by Sara Donati
In his own quiet way, Ethan achieved more with his mother than even Curiosity. He could settle Kitty’s nerves with a few words and he had strategies to distract her from the schemes she seemed to hatch hour by hour, without affronting or insulting her. By the time they reached Johnstown, he had proven his worth many times over.
He and Hannah came to an unspoken agreement: Ethan would cope with his mother’s nonmedical needs. After all, the worst Kitty could be accused of was the self-centeredness of the chronically ill; there was nothing of real cruelty in her, and at least once every day she expressed such delight with the journey that it was impossible to stay irritated with her for very long.
It fell to Hannah to deal with ferry masters, coach drivers, and innkeepers, because once Joshua left them at Johnstown and turned the team back toward Paradise, their progress depended on successful negotiations with strangers.
After the second night Hannah decided that innkeepers were by far the biggest challenge. They seemed to believe that it was their right to cheat a red-skinned woman, no matter how well she was dressed or how educated her speech, and every one of them was amazed and affronted that Hannah should take exception to such treatment.
Albany, Hannah reasoned, would be easier. They would not have to inquire for accommodations, as Richard had given plain instructions: they were to spend their one night in the city at the Black Swan. The inn was very near the docks, and had a reputation for cleanliness and reasonable rates.
All Hannah’s hopes for a simple transaction fled as soon as she came in the door. The innkeeper took one look at her and turned his back, informing her over his shoulder that while he did have rooms to let, the cost had recently tripled. He spoke loudly, and in a purposely broken English that suggested she would understand nothing else.
She waited until he turned to face her. “Squaw no speak English?”
“But of course I speak English. Better than you do, sir, by the evidence. Mr. Homberger, is it?”
It had been foolish to embarrass him, Hannah saw that by the way the blood rose to his face. She considered leaving to find another inn, but it was growing dark outside and Kitty was exhausted.
He still would not meet her eye. “If you speak English then you must have understood me. Our rooms are beyond your means, miss.”
“That must be a very recent change,” Hannah said. “As you have not yet posted the new rates there on the wall.”
There was a long pause, and then Mr. Homberger’s curiosity won out and he examined her from head to foot, peering at her over his spectacles. “I see I must speak plainly.”
“Yes,” said Hannah. “That would be best.”
He said, “We are not accustomed to receiving travelers of your persuasion.”
“And what persuasion is that, Mr. Homberger?”
“Those who do not require clean sheets, or any sheets at all,” he said coldly. “I believe you would be most comfortable in our stables. For those accommodations I will charge the posted rate.”
Hannah was overcome by the almost irresistible urge to let out a screaming war whoop, just to see how the innkeeper might react. Instead she said, “I suggest that you read these letters of introduction.”
“That can make no difference at all,” he announced, even as a tic began to jerk at the corner of his eye. He cast a nervous glance at the papers in Hannah’s hand.
“This one,” she said, ignoring him completely, “is from Dr. Richard Todd. I trust you are familiar with his name, as he owns the property on which your inn sits. It may be true that people of my persuasion don’t always understand the complexities of land ownership, but by my reasoning that makes him your landlord. It is Dr. Todd’s lady and son who are waiting outside in that carriage you see there.”
The color had drained from Mr. Homberger’s face, but Hannah went on.
“This second letter was written by Mr. William Spencer, also known as Viscount Durbeyfield. The viscount is cousin to my stepmother. We are on our way to visit him in New-York City, at his invitation. And this one, this is my favorite, I think. It is from General Schuyler. Under other circumstances we would have taken up lodging with the general and his lady while in Albany, but they are away. I trust you recognize his name, sir?”
It gave her no satisfaction or pleasure to see Mr. Homberger’s distress, and Hannah didn’t care to listen as he explained how she had managed to so completely misunderstand his intentions. Within ten minutes they had been settled in the best rooms the inn had to offer, but the operation had been far more draining than the whole day’s journey.
And there was still Kitty to deal with. She complained of the wait in a drafty carriage, the view from her window, the size of her bed, the aches in her back, side, and head, and the biscuit she was served with her tea. Even Ethan was not equal to all of that, and it took their combined efforts to see her settled.
