CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Final Days and Plays

Adam needed no more proof than the next day’s newspaper to demonstrate that he had done the right thing in filing for exemption on Saturday.  Government officials had assured the public that local travel would not be interfered with, but anyone going further than Brooklyn apparently had much to fear.  Police were patrolling the docks and checking the passports of everyone attempting to board a ship bound for a foreign port.  Woe betide the man who had gotten his travel documents within the last ten days!  It was assumed that he was fleeing the country to avoid the draft, and he would not be allowed to board, even if a weeping wife awaited him on the ship.

In some cases the assumptions were obviously true.  Two men had disguised themselves as sailors and tried to board as part of the crew.  That failing, they had attempted to bribe the police officer with ten dollars.  Either the officer was honest or could only be bought for a higher price, for that attempt, too, failed.  Some with legitimate passports had boarded and then tried to pass their papers off to a friend on the dock.  That hadn’t worked, either.

A ship was scheduled to leave for California the next day, and those passengers had been assured that they would not be detained.  While no passports were required for state-to-state travel, thirteen men on their way to Detroit had been arrested on the belief that they intended to abscond to Canada.  The article detailed no evidence of their intention, however, and Adam was left wondering whether he could have proven that he was headed for Yale, instead of making that a way stop to Canada or a less watchful port.  Now he didn’t have to.  Thanks to Mr. Bracebridge’s timely advice, he was free to make his own decision about enlisting.

He was no closer to making that decision, however.  According to the Sunday Times, recruiting was going well in Connecticut.  With four regiments already in the field and three more to leave this week, the state had met its quota for three-year men and thought it would be able to raise seven regiments of nine-month soldiers.  Maybe he wouldn’t even be needed by the time he reached New Haven and had to make that final decision.

But did other men’s service really lessen his duty to his country?  One article in that Sunday paper thrust the question straight into his face with its headline: What Have You Personally Done?  “Everyone who has enjoyed the blessings of Republican Government and of the Union should do his part to sustain them,” the editorial declared and suggested several ways to accomplish that: encouraging with words, donating money, volunteering, working for soldiers in the field and for the sick and wounded.

Adam had tried to do those things.  He’d written Mark Wentworth a couple of times, although he hadn’t heard back from his friend and could only hope the letters had reached him.  Mail service to soldiers in the field seemed about as reliable as mail between here and Nevada, which had been especially bad this summer.  Though he hadn’t had much money to spare, he had donated some small items to the Sanitary Commission back in New Haven.  But in answer to the question posed in the paper—What have you personally done?—he could only reply, “Not much.”

At least, he’d soon have the opportunity, albeit an unwilling one, to help the sick and wounded.  Predictably, Mrs. Whitney had made a point of learning more about the grand festival and picnic to support that cause, and virtually every mealtime brought some hint on the subject.  The men hadn’t made any promises, but Adam supposed they would all surrender in the long run.  After all, the cause was a worthy one, and to refuse the ladies an occasional such outing seemed nothing but churlish.  He would, however, refuse to take time off work for the afternoon festivities, despite the temptation of the concert from Dodsworth’s band.  Mr. Bracebridge had already been far too generous for him to request any further concessions, so the ladies would simply have to content themselves with the bal campêtre that evening.

* * * * *

Bert had wanted to eat lunch at the Washington Market on Monday, and Adam had agreed, although he didn’t see much different on offer there than they could have found at the closer Fulton Street Market.  On a sultry summer day there was only one choice, anyway, in Adam’s opinion: chilled oysters, freshly shucked.  That and a beer satisfied him until Bert mentioned ice cream.  The cold dessert did refresh him, but Adam still insisted that they walk past the docks on their way back to the office, “to catch what breeze we can.”

“You can’t fool me,” Bert teased.  “What you’re hoping to catch is some action between draft dodgers and the police.  I know how you westerners are.”

Adam scowled.  “That, sir, is an insult to all peace-loving westerners.”

