Summary:  The problems a man keeps secret are the biggest problems of all.

Rating:   PG  (1,955 words)

The Undiscovered Country

Twelve‐year‐old Billy, the page, always answered quickly whenever Adam Cartwright asked him to run an errand. The fellow tipped well indeed for a sailor.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Cartwright, sir, what can I do for you?”

Adam grinned. “Just wondered if you’d mail a letter for me, Billy Boy. There’s a dollar in it for you.”

“Gosh, sure, I’ll mail your letter, sir!”

He ran all the way to the post office with the envelope.

*****

Dear Pa, Joe, and Jamie

I am writing this letter to you all because I need you all to confer—and please, your decision must be unanimous. Ever since the untimely passing of our beloved Hoss, you have been politely “suggesting” that I return to the Ponderosa, but the time was never quite right. Now, I believe it may be.

If you think you could put up with having me around the house again, please write and let me know. If you don’t think it is a good idea—especially with Joe getting married and that baby on the way—then don’t hesitate to say so. I have other opportunities I am considering as well, but it is certain that my days as a sailor are at an end.

Your wayward boy,

Adam

*****

Three weeks later, Billy charged in with a return letter in hand, and earned himself another dollar.

Dear Adam,

How can you even write such a letter, boy? The Ponderosa is always your home. And we are always in need of a man who can sit a horse, chop down a tree, or fix a fence, I seem to recall you are quite experienced with such work!

Joe and Jamie are in complete agreement with my sentiments. Don’t delay. We can hardly wait to see you again.

Affectionately,

Pa

*****

“Mr. Cartwright, did you call for me?”

“I did, Billy. Can I sweet‐talk you into mailing another letter for me?”

“Sure thing, sir!”

*****

Dear Pa,

Your kindness, of course, is most appreciated. I have to admit, just for a minute, I was afraid to open that envelope when I saw it. But I should have better explained my circumstances. They are quite different than before. (Do not get your hopes up—no, I am not married.) But I was wondering about a man of my acquaintance. There was a fellow on my last ship—you’d like him Pa, a first-rate Yankee granite head, handy with a guitar, nice singing voice, tells great stories. The rest of the crew held him in high esteem. But on our last voyage out, he fell from the rigging. It was awful, Pa, what happened. Now he’s paralyzed, and they say he will never walk again. He is still a good singer, handy with guitar—has a lot of accounting experience too. And I wondered how you would feel about my bringing him along. It’s true he would be useless as a ranch hand, but his bookkeeping would help him earn his bed and board, and I think you’d enjoy his stories. I think he could be an asset to the ranch, given a chance, but it is up to you. He’d have to live on the grounds and of course he would need some help day to day.

Let me know what you decide.

Affectionately,

Adam

*****

And another three weeks went by before Billy excitedly delivered a reply, again receiving a dollar in compensation.

Dear Adam,

Your latest missive has rather thrown us into a quandary. Of course, your friend is welcome at the Ponderosa; we never turn anyone away, but I have to say I would prefer him as a guest, not an employee or a permanent resident. In the first place, we no longer do our own bookkeeping. The ranch has grown by leaps and bounds since you were here, Adam, and we had to hire a firm in Carson City to handle our books. Even if you and your friend both worked on the books, you would not be able to keep up, so your friend’s one opportunity to be productive simply does not exist here.

Again he is welcome for a temporary stay, but Adam, we have always relied on those who lived here to pull their own weight…I’m sure you recall being an advocate of that philosophy yourself. Songs and stories are nice but they’re not qualifications for a lifetime guest. Besides, if the man’s injuries are as bad as you describe, he will need considerable assistance just in day-to-day living activities. Do you recall when you fell from the roof at the construction site and were temporarily paralyzed? Do you remember how you felt? You were careful to always seem optimistic, but sometimes when you thought I wasn’t watching, I saw you struggling with the despair. This man needs full-time help. If he has no family to take up the burden, he should apply to one of the old sailors’ homes. I have heard the one in Gloucester is excellent, and that’s where he could find the kind of care and companionship he really needs.

If it’s something you really insist upon, I will allow your friend to stay, but you will have to either provide his care or finance it yourself; with Joe’s wife ill and her confinement approaching, we really cannot go to so much extra trouble.

I hope you understand and that this will not influence you to take one of those other “opportunities” you mentioned. I am really looking forward to seeing you again.

Affectionately,

your father

Adam read the letter and sighed. “I guess it was too much to hope for.”

“Sir?” Billy asked. “Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Nothing, Billy. Say, can you come back in half an hour or so? There’s another dollar in it for you.”

“Always, Mr. Cartwright.”

*****

Dear Pa,

Sorry to get your hopes up with my last couple of letters. One of those opportunities I mentioned before has opened up and I really cannot pass it by.

You remember when I left I was always looking for adventure, wanting to explore the “undiscovered countries” and fearing it was too late, that they had all been discovered. Well, I found one that hasn’t, and I’ll be leaving tonight. It’s going to be a wonderful adventure, Pa, and I just can’t let it go—you might call it a once-in-a-lifetime chance.

This will be my last letter to you as I plan to leave at once, and of course, there are no post offices where I’ll be going. I wish the best for you and Jamie, and of course Joe and Alice. Tell Joe to name the baby after me—but only if it is a boy. I hope that made you smile.

