CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Days of Drama and Dilemma

For Adam, the next week was one of highs and lows.  He soared to the heights of satisfaction when Mr. Bracebridge approved his first drawings and promised that there’d be more such assignments.  And there had been, more simple copy work at first, but as the week progressed, work of increasing detail that told Adam he was growing and developing and becoming more useful to the firm.  In short, all he could have hoped for at this stage of a budding career.

The lows were mostly issues of painful personal introspection, centering on his continuing conflict about enlisting in the army.  The news Sunday that 70,000 soldiers were missing or absent, many because they were “sick of the service,” filled him with mixed emotions.  Obviously, the need for new recruits was great, but Adam wondered how quickly he, too, would become sickened by the use to which he’d be put if he joined up.  And the seemingly endless columns of names of the genuinely sick and wounded that filled the pages of the New York Times certainly served as a deterrent.

He could skim over those portions of the newspaper, of course, but it was impossible to avoid the signs of recruitment in New York City.  For one thing, his route to work passed City Hall Park, so twice a day he saw the white tents of the newly inducted, heard regularly the sounds of drill and marching.  And his path crossed White Street, as well, where lines of men waited outside the mustering office to sign up and receive their ninety dollar bonus for enlisting in one of the New York regiments.

At such points in their daily walk, Adam persistently plied his friend Bert with a list of suggested middle names beginning with “L.”  “Lambert, Longbottom, Lanier, Lucifier,” he suggested one morning.

“Lucifer!” Bert protested.  “What sort of heathens do you think my parents are?”

Adam stroked his chin thoughtfully as the white tents, for him, disappeared.  “Not wishing to insult your upbringing, I will assume that Lucifer is incorrect, so let’s see: Lucinda, Louise, Laurabelle.”

Bert laughed.  “Now you’re being ridiculous.  Give it up, Adam; you’ll never guess.”

“Before the summer is out,” Adam vowed, but he gave up guessing . . . until the next time they passed City Hall Park.

Much as he tried to avoid articles in the paper about new units forming, one headline that week caught his eye and sent his heart leaping into his throat: “College Professors Turning Soldiers.”  He quickly scanned the paragraph, relieved to see that none of his professors from Yale were listed, only a Professor Chamberlain from Bowdoin College in Maine and another called Chadbourne from Massachusetts.  Just names on a page to him, nothing to influence him one way or the other, as he feared might have been the case had he read names like Nolen or Thacher or Wilder Smith.

The death of Martin Van Buren that week might have been said to be a low for the nation, but Adam had no personal reaction.  To him, Van Buren was a name from the history books, honored because of his service, of course, but a few doors draped in black crepe said that some in the city remembered the former President more fondly, the way Adam thought he might feel about Abraham Lincoln on that distant day the nation would lay him to rest.

The week ended more happily, for the two young architectural apprentices.  Having decided that either grand opera or Shakespeare was simply not going to be offered in the summer season, Adam had suggested to Bert that they attend a decent play, instead.  Bulwer’s “Richelieu” looked promising, even if its afterpiece, “King Cotton,” did not, so they made plans to attend on Saturday night.  Informing their landlady that they would not dine at home that evening brought a flurry of questions, of course, and a petulant accusation from Rose Whitney.  “You’re going back to that tiresome band concert without us.”

Bert protested that they were not, but Adam was quick to squelch that apparent admission that they were obligated to include the girls whenever they went to Central Park.  “You needn’t worry, Miss Rose,” he advised her.  “Being gentlemen, we, of course, would never wish to subject you to anything ‘tiresome.’”

“I didn’t find it tiresome,” Grace inserted hastily, while Pearl bobbed her quick assent and Rose blushed at her own stupidity.

“We aren’t going to the park,” Adam repeated, but offered no further information, much to the ladies’ frustration.

“There are places gentlemen visit alone, young ladies,” Mr. McCrory suggested.

Adam started to deny that their destination was the rough sort of place that refused admission to ladies, but then he gave Mr. McCrory a cunning smile.  Let the ladies think what they would, so long as it stopped the endless hints for inclusion in the evening’s entertainment.

The ladies evidently assumed the worst.  “Well, in that case, we’ll leave you to it!” Grace announced as she rose and flounced indignantly from the room, trailed by her sisters.