When Hannah finally did climb between the clean sheets Mr. Homberger had so begrudged her, she dreamed. She dreamed of Lake in the Clouds in the middle of winter, of snowdrifts and the kind of cold that turned bones brittle. She dreamed of Liam Kirby at the woodpile, his axe rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He was naked to the waist in the bitter cold, the muscles in his back clenching hard as he worked. And with every bite of the axe into the wood, blood swelled up, turning snow from white to red.
In the morning Hannah woke to the knowledge that the worst of the journey was over. Richard had arranged for their passage on the schooner Good-News in advance; she had a confirming letter from the captain in her possession, and there would be nothing for her to negotiate about the fare or the cabins or her right to be on board.
They would sail this morning, and if all went according to plan, they would be met at the city docks by Will and Amanda Spencer tomorrow afternoon. Amanda and her household servants would take over Kitty’s care and Ethan would be claimed by his cousin Peter, the Spencers’ seven-year-old son. Hannah would be free to seek out first Manny Freeman, and then Dr. Simon at the Kine-Pox Institution.
Hannah was sitting with her daybook and her travel journal before her when Ethan knocked at the door. He was dressed as neatly as his mother would have him, in a dark blue coat and fawn-colored pantaloons, but there was a smudge of breakfast jam on his chin and his neck linen was rumpled, some small signs of boyish behavior that Hannah was glad to see, no matter how they might irritate Kitty. Hannah offered him some of her own breakfast.
He sat down across from her and took a bun. “What are you writing?”
Hannah put down her quill and corked the inkhorn she wore on a thin chain around her neck. “A little of everything. My daybook about your mother’s condition, and a travel journal, as I promised Elizabeth. And how is your mother this morning?”
He swallowed visibly. “She would like to stop here for a day or two. She thinks we should find a doctor to bleed her before we travel on.”
Hannah picked up her teacup to hide her irritation. Kitty was seriously ill, there was no doubt of that, but to bleed someone in her condition was the worst kind of O’seronni medicine; even Richard had agreed to that much. And still Kitty had decided she wanted to be bled, and worse, she had sent her son to announce this decision, hoping to avoid Hannah’s displeasure completely.
Ethan understood the silence. “Don’t worry, Hannah. I showed her this.” And he took a piece of newsprint from inside his coat, unfolded it, and put it on the table. It had been carefully clipped from the New-York General Advertiser.
Mrs. Leonora VanHorn is pleased to announce that she is recently returned from France and Brussels with a great deal of the very finest lace, now for sale in her establishment on the Broad Way at Wall Street. Of special interest is the large selection of exquisite lace, including Duchesse Appliqué, Point de Rose Appliqué, Point de Lille, Mechelen, Valenciennes, and Alençon.
“Very nicely managed,” said Hannah. “You did not point out to her that this is dated two months ago, I take it.”
Ethan was studyin
g his roll very closely. “It made her so happy to hear about the lace,” he said. “I didn’t see any need to ruin her mood.”
“Let me say this once again, Ethan.” Hannah leaned across the table and whispered. “This would be a very long and difficult journey without you.”
He produced a wide smile, and Hannah noted as she often did how much Ethan looked like his father. He had Julian Middleton’s unruly dark hair, the same square chin and high cheekbones, and straight brows over dark, slightly slanted eyes. There was a great deal of Julian in the boy’s face, but Ethan had none of his father’s character at all. Julian had been self-indulgent, irresponsible, and destructive, but Ethan was none of those things. Nor did he have very much from his mother. In some ways he was very like Richard, who had married Kitty when Ethan was still an infant in arms. Like his stepfather, Ethan had a great curiosity about the world, a keen understanding, and a sober nature.
But where Richard was self-absorbed and easily irritated, Ethan was compassionate to a fault and tended to melancholy. In Paradise this was countered by Daniel and Blue-Jay, who worked very hard to keep Ethan occupied with the business of boys. For the past four days, though, he had been his mother’s closest companion, and it showed. Hannah wondered if their division of labor had been a good idea, after all.