Bert chuckled.  “I didn’t know there were any.”  He only laughed louder when Adam’s scowl darkened.

As they ambled southward, Adam admitted, although only to himself, that he wasn’t really trying to catch a breeze.  He’d decided weeks ago that there wasn’t one to be found in lower Manhattan.  Bert was correct in guessing that he wanted a look at the outgoing ships docked along the North River, but wrong about his motive.  He would have been embarrassed to confess that he was feeling so homesick that the mere sight of a steamer bound for California drew him like a magnet.  He hadn’t had one letter from his family the entire summer, and while he knew it wasn’t true, he still felt forgotten and forsaken and very, very alone.

A guilty conscience screamed that the silence was only payback for the way he’d neglected them since meeting Elizabeth, but he knew his father would never do that.  It was the mails, the stupidly slow mails, disrupted by Indian attacks and route changes, causing the silence and the sense of abandonment.  The eastern mails ran steadily, so he’d had letters from Jamie and, even more importantly, Elizabeth every few days, but he still missed hearing from Pa, Hoss and Little Joe, enough that he wanted to see that steamer, just to remind himself that there was a way back to them, any time he chose.

As they approached Pier 3, however, he quickly discerned that the scene was closer to Bert’s joke than his tranquil vision of men, women and children on their way home or west to a new life.  “Something’s wrong,” he muttered.

Bert’s hand closed around Adam’s biceps.  “Stay out of it,” he warned.

Irritated, Adam pulled out of Bert’s grasp.  What did the man take him for, a complete fool?  “I just want to see what the problem is,” he said, inching forward cautiously.

“Adam!” Bert hissed, but he trailed reluctantly in his friend’s wake.

The clamor on the dock was all but unintelligible: men shouting, women sobbing, children wailing, policemen pulling people aside and leading them away.  Adam eventually caught the words “draft” and “passport.”  What on earth?  He checked the signs again and confirmed that this was, indeed, the steamer for California.  “But the paper yesterday said there’d be no problem with passengers leaving for California,” he protested to Bert.

“Well, there’s obviously a problem today,” Bert said.  “Let’s get out of here, Adam!”

To his dismay, Adam began striding briskly toward the nearest uniformed officer.  “Since when is a passport required for travel to California?” he demanded.

Stern-faced, the policeman swiveled toward him.  “Trying to board, are you, young fellow?  Well, I’d best see a passport from you, then!”

“I’m not boarding,” Adam growled.  “I work here in New York.”

“Then go on about your business and stop interfering with the law,” the policeman ordered sharply.

“What law prevents free travel, state to state?” Adam demanded.

The policeman turned back toward him and might well have taken him into custody, along with the other men being rounded up, had not Bert snagged his elbow and dragged him back from the docks into a side street.  “Let go of me,” Adam protested.

“If you promise not to go back there,” Bert snapped.  “Getting yourself arrested won’t do anything to help them!”

Adam exhaled forcefully and gave his friend a crisp nod, reluctantly admitting that there was nothing he could do to stop the enforcement of the law, no matter how ridiculous or unjust he thought it.  It wasn’t until the next day that the newspaper provided some explanation for what he’d seen.  Apparently, Police Superintendent John Kennedy had sought the advice of the War Department and determined that since the California-bound ship’s itinerary included passage through a foreign country, either Panama or Nicaragua, a passport was needed.  Predictably, no one had one, so every man of military age had been removed from the ship.

“That’s ridiculous!” Adam exploded to the other residents of the boardinghouse over dinner that night.  “No one has ever needed a passport to visit another state.”

“Are you certain?” Pearl inquired.  “You’ve told us that your family traveled overland, and, of course, that was entirely within the United States.  Perhaps your family simply didn’t acquaint themselves with the legalities of going by sea.”

“And you were quite small, weren’t you, too young to understand all the details of the journey?” her mother pointed out.

“Yes, of course,” Adam admitted readily, “but my father later traveled to New Orleans by steamer and railroad across Nicaragua.  No one demanded a passport then.”