Adam didn’t know whether to feel chagrinned or relieved that her visions of him as a potential missionary to the heathen had apparently evaporated.

Mr. McCrory leaned toward Adam and asked in an undertone, “So where are you going, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Adam whispered back, “Not at all.  We’re off to the Winter Garden, to see ‘Richelieu.’”

Mr. McCrory settled back in his chair with a conspiratorial smirk.  “I’ll guard your secret well.”

“Why not come with us?” Bert asked.

“Oh, ho, ho,” McCrory chuckled.  “And have them all think me the same sort of rakehell as you two?”

“I think your reputation can survive one night on the town with the rakes,” Adam said with a rascally smirk.

“Well, why not?” McCrory decided suddenly.  “I haven’t indulged in dinner and drama in longer than I can remember.  I’d be pleased to accept your invitation, gentlemen!”

* * * * *

A puckish grin lifted the left corner of Adam’s mouth as they entered the seedy basement restaurant and found places at one of the small square tables inside.   During intermission Mr. McCrory had opined that they should dine afterwards in some place unlikely to cater to ladies.  “For honesty’s sake,” he’d said, “in case we’re questioned.”

Adam had to admit that Pfaff’s Tavern fit the bill nicely.  Crudely furnished, it was dark and, being below ground, gave a feeling of dankness not altogether deserved.  A couple of women were there, sitting at a long table at one end in a sort of cave that extended underneath the sidewalk, but from their mannish attire, they appeared to be free-spirited Bohemians, not genteel ladies of the Whitney’s studied variety.  He could only hope the food would be in keeping with the plain décor and not the exotic appearance of some of the tavern’s more colorful guests.

He soon discovered that the menu was eclectic: everything from German pancakes to American steak and champagne to cheap beer.  When Adam, of economic necessity, tried to order the latter, however, Mr. McCrory immediately remonstrated.  “After an evening like this, it must be champagne, gentlemen,” he insisted.  “My treat, of course, as thanks for including me.”

“There’s no need of that,” Bert protested, with Adam quick to echo him.

“Please,” the older man pleaded.  “Let me have this pleasure.  It’s been so long since I went out like this, and having no family responsibilities, I have the funds.”

Seeing how much it meant to him, Adam assented.  “The pleasure of your company would have been thanks enough for including you, but we will gratefully accept your generous offer, sir.”  The waiter quickly hustled away before they could change their minds.

“Now, what to eat,” Bert pondered, his full lips pushing left and right in thought.

“For you, a side of beef,” Adam chuckled.  Their daily lunches had given him ample opportunity to observe the scope of Bert’s capacity.

“The beef does sound good,” Bert mused, apparently oblivious to the jesting jab at his appetite, “but dreadfully pedestrian for a place like this.  I believe I’ll try the Dutch pannekuchen.”

“With a side of beef?” Adam teased.

Bert frowned at him, then.  “With a rasher of bacon.  Your time would be better served making your own decision.”  He leaned toward Mr. McCrory.  “He’s notoriously slow, especially considering the shortness of our lunch hour.”

“And the lateness of the hour now,” McCrory returned with a smile.  “For my stomach’s sake, I shall have the chicken soup, with pie later.”

“Well, I’m starving,” Adam admitted.  “I’ll have the steak . . . with pie later.”  He wagged his eyebrows at Bert.  “And, perhaps, a taste of your pannekuchen.”

“And he dares attack my appetite!”  Bert rolled his eyes.  “Did I mention he’s also notorious for nabbing bites off a man’s plate?  Watch your soup carefully, Mr. McCrory.”

“I have never nabbed,” Adam protested.  “An occasional taste, and only then in the furtherance of my culinary education.”  He, too, leaned conspiratorially toward the older man.  “He’s notorious—or perhaps, ‘famous’ would be a better word—for knowing all there is to know about New York cuisine.  Amazing, when he’s been here so short a time.”

“He’s famous—no, ‘infamous’ is the correct word—for exaggeration,” Bert sputtered with an accusatory smirk in Adam’s direction.

Mr. McCrory laughed aloud.  “It must be the influence of the drama that has us making so many asides.”

Both Bert and Adam joined in the laughter.  “That must be it,” Bert agreed.  “There certainly were enough of them in Bulwer’s play—and no one else on stage supposed to overhear!”

