338A. Free: Dark Knowledge, chs. 1-3

                    Dark Knowledge
                                  Chapters 1-3




            
                                            1

                                                   I had never quite liked my uncle, and he had never quite liked me.  But I had two good reasons to see him, an invitation and a question, so there I was, bound for his office on South Street, where bowsprits of anchored sailing vessels jutted high in the air overhead, while stevedores hustled huge bales and barrels and crates onto wagons or off of them, and iron-wheeled drays clattered on cobblestones amid smells of whale oil and sawn wood and brine.  These were the sights and sounds and smells that three generations of my family, the Harmonys – tough, keen, hardbitten men -- had known and reveled in, as they set out for rampageous adventures in hot distant places.  The very thought of those adventures always sparked me, fired me up.            After a few minutes I stepped into the ship chandlery that still bore the sign  HARMONY  BROTHERS, even though my father had left the firm years before.  Knowing me, the salesmen nodded but left me alone.  I loved the sight of those mysterious instruments that I would never use – barometers and sextants and quadrants – and the smells of cordage, paint, canvas, and oils.  Buoys and bells dangled from rafters, big windlasses sat heavy on the floor, cutlasses and axes gleamed.  Gingerly I ran my finger along the cutting edge of a cutlass, imagining the heroic purposes such weapons might be put to – Grandpa Harmony battling boarders from a British man-of-war, or Great Uncle Noah fighting off hordes of pirates in the Sunda Straits, before succumbing to their poisoned darts -- while a few feet away a salesman spieled on to a customer about the latest model of bilge pump.  The chandlery was a world that I could glimpse close up yet always from a distance, a world that my grandfather had exposed me to early with robustious tales of battles and pirates and typhoons, a world that beckoned and enticed me but in the end shut me out; it was and wasn’t mine.            In the office next door I told a clerk I wanted to see my uncle.  Just what his business was, aside from the chandlery, I couldn’t be sure; I knew he was a shipper of goods and a shipowner, but precisely what he shipped or owned escaped me, since he kept pretty mum about it.  Around me in the front office were crates and bins offering samples of goods; in back, clerks perched on high stools penned entries into ledgers ata counter.            “Good morning, Cousin Chris.  We haven’t seen you down here for quite a while.”            It was Cousin Dwight, Uncle Jake’s older son, tall, heavyset, with a wisp of waxed mustache curled over his lip like a snake: for a Harmony, a bit of a dandy.  But a hero, too: in Mobile Bay the ironclad Tecumsehhad been blown to bits out from under him, leaving him splashing about in the water, one of the few survivors, with shots whizzing and booming all around -- an incident that, as he told it, prompted Admiral Farragut’s famous cry:  “Damn the torpedoes – full steam ahead!”            “Good morning, Dwight.  I was hoping to see your father.”            “He’s with a customer.  Is there anything I can do for you?”            “Thanks, not really.  I need to see Uncle Jake.”            “So how’s the scholar?  Learning all kinds of things, I’m sure.”  (A touch of irony; Dwight hadn’t been to college, didn’t miss it.)            “Well, classes are suspended for the summer.”            “Just lolling around, then?”            “Not really.  Ma has me sorting out Pa’s old papers in his desk.”            “Anything interesting?”             “Old bills long since paid, sewing machine announcements, hotel brochures from 1863.  He never threw anything away.”            “I see.  Pa will be with you shortly, I’m sure.”            Dwight retired into a back office, probably miffed because I wouldn’t deal with him.  We’d never got on.  I found him pushy and aggressive; he thought me soft.            Suddenly Uncle Jake’s voice thundered forth from his back office.  “If they think that, they can kiss my royal ass.  My terms are clear; I won’t renegotiate.  If that’s not good enough, the deal is off – do you hear? – off!  I don’t need those shit-their-britches, and you can tell them that from me.  Go to hell, all of you!  Good day!”            