“Nor should it be demanded now,” Mr. McCrory declared.  “After all, how likely is it that many young men would choose a destination like Panama or Nicaragua, even to escape the draft?  It is, as Adam says, ridiculous to penalize the entire population on the basis of such a slim possibility.”

“Hear, hear,” Bert chimed in.  “It’s as much an overreach as that restriction on travel between here and Brooklyn.”

“That’s been cleared up,” Grace protested.

“And I’m sure this nonsense will be in time,” Bert said.

“Not in time for the men booked on that ship,” Adam grunted, “and it’s not as though they could take another the next day.  Ships for California don’t leave that often.”

“Honestly, Adam, I don’t see why you’re so bothered,” Pearl said, forking a few green beans.  “I thought you were returning to New Haven, not Nevada.”

“Our Adam is not a selfish lad, concerned only for his own welfare,” Mr. Randolph said with a fond nod toward Adam.

“As we all should be,” Grace stated sanctimoniously, casting a chiding glance at her sister.

“Oh, botheration,” Rose pouted.  “Can’t we talk of something less tiresome than those silly old draft dodgers?  We should be making our plans for the picnic!”

Adam thought there could not possibly be a topic more tiresome than that one, but it suddenly became all the ladies wanted to discuss, and being gentlemen, the men had to oblige them.

* * * * *

Adam stopped at the table on the edge of the wood and paid the entry fee for himself and Pearl Whitney.  Mr. McCrory had heroically volunteered to be feisty young Rose’s escort, and Adam and Bert had flipped a coin to determine which young lady each of them would accompany to the picnic.  The two older girls were, predictably, delighted when the pleasure of their company was requested, while Rose, even more predictably, had pouted at being stuck with an older, completely ineligible man for the afternoon.  But she had evidently determined to make the best of it, for she was bubbling with excitement as she walked into the park.  “Ooh, let’s see if they have the donkey rides running this afternoon,” she declared, pulling Mr. McCrory along behind her.

Adam exchanged a glance and a nod with Bert to indicate that they would both owe Mr. McCrory another all-male night on the town for putting up with this, especially if the older man had to actually mount a donkey to keep Rose amused.

“Shall we visit the shooting gallery?” Grace suggested.  “I’m sure a westerner like Adam will amaze us with his prowess!”

“I’m seriously out of practice,” Adam excused and pointedly turned to his own companion for the afternoon.  “What would you like to do first, Miss Pearl?  Would you care for some refreshment, perhaps?”

“Perhaps a cool drink,” she said.  “The day is incredibly warm.”

“As usual,” Adam observed with a smile as he took her arm.  “Is it always this sultry in New York or have I simply come during an unusually warm summer?”

“I do believe it has been warmer than usual,” she said as they strolled away from the other couple, “but summers are always quite warm in New York.  That’s what makes outings like this so appealing.”  After they had collected two glasses of lemonade, she suggested that they enjoy them as they walked under the shade trees along the East River.

As eager as she to find a cooler spot, Adam happily complied.  In addition to the shade, a cool breeze off the river refreshed them.  “The trees here must be original growth,” he observed.  “They’re much taller and older than the ones in Central Park.”

“Jones’ Wood was once considered as a location for that project,” she told him.  “In some ways, it’s a pity it wasn’t chosen.”

“Yes, I find this much more to my personal taste,” Adam admitted, “but in time the other will be even more imposing, and the area is larger, better if the city continues to grow, as I presume it will.”

“Does this remind you of home?” she inquired.

Adam laughed lightly.  “As home might be a hundred years from now, when all the wildness is tamed out of it.  I’m afraid I won’t like it nearly as much then.”

Pearl took another sip of her lemonade.  “A pity we had to miss all the political speeches and the concert.”

Adam stiffened.  “I explained that I couldn’t leave work early.”

“Oh, I know,” Pearl said hastily.  “I wasn’t concerned for myself, you understand, but I thought it a shame that you couldn’t hear the noted speakers.”