“Some very nice lines, though,” Adam said and then quoted in his best imitation of Cardinal Richelieu, “‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’”

The food arrived, and Adam quickly discerned that Bert would probably be inheriting about a third of that huge steak, more than a fair trade for the few bites of pancake Adam planned to scrounge from his friend.  It was, for them, a fairly typical division of their noontime plates.

“I’m not well versed in French history,” Mr. McCrory said, dipping into a chicken soup with broth so thick and hearty that Adam began to wish he’d ordered that, instead of the heavy steak he’d probably regret around four o’clock this morning.  “You’re an educated man, Mr. Cartwright.  Perhaps you could explain the background of the drama.”

Adam shook his head.  “I’m afraid I haven’t studied French history, either, Mr. McCrory.  My stepmother Marie was French, and I once heard her list Cardinal Richelieu among her girlhood heroes.  I suppose that’s why I was drawn to the play when I saw it listed in the newspaper.”

“He was certainly the hero tonight,” McCrory observed.  “I wondered if he was as noble and selfless in real life.”

“Are any of us?” Adam queried with a shrug.  “I disagree, though, that Bulwer portrayed him that way.  Other characters referred to him as a crafty fox, and he definitely displayed a talent for manipulating people.  I had the idea that only his love for Julie, the orphaned daughter of his dear friend, transformed his character on this occasion.”

“Your stepmother evidently saw good in him, however,” Bert pointed out.

“Yes, yes, she must have,” Adam said quietly.  Time had healed the loss to some degree, but there were moments, like this one, when he was reminded afresh of how much he missed Marie.  He’d never asked her why she admired Cardinal Richelieu, and now he’d never get the chance.

Perhaps sensing his soberness, Mr. McCrory exclaimed, “Why, look, there’s Artemus Ward.  Have you gentlemen ever heard him speak?”

Adam looked up to see a man with a high forehead and an admirable mustache over his upper lip joining the long table in what they’d called the cave.  “No, I can’t say I have.”

“Quite the humorist,” McCrory advised.  “Said to be President Lincoln’s favorite comedian.”

“I’m sure Father Abraham can use a good dose of humor now and again,” Bert said with loyal sympathy.

“Indeed, with the load he has to bear,” McCrory commented.

The subject was too uncomfortably close to talk of armies and enlistment for Adam, so he suggested brightly, “Let’s keep an eye out for an opportunity to hear Mr. Ward, then, shall we?  Perhaps that can be our next outing.”

“I think that would be delightful,” Mr. McCrory declared with enthusiasm.  In the company of these two rising stars of architecture, he felt younger than he had in years.

* * * * *

Adam couldn’t help noticing that none of the Whitney women were so much as throwing a hint his direction about accompanying him on any excursions outside the house.  He wasn’t sure whether the all-male jaunt to supposedly disreputable destinations had ruined his reputation with them or whether the frequency of letters now arriving from Elizabeth had declared him “taken,” but he didn’t care.  It was enough that he and Bert could plan an outing to Central Park the following Saturday without having anyone whimper or whine to come along.

And he had enjoyed the afternoon thoroughly.  The music, although it included Mozart and Mendelssohn, continued to center around the boisterous band numbers that appealed to the public at large, rather than true music connoisseurs.  Still, it was pleasant, and Adam had enjoyed even more the walk he and Bert later took through the Ramble, the most rustic part of Central Park.  Oh, it was still cultivated, but it had been designed to look as though it were not, and a sense of seclusion shaded its quiet paths, faintly scented with swamp magnolia and honeysuckle.  Ducks and pea fowl skittered around the bushes, and once Adam caught his breath when, in an affecting reminder of home, a deer peered out from the shade of a stand of trees no more than a hundred yards from him.

At the western boundary of the Ramble he came upon a slope thickly strewn with shrubs whose flowers had withered in the summer heat.  It led to the foot of a large rock.  “Looks like a cave down there,” he observed to Bert.  “Care to explore it?”  The expression on his friend’s face at once gave him the answer, for it was already flushed with the exertion of this simple walk on a very hot day, as they all had been this summer.  “Perhaps another day would be better,” Adam suggested.  “After all, we’re scarcely dressed for a tramp through the mud, which we’re likely to find inside a cave.”

“Yes, yes, another day . . . perhaps,” Bert mumbled, his expression revealing the hope that Adam would forget the idea altogether.