He said, “Maybe I shouldn’t have shown it to her. She truly believes she would profit from a bleeding.”
“Your mother is nervous,” Hannah said. “And with some reason. But once we arrive in the city and are settled at Amanda’s, she will be glad that we pressed on.”
Ethan seemed to have hardly heard her. He had turned all his attention to the view outside the window: sailboats and barges and lighters on the great river, the wharves crowded with hogsheads, barrels, and bales arriving from downriver or being loaded for the journey south; gentlemen in fashionably long tails and high beaver hats, merchants wrapped in canvas aprons, sailors and servants and slaves, all of them in a hurry to get somewhere. It must be exciting to a nine-year-old boy, because Hannah could not deny that it stirred her own blood.
Without looking away from the river, he said, “Maybe we will stay in New-York and not go home at all. Aunt Spencer would like that very much, I think.”
Hannah closed her daybook. “Did your mother suggest that she would?”
He nodded, all of his composure suddenly gone. What she had before her now was a young boy of nine years, torn between wanting to please a mother he loved and afraid that it would mean losing everything familiar. Hannah felt a new flush of irritation with Kitty, who almost certainly had been hatching plans without any thought of the distress she was causing her son. Whether she was in earnest was debatable, but right now that was not the most important question.
“Would you like that, Ethan?”
“I want to go home,” he said. “I’m glad to go visiting in the city, but then I want to go back to Paradise. I think—I think Curiosity and Galileo would miss me.”
“Along with everyone else,” said Hannah firmly. “Of course we will be going home. Now come and finish this jam, will you? It would be a shame to have it go to waste.”
As soon as they stepped from the lighter onto the Good-News, Kitty retired immediately to her cabin for a nap and insisted, to everyone’s surprise, that Ethan and Hannah stay on deck and enjoy the air. The combination of this sudden and unexpected freedom from her charge and the fact that they were now putting Albany behind them did a great deal for Hannah’s spirits. And she found that she was very glad to be on board a ship again.
The Good-News was no different from any of the other schooners that ran up and down the Hudson from Albany to Manhattan and back again. There were at least a dozen of them in service, from spring until the freeze made the journey impossible, and they were all very much alike. Simple quarters for paying passengers, and belowdecks the stink of sweat and tar and worse.
But to stand at a ship’s rail in a good breeze was something Hannah had missed. Other sea journeys came back to her with complete clarity, so that she relived in just a few moments herself when she was not much older than Ethan, the summer she had left most girlish things behind. For those months she had lived day to day, caught between fear and exhilaration beyond measure.
Within ten minutes the wind had cleared Hannah’s head of Mr. Homberger and his sheets, of the press and pall of the city, and even of Kitty’s thoughtlessness. Ethan seemed to benefit just as much as she did. He stood next to her, his hands clasped firmly around the rail, and when the schooner’s sails were up and filling with the wind he raised his face to hers.
He had made the journey from these docks to the city twice before, and on this very schooner. For an hour he pointed things out to her as if she had never been on the Great River before, but Hannah listened without interrupting while he talked about Stony Point, Castleton, Roah Hook, and the stories of the Coeyman’s Creek ghost every child could recite. When he tired of standing at the rail he insisted that he must introduce Hannah to everyone he knew, from the sailors to Captain Nedele, a lean old man with skin like crumpled and singed paper, no hair on his head but great tangled tufts over his eyes and sprouting from his ears, and a bulbous purple nose squashed hard to one side, like a small, mistreated turnip.
The captain looked at Hannah with eyes squeezed almost shut, and then he took his pipe from his mouth and pointed it at her.
“Miss Bonner, you say. Nathaniel Bonner’s girl, ain’t you?”
When Hannah agreed that she was, he opened an almost toothless mouth and laughed. “Why, now ain’t that something. I fought beside your grandfathers and your great-grandfathers, too, in the war against the French. Better men you’ll never find. You tell Hawkeye that Jos Nedele is still on the water and that he sends his regards. You won’t remember this, but I saw you once, must be more than fifteen years ago, down in Johnstown. You was sitting up on Hawkeye’s arm like a little bird. How is he?”