Adam stifled the urge to laugh, for if there was anything he had no desire to hear it was another political speech, urging all able-bodied men to offer themselves in the service of their country.  “Yes, well, I do enjoy good rhetoric, of course, but I have had quite ample opportunity to hear it recently.  I’d much prefer to simply relax and enjoy the scenery and speak of other things.”

“That sounds delightful,” Pearl said with a coy veiling of her eyes.  “Perhaps we might discuss your impression of Victor Hugo as a writer, then?  I noticed you had been reading his new novel and wondered if you thought I might find it of interest.”

“Definitely!” Adam said with enthusiasm and launched into a review of the novel that would have made anyone want to read it.  As they walked and talked beneath the trees, he found himself unexpectedly enjoying the outing he had dreaded for days.  When he’d first met Pearl, he’d assumed that her professed interest in books had been mere artifice to attract a college man, but her comments and questions today were so cogent that he realized he had underestimated her mind.  Now he wondered if he hadn’t deprived himself of some stimulating conversation this summer by avoiding a woman he had viewed as only interested in snaring a man.  She couldn’t compare with his sweet Elizabeth, of course, and he could scarcely have squired her about much without building false hopes.  Still, he might have been more considerate, less eager to judge before he knew her well.  Perhaps, in future, he should be less quick to write people off, but a man did have to be careful with women . . . or he might find himself tied permanently to one he’d thought of as only a friend.

Later, they ran into Rose and Mr. McCrory, and mostly to give the poor man a breather, Adam agreed to try his luck at the shooting gallery.  “And you said you were out of practice,” Pearl chided when both she and Rose walked away with their arms full of prizes.

“Less than I thought,” Adam admitted, pleased to see that his skill had survived almost a year’s hiatus.

The three couples gathered together later for a simple picnic meal before the dancing began beneath lights strung from tree to tree.  Throughout the grand bal campetre they stayed together, switching partners frequently, so that no man became exhausted from romping with Rose.  Grace lived up to her name by being the smoothest dancer, but Pearl was accomplished as well, and Adam gladly glided around with her for most of the dances, including the final waltz.  As pleasant a way as he’d found yet to lend his aid to the war effort.  But if that were so, why did he still feel as if he’d done nothing?

* * * * *

Recalling Pearl’s disappointment at missing the afternoon band concert at the picnic and also realizing that there would be few such opportunities remaining before he returned to New Haven, Adam suggested that they all make another excursion to Central Park on Saturday, to enjoy the music.  Everyone except Mr. McCrory, who was working, met at the horse cars again and traveled together.  The afternoon passed much as had the earlier one, but more warmly, for they were all better acquainted now and the girls less competitive for the new man’s attention.  It reminded Adam of the picnics he and his family had shared with friends back in Nevada, and he wondered if Hoss had celebrated his birthday with one this year, as he often had before.  Still no letters from home to answer such questions, but Adam hoped that would change soon.  In the meantime, the residents of the Whitney boardinghouse had become a sort of family, and now that he would soon lose it, his appreciation for their company seemed to grow daily.

Feeling more prosperous than on their earlier outing, Adam suggested that they take a boat around the lake at the foot of the Terrace.  He and Bert divided the fee between them, each paying forty cents for the party to board.  The boatman, uniformed in duck linen trimmed in sea green, slowly began his circuit of the lake.  “We’re going all the way around, aren’t we?” Rose asked eagerly.

“All the way,” Adam promised her with a chuckle and an indulgent smile directed at her two sisters.  He looked toward the far end of the boat.  “Comfortable, Mrs. Randolph?” he called.

“Oh, yes,” she called back.  “What a treat this is—and so comfortable!”  She glanced up at the red, white and blue awning shading her from the sun’s heat.

“We’re sailing right past the swans,” Adam said, pointing ahead, pleased to see her clasp her hands in delight.

As they came to the narrow waist of the lake, they passed under the graceful wrought-iron span of Bow Bridge.  “I hear music,” Pearl said.