Resolving that he would find a time when he could revisit the Ramble alone, Adam led them over a charming bridge that looked as though it were constructed of rough tree boughs until they came to a view of a lovely little cascade of water into the brook below that proved so refreshing both men stood gazing on it for several minutes before deciding that it was time to return to the boardinghouse for the evening meal.

“Let’s see,” Adam mused as they once again passed City Park, “could it be Lawrence or Leon?”

“Give it up,” Bert advised.  “You’ll never succeed.”

* * * * *

Many of the New York City churches took a summer holiday in August, and Grace Church, where the Whitneys usually attended was one of them.  The Randolphs’ Baptist church did not, and Adam elected to continue going with them to Sunday services.  A quiet day at home might have been a pleasing prospect under other circumstances, but the thought of spending those same hours in the parlor with three gossiping girls and their doting mother was sufficient impetus to make Adam rise early on the one day of the week he could have slept in.

After dinner he went to his room, opened the windows in hopes of feeling some breath of breeze and caught up on his correspondence.  Then, all duties to God, family and friends fulfilled, he stretched on the bed in his stocking feet and read the latest installment of Victor Hugo’s new book, Les Misérables.   He had purchased hardback copies of the first two parts, even though they were dear at a dollar each, but having previously read The Hunchback of Notre Dame, he knew the quality of Hugo’s work and knew these were volumes he’d want to keep.  Of course, he planned to loan them to Jamie, too, and any other friend who wished to read them, so it was best to invest in something sturdier than paper copies.  He’d purchased the second part, “Cosette,” on his lunch hour the day before, but hadn’t had time since for more than a peek at its contents.  Since the bookseller had hinted that the third part would be coming out soon, Adam indulged himself in extra reading time that afternoon, but he still had about half the latest volume to go when he had to stop  to clean up for the evening meal.

There was no time to read further until well after supper the next night.  Feeling a little guilty about ignoring his fellow boarders Sunday afternoon, he’d stayed in the parlor with them after supper until time to retire for bed.  Then he’d risen early, breakfasted and headed off to work with Bert.  As he filed documents and drawings that morning, his mind drifted to the streets of Paris, as he wondered whether Jean Valjean and little Cosette would be able to elude their persistent pursuer, Inspector Javert.  That afternoon, however, he received a drawing assignment so challenging that it absorbed his attention until time to leave for the day.  He couldn’t wait to return tomorrow and finish it.

After freshening up, he went down to the parlor and spent a suitable amount of time socializing before supper, but managed to slip away to his room directly after the meal and was soon lost to everything except the heart-stopping chase of the fugitives.  Hugo described the Paris sky as being so bathed in moonlight that night that there was no need to light the street lamps, and as Adam saw Jean Valjean and Cosette to safety behind a convent wall, he almost felt that he was there, not only because of the power of the words, but because his own room seemed flooded with that same moonlight.

His brow wrinkled as he closed the book about ten o’clock and glanced over at the window.  It wasn’t his imagination; it really was that bright outside . . . and it shouldn’t be.  It certainly hadn’t been the night before, and there had been no clouds to obscure the moon’s light then, either.  He moved to the window, raised the sash higher, leaned out and gasped.

A dazzling display of arcing light met his eyes, mostly waves of iridescent green, although here and there streaks of red shot through the light spread across the horizon.  Mouth gaping open, Adam leaned further out, but he still couldn’t see as well as he wanted, so he drew himself back in and, hurriedly lacing on his shoes, crept into the hall and down the stairs, almost on tiptoe to avoid rousing the rest of the house.  He made his way into the backyard and settled down on a patch of grass so parched by the heat that it crackled every time he moved.

He’d read about this phenomenon, of course, but book knowledge, however descriptive, was no substitute for seeing an aurora borealis with his own eyes.  His gaze swept the horizon, watching with fascination the interplay of the undulating streams of colored light that streamed toward the heavens with the majestic movement of an expertly conducted symphony.  He watched for an hour and then another, unable to tear himself away, although he knew he’d pay tomorrow for staying up so late.

About midnight, when the lights seemed their brightest, bars of dense black vapor rose across the sky, and the contrasting darkness only emphasized the pearly opalescence of the northern lights in the unobscured portions of the sky.  And still he could not tear himself away.  He was young; he could catch up on sleep, but this might well be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and he didn’t want to miss a moment.