I love you all, and will keep you in my heart always. I hope you will keep me in yours as well, if you get over being upset at me for not coming home. Think of me fondly if you can, every once in a while, when you see a tall, straight-backed chestnut horse with a blazed face and four white socks…

Your devoted son,

Adam

Adam wrote another letter as well, this one quite formal, and called for a notary to witness him signing it. Just after the notary sealed it, Billy reappeared.

“Billy, you have an excellent sense of timing,” Adam chuckled as the boy returned. “Now I need you to do a couple of extra errands for me, will you?”

“Of course, sir!”

“Good boy. I need you to mail this, and then close my box at the post office. Tell them to provide the refund in cash, all right?”

“Understood, sir.”

“You can keep the post office refund, by the way. Then take this letter here to the bank. This closes my account there, as well. They’ll give you some money…not much I’m afraid…but I want you to keep it.”

“Mr. Cartwright, whatever for? You’re giving me all your money?”

Adam shrugged. “Maybe you can go to college someday. Education is important, you know.”

“So you have told me, sir!” Billy replied with a grin.

“Last favor…don’t come back tonight. I won’t need you anymore. Things will be different tomorrow.”

He held out a gold coin.

“Mr. Cartwright, this is lots more than a dollar! It’s a twenty‐dollar gold piece.”

“Well, it’s to keep all the other money company, you young scamp. You know, you remind me of my little brother once upon a time—I only hope you don’t have any hare‐brained notions of how to make a fortune. Now, Billy, you’ve always been a hard worker and a good friend, and I just want you to know I appreciate it.” He held out a hand, and Billy shook it, grinning.

“All right, sir. See you tomorrow, sir.”

Adam grinned and watched as the boy charged off with the letters. The grin faded once Billy was out of sight. He slowly and painfully maneuvered his wheelchair over to the small chest of drawers by his bed, and pulled out an old Colt .44, the one thing he’d taken from the Ponderosa a decade ago. He smiled again and scratched his temple with its cool metal…something he used to do often back at home, and his brothers would shake their heads and tell him he was nuts.

“Hoist by my own petard,” he murmured, putting the Colt to his forehead again…and this time, he didn’t scratch.

*****

“What the hell does he mean, some great opportunity to explore undiscovered countries?” Joe demanded. “This letter makes no sense.”

“He must have been pretty excited when he wrote it,” Ben replied, trying not to sound as disappointed as he felt.

“I can’t believe he did that to us. You know it was just a temper tantrum because we wouldn’t take in his mooching friend. Name the baby after him, sheesh. I’m gonna name the baby Eric or Benjamin. Not Adam, that’s for sure.”

“That tone is uncalled for, young man. And I don’t want to hear bitter words from you about your brother, now or ever,” Ben declared, his heavy gray eyebrows drawn together like thunderheads.

“Can I see this letter, Pa?” Jamie asked. “We’ve been studying Hamlet in school. I was going to tell Adam about it but I guess I can’t now until he gets another post office box.”

“What does Hamlet have to do with this letter?” Joe asked.

Jamie looked wise and mysterious as he pointed to the letter. “That part about the undiscovered country. It’s from the famous soliloquy, you know, the ‘to be or not to be’ speech.

‘But that the dread of something after death
,The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?’

I had to read that out today. Now when Hamlet talked about it, the undiscovered country was what happens after people die. Pretty scary, huh? I’m gonna go clean the barn now.”

Ben and Joe exchanged a suddenly uneasy look as Jamie left.

“No,” Ben said flatly. “Not him. He’s got no reason.”

“Besides, he’s too much of a stubborn Yankee granite‐head…” Joe’s voice trailed off suddenly.

“…who’s good with a guitar and storytelling and bookkeeping…” Ben said faintly. “Oh my God, Joseph, what have we done?”

“Nothing,” Joe replied grimly. “We’re getting too imaginative in our old age. That’s silly talk and I don’t believe it. I’m going home now, Pa…Alice really wasn’t feeling well this morning.”

As he left, Ben returned to his desk and pulled out Adam’s earlier letter, reading both again. And then he put his head into his hands and cried.

~The End

Author’s Note:

This was one of the first stories I wrote back at BonanzaWorld. When people asked why it had such a sad ending, I told them because my oldest son was far away, and had not told us about any problems that he was having, and the ending was the same. Then a lot of people messaged me, telling me when they had almost made that choice, or of people they knew who had suffered similar losses. They thought it might help other people and suggested I post it elsewhere. But aside from BW, I never could bring myself to touch it again. My son Jere died on April 9, 2008. I guess I thought the time had come to touch it again. This story is dedicated to him, and to all the people who stopped themselves from pulling the trigger…or survived when someone they loved pulled the trigger anyway.

I was surprised how drained and sick I felt after the very minor editing job I did on this. Ten years later and it seems like yesterday. Of all my Bonanza stories, this is the only one that was intensely personal from start to finish, but I keep thinking that if I can do anyone some good with it, then I should.

 The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline,  1-800-273-8255.

Tags:  Adam Cartwright, Ben Cartwright, Jamie Hunter Cartwright, Joe / Little Joe Cartwright