“Yes, I hear it, too,” Adam said.

“Over there,” the boatman said.  “Always play during concerts.”

Adam saw a boat loaded with musicians just up the lake from them.  In order to avoid keeping the older people out too late, they had skipped the latter part of the band concert, but he thought it even more enjoyable to hear the music wafting across the ripples toward them.

“It’s not as pretty on this side,” Rose pouted.

“Oh, I think it is,” Grace objected.  “I suspect Adam appreciates this side more,” she commented with an ingratiating side glance at him.

Adam nodded.  The Ramble edged this larger part of the lake, and its wildness appealed to him more than the cultivated look of the lower section of the park.  “You wanted to see it all,” he reminded Rose.

“Well, yes,” she admitted, though it was obvious she was becoming bored with the slow movement around the shores.  She was still less interested in getting off and walking, though, so at each of the six opportunities to do that, she kept her seat.  At the third landing Grace suggested that she and Adam might take a walk and catch up at the next landing, and though Adam knew she was only trying to get him alone, he welcomed the chance to stretch his legs and see the Ramble more closely.  Citing the need to meet the others, he successfully countered her every attempt to dally with him in the secluded woods, and they rejoined their party at the next landing to continue their passage back to the Terrace.

“A lovely afternoon, gentlemen,” Mrs. Whitney summed it up as they returned to her home.  “Thank you for suggesting it, Mr. Cartwright.”

“It was my pleasure,” Adam assured her, meaning it more than he had on either of their earlier outings.

* * * * *

Rising early on Sunday, Adam took the opportunity to read the newspaper before any of the others joined him in the parlor.  Among the usual war news and lists of casualties he saw a notice that the supply of Springfield muskets for the soldiers had been exhausted, and they would now have to be armed with Belgian rifles.  It was of no consequence to him personally—at least, not yet—but the mention of Springfield made him think of Josiah Edwards.  Adam shook his head, recalling all the rifles he’d seen on their tour of the Arsenal there.  So many, but still not enough—just like the almost daily reports of recruits being mustered in.  So many answering the call, but still the cry for more, as if the gaping maw of War had an insatiable appetite.

Also on the front page, though, he read a succinct and stirring reminder of what it was all about.  Horace Greeley, editor of the Tribune, had written a challenging letter to the President, demanding an explanation for the course he seemed to be pursuing, and the Times this morning carried the President’s answer:

“I would save the Union. I would save it the shortest way under the Constitution.  The sooner the national authority can be restored the nearer the Union will be ‘the Union as it was.’  If there be those who would not save the Union unless they could at the same time save Slavery, I do not agree with them.  If there be those who would not save the Union unless they could at the same time destroy Slavery, I do not agree with them.  My paramount object in this struggle is to save the Union, and is not either to save or destroy Slavery.  If I could save the Union without freeing any slave, I would do it, and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves, I would do it, and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone, I would also do that. . . . I have here stated my purpose according to my view of official duty, and I intend no modification of my oft-expressed personal wish that all men, everywhere, could be free.”

Adam set the newspaper aside and pondered whether that represented his own feelings or not.  He was pretty sure they did represent his father’s.  Pa had always said it was an Eastern conflict, one that was none of their business out West, but if it had come down to watching the country he loved disintegrate or trying to preserve it, Adam had a feeling Pa would side with the Union.  Was preserving the Union enough for him, though?  Was it worth expending so much blood?  Though he’d never viewed himself as an abolitionist, Adam abhorred slavery, so the thought of sacrificing so many lives, only to leave that abominable institution intact, curdled his stomach.  “The Union as it was”—no, Adam found that an unsatisfactory goal.  He also found it a highly untenable one, for how could any country be ripped apart as this one was now and expect to patch itself back together exactly as it had been before?  Change would come, inevitably, but would the change be for better or for worse?  If he could have answered that, he could have decided which path he needed to follow, but there were no guarantees when the winds of change began to blow, and that kept his mind shifting with every turn of the breeze.