Despite his intention, the setting was so quiet and peaceful that as the light display died down, his eyes involuntarily closed, and his chin bent to his chest.  He couldn’t have slept long, but when he jolted awake again, he decided that he might as well go back inside and get a couple of hours’ sleep in his own bed . . . especially if he expected to bring a fresh eye to the architectural rendering he’d been assigned.

* * * * *

For the first time since coming to New York City, Adam was late to breakfast.  Seeing the reproachful look Mrs. Whitney cast him as he slid into his seat at the table, he quickly apologized for his tardiness.  “I was mesmerized by the stunning display of the aurora borealis until the wee hours of the morning, I’m afraid.”

“The northern lights?” Grace asked with a touch of skepticism.  “You must be imagining things, Mr. Cartwright.”

“Not at all,” Mr. McCrory said, adding acidly, “as you’d know if you read the newspaper of a morning, Miss Grace.”

Her tongue was just as tart.  “How could I, when the so-called gentlemen of the house always snatch it before a helpless girl has opportunity?”

Adam exchanged a surreptitious roll of the eyes with Bert.  Never had either of them so much as heard any of the girls, with the occasional exception of Pearl, express any interest in the news of the day.

“Is that what it was, the northern lights?” Mrs. Randolph murmured.  “I thought there was something different about it.”

Pearl laughed a bit brusquely.  “Surely, you weren’t awake at that hour, Mrs. Randolph.”

The older woman only smiled back beneficently.  “I often wake at odd hours through the night, my dear.  I was always a light sleeper, and more so, now that I’m older.”

“A pity you didn’t join me in the backyard,” Adam said, sending her a kindly smile.  “The view was much better from there.”  He went on to describe for the rest of the household the transformation of the midnight sky.

“My, but you paint pictures with words just like an artist with oils!” Pearl gushed.  “I almost feel I was sitting there beside you.”

“Well, I wish I had been,” Rose announced, sending a simpering pout in Adam’s direction.  “Why didn’t you wake me and take me with you, Adam?”

The collective gasp that circled the table was ear-shattering.

“Because I’m a gentleman,” Adam said crisply, “and gentlemen do not enter the boudoir of a young girl.”

“Certainly not!” declared this particular young girl’s mother, while her sisters all glared at Rose with disapproval.

“Nor that of a married woman, either, one would presume,” Grace sniffed.

“Of course not.”  An impish twinkle lit Adam’s eye for a moment.  “Although,” he began, elongating the word.  When all the ladies turned to stare at him, he grinned and said, “Had I known you were awake, my dear Mrs. Randolph, I might have tapped on your door.”

Now it was the girls’ turn to roll their eyes, communicating their obvious belief that he could have actually entered Mrs. Randolph’s room with impunity.  She was, after all, old enough to be his grandmother.

Bert and Adam left almost immediately after breakfast, and for the first time Adam envied Mr. McCrory, who kept bankers’ hours and, therefore, could have slipped back to his room for another hour’s rest, had he needed it.  Still, he reminded himself, by Ponderosa standards—or, for that matter, by those followed at Yale—he hadn’t risen early at all.  As he considered that, a low chuckle issued from his throat.

Hearing it, Bert asked playfully.  “Are you recalling your visit to Miss Rose’s bed chamber?”

“Scarcely!” Adam hooted.

Bert snapped his fingers.  “Oh, that’s right: you’re a gentleman.”  Dropping the elaborately aristocratic tone he’d adopted for the last three words, he laughed.  “What does that do to your carefully cultivated image of a rakehell, eh?”

“Blows it to smithereens,” Adam admitted.  He cocked a wry grin at his friend.  “Or maybe just keeps them guessing.”

“One may hope,” Bert chuckled.  “I do think you might have risked entering my bed chamber, however.  I’d have relished seeing those northern lights.”

“You never have?”

Bert shook his head.  “A rare phenomenon, even here in the civilized East, my friend.”

Adam punched a doubled fist into the other man’s shoulder as retribution for that implied insult to his own part of the country.  Bantering back and forth, they arrived at work, where it had to end.  They each had drawings to complete, and since they worked at adjoining tables, neither could afford the distraction of too much conversation.  Not until noon did they exchange anything other than architectural questions or comments on each other’s work.