“Very well,” said Hannah. “A little restless, these days.”
“That’s old age,” said the captain, chewing thoughtfully on his pipe stem. “It takes some men that way. The years pile on and little by little an itch starts deep in the bone. Got to keep moving, or die trying.” He sucked noisily on his pipe and blew a cloud of smoke out over the rail. Hannah started in surprise at the smell: not the sweet smoke of white men’s tobacco, but the bitter-sharp oyen’kwa’onwe of her mother’s people. It was a smell so distinct that it summoned men long in their graves: Sky-Wound-Round and Chingachgook, Stands-Tall and all the rest, men as real to her as the captain himself.
“I’ll tell you what, missy. You set down to table with me this evening. I’ve got stories you’ll want to hear, about them days when the three of us fought together, me and Hawkeye and Stands-Tall. This young fellow here, he might like to hear about what happened at William Henry, when we got overrun by the Frenchies and the Huron.”
Ethan accepted the invitation with all the good manners he had at his disposal, but when they had left the captain and walked on, Hannah saw the confusion in his face.
“Hannah,” he said. “I’ve heard those old stories a hundred times, and you must have heard them a thousand. Doesn’t he know that?”
“I suppose he does,” she said. “But that’s not the point. My mother’s people say that the most precious thing an elder can offer you is a story. No matter how many times you hear it, there will always be something new to learn. If you know how to listen, that is.”
Ethan said, “But the stories I really want to hear nobody will tell me. My mother won’t talk about the night my father died, and my stepfather won’t tell me about the years he spent with the Kahnyen’kehàka at Good Pasture, and Curiosity, why Curiosity has a million stories and she’ll tell ten a day if I ask her, but she won’t tell me what I want to know either.”
He was studying Hannah’s face closely, as if she might be the person to give him what he needed, the stories he must have in order to make sense of his family and world
. He was not old enough to understand that it was not her place to give him what he was asking for. That was Kitty’s right, and responsibility.
Hannah said, “Sometimes the most important stories are the ones we have to wait for the longest.”
Ethan nodded reluctantly, and Hannah saw the day coming when his questions would not be so easily evaded.
Hannah had last passed through New-York City with her family on the long journey home from Scotland. She had been eager to start up the river that would take them most of the way to Lake in the Clouds, so eager that she had found it difficult to concentrate on anything else.
Her clearest memories were of the departure itself. A lighter had rowed them to the middle of the river where the schooner Nut Island was anchored, and they had boarded her at midday. For the rest of the afternoon Hannah had stood at the rail with Hawkeye, looking back at the Manhattan shoreline, remarkable primarily for the fact that it was so quiet. There was nothing to see at the wharves but a few storehouses and a tavern called the Pig and Whistle, fishing dories and farmers’ carts, and beyond that farmland and forested hills. Now and then they had caught a glimpse of a country house through the trees, but soon there was no sign of a city at all.
It was hard to believe that in the years between that journey and this one so much could change. Once they had passed Harlem Cove, timber gave way quickly to acre upon acre of fields where farmers were busy with spring plowing, then fine houses with lawns running down to the water, and suddenly a forest of masts, spires, and great warehouses three and four stories high.
The sailors began to work the sails, maneuvering the Good-News to her place among dozens of ships, small and large, that were nosed up to the piers like men crowded around a table. The wharves crawled with men of every shade of color from bone to obsidian, humping great boxes and puncheons and bales, loading and unloading wagons, rolling hogsheads, and every one of them seemed to be shouting, sometimes at nothing at all. Men more formally dressed waved quills and carried ledgers as tall as a two-year-old, bellowing orders and threats. Cages of chickens, ducks, and geese were piled as high as a man, horses stamped and snorted, and pigs and dogs alike roamed the wharves, adding to the stink and the noise. Most strange of all were the hundreds of workers who were dumping barrow after barrow of refuse and stone into a long stretch of water cordoned off by wooden poles driven into the river bottom.