* * * * *

Adam almost knew what he was about to hear when Mr. Bracebridge called him and Bert into his office on Wednesday.  “I suppose you’ve both heard about the war meeting at City Hall Park this afternoon?” their employer inquired, proving that Adam had guessed correctly.

“Yes, sir,” Bert answered.

“Do you wish to attend?” Bracebridge asked.

“I don’t,” Adam replied quickly, “especially if I’m needed here, sir.”

“Mr. Morganstern?”

Bert shrugged.  “It doesn’t matter one way or the other to me, sir.  I don’t suppose it would be much different from the one we attended earlier this summer.”

Mr. Bracebridge responded with a slightly skewed smile.  “No, I would think not.  As usual, all businesses have been requested to close at 3 p.m., but we are up against a deadline at present, so unless you are particularly interested in more political speeches, I would appreciate your remaining here today.  Don’t hesitate to tell me if you wish to be excused, however; I won’t stand in your way.”

“I’d prefer to work,” Adam said.

“I will, too,” Bert agreed readily.

“I appreciate it.  I’m sure there’ll be other opportunities to hear some of the generals,” Mr. Bracebridge said, “at least for you, Mr. Morganstern.”

Adam turned away to hide his smile.  He probably would not have another opportunity himself, and that thought couldn’t have pleased him more.  The columns of the New York Times soon proved him wrong, however.  No sooner had this rally been held than the next one was announced, for the evening of September 1, still prior to his departure for New Haven.  The maw of War, he mused—insatiable.

* * * * *

According to plan, Adam and Bert met Charles McCrory at the lower end of City Hall Park after work on Friday and walked together to its northwest corner.  They crossed the street and made their way to Delmonico’s.  Though this was intended to be a special night, Adam had been concerned that the restaurant might be a little rich for their blood, but Mr. McCrory had assured him that, so long as they kept to the downstairs dining hall, they’d find the food within their means.  “Lawyers’ assistants, journalists, even dry goods clerks eat here all the time,” he’d said.  “I have myself, on occasion.”  From the attire of those on that level, Adam knew he’d been told the truth, for the three of them were probably better dressed than ninety percent of their fellow diners—only, of course, because they’d brought dress clothes to work with them and changed before leaving their respective offices.

“Quite a menu,” Adam observed as he read down the lengthy list of selections.  “I scarcely know what to choose.”

“Oysters, judging by your most frequent lunchtime selection,” Bert teased.

Adam arched a reproving eyebrow.  “That’s because of the heat.  No, I want something completely new tonight, in keeping with the occasion.”

“Well, you could always have the salsify au jus,” McCrory suggested lightly.  “Oyster plant, by its common name, and said to taste like the real thing, though I can’t vouch for it personally.”

Adam laughed.  “Just for that, I will, with the squab, I think, and—let’s see”—his brow wrinkled as he studied the menu—“oh, the spinach in cream sauce, perhaps.  Exotic enough to seem special without overwhelming my palate with too many new tastes.”

“Pheasant for me,” Bert declared.

“My, aren’t we grand?” Adam joked.  “With artichokes and eggplant, I presume?”

Bert snorted, for as Adam well knew, his taste ran more toward meat and potatoes of the heartiest varieties.  For him, even the roast fowl was an exotic departure.  Mr. McCrory’s appetite was smaller than either of the younger men, so he settled for trout and asparagus.

“So, is it like oysters?” Bert asked when Adam had tasted his root vegetable.

Adam shrugged.  “A bit more insipid, with a touch of sweetness, but if I really stretch my imagination, I can get a sense of oysters—with none of their coolness,” he added with a laugh.  “It’s been a fine dinner, however.  Thank you for suggesting it, Mr. McCrory.”

“You’ll be even better pleased with the theater, I believe,” McCrory said.  “The Winter Garden always presents fine productions with the best actors.”

“Have you seen this play, ‘The Hunchback,’ before?” Adam inquired.