“Where would you like to eat?” Bert asked as they walked out.

Usually, Adam just said, “Wherever you like” and trusted Bert’s culinary instincts, but today he groaned and pleaded, “Anywhere except a chophouse, please.  And no heavy German fare, either.  I don’t think my stomach will tolerate it.”  Between his lack of sleep and his nervousness over the drawing he’d just submitted to Mr. Bracebridge, he could feel his stomach roiling already.

Bert frowned in thought.  A light meal was never his first choice, so it took him some time to run mentally through the menus of restaurants he’d visited or heard about in New York City, searching for something that might provide a meal light enough for Adam, yet filling enough for his own appetite.  Finally, his eyes lighted with inspiration.  “What about Moquin’s?”  he proposed.  “It’s French, but if you go easy on the sauces, it might suit you.”

The suggestion triggered memories of Marie’s cooking and brought a smile to Adam’s face.  Light or not, he thought he’d enjoy sampling French cuisine again.  “That sounds good.  Is it nearby?”

“On Fulton,” Bert replied.

Adam was by now well acquainted with the lower part of the city, so he turned in the right direction and headed for Fulton Street.  In fact, when Bert pointed out the entrance to Moquin’s, Adam realized that he’d passed the restaurant several times before, on their way to Fulton Market, where they often grabbed a quick, inexpensive meal of oysters, either in chowder or opened in front of them and served on the shell.  Inside, he noted the motto, “In Vino Veritas,” posted on the wall.

“Noted for their wines, I hear,” Bert observed, seeing Adam eyeing the phrase.

Adam shook his head.  “Not in the middle of a working day.”

“No,” Bert agreed.  “We need our heads about us for the type of meticulous work we do.”

Adam nodded, although he expected that he’d be back in the file room or possibly running errands the rest of the day, unless he’d made such a mess of his drawing that he had to redo it.  He didn’t think that likely, however.  He was beginning to be a good judge of his work and thought he’d done well on this latest project.

With menu in hand, Bert leaned toward Adam and whispered, “Do you read French?  I can . . . not well, but if you need help with the choices . . .”

“I think I can manage,” Adam said, humor tugging at his lips.  “I studied some French with my stepmother and a bit more at the academy in Sacramento.”

“Good, then.”  Bert’s relieved exhale betrayed his underlying lack of confidence.  “I’m going to have the filet de boeuf with potatoes and . . . um . . . haricots verts.”

“I want something lighter than that.”  Adam’s lips pursed in thought as he perused the menu.  “The potage de crème de volaille, I think, with some vegetables on the side.”

“Soup?”  Bert scowled.  “I’d prefer not having to pick you up off the floor after you keel over from lack of nourishment, my friend.”

Adam laughed.  “I’m more worried about having to roll you back to the office after you eat so much you can’t move.”

“Ha, ha,” Bert snorted.  As soon as he and Adam had turned in their orders, he observed, “Good news about the Overland Mail, wasn’t it?”

“What news?” Adam demanded.

Bert chuckled.  “That’s right; you didn’t make it down in time to read the newspaper this morning.”

Adam sniffed.  “I rarely get that opportunity until the evening, anyway.”  He, of course, always gave preference to the older men at the house, although Mr. Randolph generally deferred his reading until after the working men had left and Mr. McCrory would ordinarily hand over the inner pages to the younger men.

“True enough,” Bert commiserated.  “Well, you’ll be glad to hear that the Overland is going to resume daily mail coaches again.  That should make it easier to hear from your family.”

“Definitely,” Adam agreed.  Indian attacks had interrupted the mail service so frequently that the company had obtained permission to change its route and had been given twenty days to make the transfer of stock and men to the new stations.  As a result, Adam had almost given up hope of hearing from his family before he returned to New Haven.  Now, at least, it was possible.

Their meals were served, and Bert sliced into his filet with gusto.  Adam had selected petit pois and tomates farcies to go with his velvety cream of chicken soup.  Letting it cool, he cut through the tomato with his fork and then pierced the flesh with the tines, along with some of the bread stuffing baked into its hollowed center.  “Delicious,” he told Bert.  “You really should have tried it, instead of those green beans.”

“I like beans,” Bert grunted, “and I’m not at all sure that love apples are actually good for you.”

