kneel,” the minister said softly. There was the rustling of her gown and the creak of Dick’s shiny boots, and she was terribly aware of her body again because she had just moved it into this new attitude, and she had the curious thought: Now it’s his body too. I know he’s glad of that.
“… bless, preserve and keep you; the Lord mercifully with his favour look upon you, and fill you with all Spiritual benediction and Grace, that ye may so live together in this life, that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting.
“Amen.”
Amen, Ann Rogers Clark thought.
And she watched Colonel Dick Anderson bend his blond head down to Elizabeth’s upturned face.
So there would be still more grandchildren soon. Elizabeth had all the traits of a fruitful one. Her hipbones were wider; she was not so racehorse-narrow as the Rogers women were, so surely it would be easier for her to bear them. And she was—well, there was simply a juiciness about her; she was like damp fertile soil, as some women so especially seem to be. Aye. More grandchildren. Annie had just had her sixth and seventh by Owen Gwathmey: boy and girl twins, just lately learned of by a letter from Virginia. And just last month, Jonathan’s third child had been born, a boy, named Isaac after Sarah’s father. That news had just come by mail from Virginia too. Ten grandchildren already, she thought, ten. Lordy.
Ann Rogers Clark now heard a soft Hm beside her. It was George. He had not touched a drop for a week, by a massive effort of the will, in order that he would be able to stand here at Elizabeth’s wedding without the reek and the glazed look, because the public did not yet know about George’s problem, and Colonel Richard Clough Anderson did not. And for Elizabeth’s sake, George did not want Anderson to know.
Ann Rogers Clark looked at George’s grand profile. One would never know by a look at him the binges he had been on for seven months—except by being close enough to see his trembling hands.
Ann Rogers Clark felt a sudden hollowness, and she was thinking, as the bride and groom concluded their long kiss and the congregation began to stir and murmur:
I don’t think he’ll ever give me grandchildren, George won’t. Forbid it Heaven, but I come to fear he’s married to the face in the bottle.
26
LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY
July 13, 1789
To the Clerk of Jefferson County
Mr William Johnston, Clk
Sir
This is to Certifie that I am willing a Licence should issue out of your office for the marriage of my Daughter Lucy Clark to Majr. William Croghan—
Given under my hand this 13th July 1789
JOHN CLARK
“So, then,” said the clerk, shaking his head and smiling wistfully, “so it’s Miss Lucy now! Well, Mister Clark, it pleasures me to give this license, for your daughter’s got one o’ the best in this fellow. And she’ll never want for anything, surely, as he’s a prosperin’ man!”
That was true. Everything Bill Croghan touched turned to wealth. Besides his surveying fees, he had amassed a wealth of fine land. He had designed and built this very Court House. He was a town trustee, striving to establish a hospital and school for Louisville. He was a trader in hemp and tobacco, pork goods and dairy products, with an establishment near the river front and Dick Anderson as his partner. Bill Croghan was one of the best things that had ever happened to Louisville. He was also one of the best things that had ever happened to the Clark family, as they had known for a long time. Just lately, Jonathan, his old compatriot, who was prospering almost as well, as a merchant back in Spotsylvania County of Virginia, had invested a substantial sum of money in Bill Croghan’s Louisville enterprise. It was turning out to be as George had said it would: the Clarks were the first family of Kentucky. John Clark himself was so rich in land now that he could hardly keep track of it. George, in order to keep his own extensive holdings from being attacked by old creditors of the Revolutionary days, had deeded most of them over to his father. George still tried to believe that Virginia or the United States would someday compensate him for all the war bills he had signed, but that hope grew more and more feeble. Among the immigrants to the West there were lawyers, of course, and several of them had built their practices on encouraging George’s old allies to sue him. Any penny he made, from his mill or from the sale of his lands, was snapped up by his creditors. And thus, as George would joke bitterly when he was drunk, the Father of Kentucky was now also the Orphan of Kentucky. Once he had even been arrested, to be sent to jail for debt, and only on a technicality had he escaped that ignominy. But the disgrace of it had thrown him into such a slump that he had gone off on another swigging carouse, from which he was recovering only now. All the Clarks and those in their family circle were prospering. All except George.
ELIZABETH CLARK ANDERSON SAT IN THE NURSERY WITH her first baby at her breast, humming, rocking gently. She had pulled her shirtwaist down off one shoulder and whenever a breeze would come in through the open window from among the big maples outside it would feel like angel caresses on her sweat-damp skin. She looked down at the baby’s dark, fine hair. His head was just about as large and rounded and delicate as her breast. She could see the faint blue veins under the baby’s translucent skin just as she could the veins of her swollen breast. Dick Anderson liked the look of those veins; he would often kneel here before her and talk about how fine and delicate his wife and son were. But the veins disturbed Elizabeth. They reminded her how delicate life is. She and her baby were here by a miracle. The birth had taken hours, excruciating hours, and there had been a question whether the mother would have to be sacrificed for the baby, or the baby would be lost to save the mother, or, at one point, whether either of them would survive.
Elizabeth remembered her secret prayer. It seemed to be coming true. Her husband was not a soldier anymore and it seemed he was so absorbed now in the business of making a fortune that he would never again have a desire to go to war. He had even named their home—this massive stone house, ten miles east of Louisville—Soldier’s Retreat. Elizabeth did not have to worry about him going off to war anymore, and only now and then, when he went away with General Wilkinson on business of the Indian Commission, did she have to fret for his safety at all. The wealthier he became, the more cautious he became.
Now, in fact, the fears she had used to have for him had been all succeeded by those she now had for herself.
She loved Dick Anderson even more than she had loved him when they were just sweethearts. He was a perfect husband. Their life was just right: just enough wealth, just enough position, just enough society and dancing, just enough time for the tendernesses of the home. Elizabeth grew every day to understand better what the bond was between her own father and mother: they were each other’s whole worlds, just as she and Dick Anderson were coming to be. Yes, she loved him even more than she had loved him at first, and he seemed to be likewise even more in love with her.
But whenever she would lie with him from now on, because of the horrible danger of the coming of their first baby, she would be holding to him and fearing for her life.
Out somewhere among the sunglided treetops a mourning dove was making its forlorn announcement of the fading o
f the day. O-ah, ooo, ooo, ooo. O-ah, ooo, ooo, ooo. Such a lovely bird, and thought to be good luck. But if that’s so, why must they sound so sad, she wondered. Someone had asked that question once, Elizabeth thought while the baby’s dear sucking mouth made just-painful twinges of pleasure around her nipple. She thought back.
It was Lucy who had asked that. So long ago! Back in Caroline County, one late afternoon like this in their room upstairs.
Lucy! Oh, yes, Lucy! Elizabeth smiled. At last Bill Croghan’s Little Brother Lucy is going to be his Little Wife Lucy! Elizabeth could just barely remember when Lucy had first declared she was going to marry Bill Croghan. Back in … ’76, I guess it was, when she was the awfulest gawkiest tomboy with that fool’s crush on him, and hardly only eleven or twelve at the time. Thirteen years she’s been making that come true!
But as they said about the redheaded ones of the family, they’d make up their minds far ahead about something they dreamed of doing, and then, no matter what, those dreams were destined to come true. Just four days from now the wedding would be. With Fanny as the maid of honor. Won’t she just be beside herself! That Fanny!
I wonder if George will do as well staying sober for Lucy’s wedding as he did for mine. I must pray for George tonight. I forgot to last night, more’s the shame on me. Make a point to pray for strength for his soul, and for some turn of fortune in his favor.
From Sea to Shining Sea Page 64