McCrory nodded.  “Very romantic.  Just the sort of thing young men enjoy.”

Adam laughed.  “It sounds more like the sort of thing young ladies enjoy.”

“Which is exactly why we haven’t told them what we’re up to,” Bert put in with a sly grin.

“Three young rakehells on the town again,” Adam said with a saucy wink.

“I’ll raise my glass to that.”  Charles McCrory lifted his wine glass, and the others raised theirs in toast to another night of masculine solidarity.

After the meal they made their way up Broadway and entered the newly reopened Winter Garden Theater.  “Much improved,” Mr. McCrory said with satisfaction as they walked down the freshly carpeted middle aisle of the main floor.  “The walls used to be a dingy red,” he added once they were seated.  “This is much better for the actors’ skin tone, don’t you think?”

Adam nodded.  It wasn’t something he’d given any thought to before, but he supposed this delicate blue would reflect more naturally under the gas lights.  The touches of gold ornamentation made the theater look rich, but he was most fascinated by the panels inscribed with names, many familiar, but more not.  “Are they all playwrights?” he asked, having recognized Shakespeare, Bulwer-Lytton and Sheridan as authors of plays he’d seen.

“Or famous actors,” McCrory replied.

“Oh, yes, there’s Junius and Edwin Booth,” Adam said.  “They toured California, you know.”

“You saw them?”

“Yes,” Adam said.  “Excellent players.”  He laughed.  “Of course, back then I was so excited about seeing any play that I thought they were all marvelous.”

“The Booths are, by any estimation,” Bert observed.  “I noticed that Edwin is scheduled to appear here this season.  I’m not sure you’ll get the chance to see him before you leave us, though, Adam.  A pity it’s Edwin Adams and not Booth in tonight’s offering.”

“Adams is a fine actor, as well,” McCrory promised.  “He’s the love interest for Miss Bateman in this play, and I think you’ll find them both most convincing.”

As the drama developed, Adam decided that not only were Miss Bateman and Mr. Adams convincing in their portrayals of the lovers, but that their acting skill was the only thing that saved the play from being as insipid as the salsify he’d eaten at supper.  Their conflict began reasonably enough: the unlikely union of a simple country girl with a baronet used to city life.  Adam found himself in the same situation, only in reverse, with his town-bred Elizabeth, so he leaned forward in his chair throughout the first act, eager to hear arguments that might one day persuade her to give up New Haven for life on the Ponderosa.

The second act, however, gave the country girl her first taste of life in the lap of luxury, when some unstated business brought her and her guardian, Master Walter, to the city.  Here, Julia fell prey to the delights of new dresses and dances that lasted into the wee hours of the morning, and the love she had once felt for Sir Thomas seemed eclipsed by a newfound love for his money and the title she would soon assume as his wife.  Overhearing her express ardor for his worldly goods and position, but not his person, Sir Thomas became incensed and declared that if all she wanted was his name, then his name was all she would get.  He would fulfill his vow to marry her, but would leave her the same day, never to see her again.  Equally irate over his insult, she declared that she’d just marry someone richer, with a higher title, the Earl of Rocheford.  So much for true love! Adam thought as the curtain fell.

The remainder of Knowles’ play seemed determined to prove Shakespeare’s adage, “The course of true love never did run smooth”—in spades!  First, Sir Thomas lost his title and was forced to take a position as secretary to the earl his former fiancé now planned to wed.  Once he had nothing to offer her, Julia decided she really did love him after all, but she couldn’t marry him because she was now pledged to another.  To walk away from her vow would bring dishonor on the father she’d never met, the one who for some unknown reason had asked Master Walter to raise her.  Though the Earl was only marrying her to wear her as a pretty jewel on his arm, he refused to release her.  There seemed no way out until Master Walter revealed that he was, in reality, Julia’s true father, and as such, he refused her permission to marry the Earl, not only paving the way for her to unite with her true love, Thomas, but also revealing that he himself was the true Earl of Rocheford and had only hidden his identity from her because he feared she could not love a father who was a hunchback—as convoluted a plot as Adam had ever witnessed on stage.  Shakespeare, it wasn’t, he concluded as the trio of men left the theater, but despite that, he’d enjoyed the evening, and it had, at least, left him with the impression that if Julia and Thomas could work through their ridiculous troubles, then surely, when the time came, he and Elizabeth would be able to find a middle ground between their differing lifestyles.