Adam only laughed as he scooped some peas onto his fork.

“You won’t be laughing at the main news item today,” Bert warned.  Then, apparently feeling he’d said too much in his testiness at being teased, he riveted his eyes on his plate.

“What?” Adam demanded.

“Nothing,” Bert mumbled, hastily stuffing a bite of beef into his mouth.

Adam eyed him intently.  “Why don’t I believe you?”

Bert shrugged, pointing to his full mouth as reason for not answering.

Adam responded by pulling the plate away.  “Swallow and then talk,” he ordered.

Bert swallowed, wiped his lips with his napkin.  “Oh, Adam, I’m sorry,” he sighed.  “I didn’t mean to break it to you like that.  Well, I didn’t mean to break it at all, for that matter.  I mean, I’ve seen how uncomfortable you get when we pass City Park . . .”

“Break what?” Adam probed tersely.

“The President has called for 300,000 more troops,” Bert replied reluctantly.

Adam shrugged, although as Bert had perceived, talk of enlistment always bothered him.  “Is that all?  They always want more troops.”

“This is different,” Bert insisted.  “This time they’re only asking for nine months’ service, but if any State doesn’t meet its quota . . . well, they say they’ll institute a draft.”  He gave Adam a sheepish look.  “Now, may I have my dinner back?”

Adam pushed Bert’s plate back across the table, but his own sat untouched, for his appetite had vanished.  A draft.  There’d been suggestions of it before, of course.  It was, in fact, so current a topic that even this week the Winter Garden was playing a comedy called, “Look Out for the Draft.”  Now, apparently, it was more than just talk, more than something to joke about: it was an active threat, and Adam wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

In a way, being drafted would settle the debate that had raged inside him for so many weeks.  If he were drafted, the decision was made for him, and no one, including Pa, could fault him for submitting to the law of the land.  He would have no choice but to fight . . . and therein lay the rub, as Hamlet had said.  He scorned the idea of being a man so weak-willed that he left major decisions of his life to others.  Such a man was no man at all; he was nothing but a puerile, vacillating boy.

Beneath the table Adam’s fist clenched with determination.  He could not allow himself to be drafted, like a man afraid to fight for his country, but neither could he allow fear of that dishonor to push him into a decision he would not otherwise make.  He had to make his own, independent decision, and he needed to make it soon.  Today’s news had ensured that, but he felt no closer to knowing his own heart than he had before.

“Adam, for mercy’s sake, eat your soup before it’s stone cold,” Bert pleaded.  “I’m sorry the news upsets you, but don’t be a fool.  You have an afternoon’s work ahead of you.”

Adam looked up and his eyes cleared.  Bert was right.  His obligation this afternoon was to Bracebridge, Harwood and Associates, and the firm deserved his full attention, something he could scarcely give if his stomach was reminding him constantly that he hadn’t filled it.  Maybe he was making this whole thing harder than it was.  Maybe all he had to do was what he’d done along the trail west: take a step, take another—walk, walk, walk—and trust that each step, each daily decision would point the way to the larger one that loomed increasingly closer.  Whether to eat his dinner or not was a small decision, but there was a right and wrong to it, as to larger ones.  Better to practice making right choices, even in the small things, so although the cooling soup no longer enticed him, he dipped in his spoon and began to eat.

* * * * *

That night, after everyone had retired, Adam slipped out to the backyard again and sat on the grass as he had the night before.  There were no waves of light frolicking in the heavens tonight, nothing but quiet stars pinpricking the fabric of a charcoal sky.  He hadn’t come here to see a spectacle, though; nor had he expected any voice from on high, telling him what to do.  He’d hoped only to find again the peace he’d felt the night before, but it was gone, leaving behind only the ebb and flow of a questioning heart.  He didn’t stay long; there was no point.  Not wanting to face the next day’s work after a second sleepless night, he forced himself to go back upstairs, and though his thoughts continued to turn for a while, he was tired enough that he fell asleep fairly early.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

Martin Van Buren, eighth President of the United States (1837-1841), died on July 24, 1862

“Richelieu: or the Conspiracy,” by Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton, is available online in its entirety through Google Books.  In addition to “the pen is mightier than the sword,” Bulwer-Lytton is also the author of that immortal (and infamous) opening sentence, “It was a dark and stormy night.”