His voice had boomed; the whole room heard.  The clerks didn’t even look up, just kept on pushing their pens.  Then a silk-hatted older man came out of Uncle Jake’s office, a troubled look on his face, and hurried off.  Uncle Jake stepped into the outer office in shirt sleeves, his eyes flashing under heavy brows, his face as red as his square-cut beard.  When he saw me, his features softened.            “Chris, boy, how are you?  Come in, come in.”            He waved me into his office.  I took off my silk hat with the band of crape; we sat.  Over his desk hung a large print of the clipper ship Falcon, which on its first run in the early fifties had made record time to California and been hailed by all as a wonder; part owner, he never let anyone forget it.  He struck me as a hard man, as hard and keen as the cutlass I’d just touched in his chandlery.             “Pardon my Dutch, Chris; I was a bit het up.  You’re how old now?”            “Twenty, sir.”            “Old enough to have heard talk like that before.  Men at sea, with no women around, talk like that too much.  Not that you’ve been to sea or ever will be, unless of course you’ve changed your mind.”            “Uncle Jake, I’m not meant for the sea.”            “True enough: too thin, too slight.  Not your fault, but once out of the harbor, you’d heave your cookies in the deep.”            Years before, when Grandpa Harmony had taken all the kids in a small boat to see the lighthouse at Sandy Hook, I’d retched over the side all the way.  Dwight of course told his father, and the two of them had been reminding me of it ever since.            “Be that as it may,” said Jake, “don’t mention my cussing to your ma.  It might make for rowdy weather between us.”            “I won’t, sir.  I promise.”            “How is she, by the way?  Haven’t seen her since the funeral.”            “She’s getting used to Pa’s not being around, but it’s tough for all of us.  She’s putting up a thumping big monument in Woodlawn, and lights candles in front of his daguerreotype, talks to him sometimes, prays a lot.”            “Like me, when I lost Emmie.  Didn’t pray much, but I talked to her at first.”            Uncle Jake had lost his wife several years back.              Suddenly his eyes cut into mine.  “So, Chris, what can I do for you?”            “First of all, sir, Ma wants to invite you and Dwight to dinner next Sunday, if you’re free.  She’s still in deep mourning but is willing to see family.”            “I should think so.  Moping around won’t bring Mark back.  Tell her Dwight and I will be delighted to come.  Maybe about three?”            “Three would be fine, sir.”            “Chris, your pa and I had our differences at times, but Mark Harmony was a decent man.  Too decent for his own good.”            “Yes sir.  Ma asked me to clean out his desk.  Right off I found a diary.  The very last entry in it, written the day before he died, thanked the Lord that he’d been able to see his family through the financial convulsion of the last decade and the tribulations of this one.  ‘In spite of earlier doubts and fierce misgivings,’ he wrote, ‘thank God for the Venture.’  We can’t figure out what he meant.  Would you have any idea, Uncle Jake?”            His features tightened ever so slightly, and he looked away.  “The ‘Venture’?”            “Yes sir, with a capital V.  We think it might have been some stroke of business he pulled off just before the war.  He’d lost a deal of money, but after that everything was fine.”              “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Chris.  I know nothing about any ‘Venture.’  That’s old stuff.  Does it matter?”            “Well, it might help me with the family history I’d like to do someday.  With classes over for the summer, I thought I might get started, maybe go through the stuff in Grandpa’s chest.”            “Chest?  What chest?”            “The sea chest with all Grandpa’s papers.  It came to us when he died, and it’s been sitting in the library ever since.  Pa meant to sort it out but never did.”            “Chris, I should have been told about that chest.  Old Biggs was Caleb Harmony’s executor, but Biggs left it to me to go through my father’s personal effects.”            “Ma told you about it at the time.  You shrugged it off, said you were busy.”            “I was, and then I guess it slipped my mind.  I’d like to have a look at it.”            “I’ll tell Ma, sir.  