* * * * *

The table was piled with mail when Adam arrived home from work on the first day of September.  As he riffled through it, he found the usual letters for him from Elizabeth and Jamie, but when his fingers closed around a fat envelope with “Franktown” as its postmark, he all but tore up the stairs to read in the privacy of his room.  For once the letter from Elizabeth lay neglected while he broke the seal and read his first news of the summer from home.

Pa hadn’t been able to mail anything until he received Adam’s first letter from New York City, for he’d had no idea where to direct it until then.  He had, however, written regularly and saved each sheet to send when he had an address.  The news stretched back to the end of June, starting with details of ranch life, spring roundup and the planting of the garden (with the dubious help of Little Joe).  The Thomases, Adam learned, had moved to Virginia City.  Nelly was not happy about it—no surprise there—but Clyde expected to prosper in his new job as blacksmith for one of the mines.  Pa described the town picnic and dance held for the Fourth of July, and Adam smiled when he read that Little Joe had been hoping that Adam would come to the nation’s birthday party.  So the little fellow hadn’t forgotten him; that was good to hear.

There was more serious news about the Chinese being blamed for a fire in Virginia City.  Pa said that he’d managed to persuade a few people to scratch their names off a petition to force the Chinese out of town, but wasn’t sure whether he’d accomplished much, other than demonstrating his skill with fisticuffs for the unintended entertainment of his younger sons.

The description of Hoss’s birthday celebration was unexpectedly serious, as well, for Hoss had at first vehemently rejected the idea of any kind of party.  Adam sobered as he read how a volcano of hurt had come erupting out of his younger brother, who had been so upset at how Pa acted toward Little Joe on Hoss’s previous birthday that he’d vowed never to have a party for himself ever again.  Adam lay back, musing for a few minutes.  He couldn’t recall any specific incident regarding his youngest brother on that particular day, but all the days following Marie’s death had been difficult.  Pa just hadn’t been himself, and he had seemed especially neglectful of Little Joe until that horrific night when they’d almost lost him.  That had snapped Pa back into himself, but apparently scars had been left on Hoss’s tender heart.

Turning back to the letter, Adam ached inside as he read his father’s expression of regret for how he’d acted back then, and he shook his head sadly at Pa’s apology for burdening his oldest son with too much responsibility.  It was the past, over and done with, apologized for already, and he wished with all his heart that he could be home to throw a consoling arm around his father and assure him that all was forgiven.  He could write it in a letter, of course, but sometimes written words seemed so inadequate—and, given the uncertainty of the mails, so agonizingly slow.

At least today, though, he could finish the story, for Pa next wrote about the simple celebration Hoss had agreed to have and the more festive trip to the circus that Pa had tricked his boy into.  Adam laughed as he read the description of the youngsters’ reaction to the three-headed chicken, dramatically proven to be a hoax when one head suddenly fell off.  And how he wished he could have been sitting right next to Little Joe when he saw the marvelous trick ponies, who could count out numbers with their dainty hooves!  As he read page after page of Pa’s letter and then Hoss’s and, finally, Little Joe’s, which was mainly pictures of the circus acts, it was as if the walls of his room fell away and he could almost smell the fragrance of pine and sage, instead of the smoke from a hundred chimneys.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

As incredible as it seems now, the scenes depicting travel restrictions imposed during the summer of 1862, as the first draft was being threatened, are all factual, as reported in the columns of the New York Times.

“The Hunchback,” written by James Sheridan Knowles, can be read in its entirety at Google Books.