Maybe when you come next Sunday.”            “To really look into it, I’d need to take possession.”  He was fingering a gold penknife; something was up.            “Well sir, I’d kind of like to hold on to it.  For the family history, you know.  I really mean to write it.”            “Chris, this family doesn’t need a scribbler; we’re doers.  Forget the history.  Don’t look back – that’s dead.  Always look ahead!”            “But Uncle Jake, the Harmonys have been everywhere, done everything.  It’s a roaring good story, it’s prime.  If it isn’t recorded, it’ll soon be forgotten.  That’s where I come in.  I’ll make sure the Harmony name lives on.  Because you’re heroes, all of you,  and you ought to be remembered!”  (This was laying it on pretty thick, but with Jake you just about had to.)            “Chris, life at sea isn’t all glorious adventure.  It’s hard, it can twist your gut.  It’s ugly sometimes, and sometimes just plain boring.”            “Then tell me, Uncle Jake.  I’ll put that in, too.”            “No you won’t!”  He slammed his fist hard on his desk.  Papers flew; the Falcon hung crooked on the wall.  Then, calmer:  “For God’s sake, Chris, don’t mess with things you know nothing about.”            “Well, sir, I still think you’re all heroes.  Even Rick.  How is he, by the way?”             Asking about his younger son always put Uncle Jake off.  Rick was a bit of a scamp, going off to dubious exploits at sea and then turning up when least expected, spouting tales of adventure and woe.            “How should I know, Chris?  I’m only his father.  He’s been gone a year and a half without word.  He could be drowned or in Timbuctoo.”            A hint of regret?  I couldn’t tell.  Then suddenly he eyed me cannily, spoke softly.            “You’re a shrewd little bastard, aren’t you?  I hadn’t realized.”            I smiled.  “Just curious, Uncle Jake.  Rick is family.  I like to keep up.”            He rose quickly from his desk.  “See you next Sunday, Chris.  Dwight and I will be delighted.”            We shook hands.  He was barking orders at a clerk as I left.


            When I got back to our brownstone on St. Mark’s Place, Ma called me and my sister Sal into the sitting room.  Sal was my twin, a brisk brunette with eyes of green agate.  She and I shared everything, could often read each other’s thoughts, which was sometimes fun and sometimes just a mite awkward, since there are things a fellow’s sister doesn’t need to know.            “I’ve been reading your father’s diary,” said Ma.  “There are two entries you might find of interest, since they have to do with a ‘Venture.’  Here they are.”  She cleared her throat, read.            “16 October 1858.  Another row with Jake over the Venture.  He’s not telling me enough.  What have I got into?  He assures me all is well, substantial Profits will result.  How?  From what?  A Mistake from beginning to end, but I’m committed, it’s too late to pull out.”            She showed us the entry, paused to let us absorb it, then took back the diary, flipped through some pages, resumed.            “9 August 1859.  Good Profit from the Venture; Jake has settled the Accounts.  He promises even more Profits, but I insisted that I want my share now and won’t be involved in any further Transactions.  I’m out of it, thank the Merciful Lord, and will have no further Dealings with Jake.”            Again, she showed us the entry and waited while we absorbed it.            “Your father was not a happy man.  I had no idea.  I’ll inform you, if I encounter any more entries that seem relevant.”            With that, she left us.  That was Ma’s way: quiet, dignified, using few words, but when she spoke, you listened.            We pondered in silence for a moment, then I told Sal about my meeting with Uncle Jake.              “So Uncle Jake was in some ‘Venture’ with Pa, as we just learned from the diary, but now he won’t admit it.”            “Exactly.”            “So he’s a liar.  And he wants to take possession of the chest.”  She scrunched up her features in a frown.            “Mr. Biggs asked him to sort out Grandpa’s personal effects.”            “Will Ma let him have it?”            “She might be glad to get rid of it.”            The chest had been dumped on us when Grandpa died and had been sitting in a dark corner of the library ever since.  Ma wanted to store it in the attic, but Pa clung to it, promising to sort through the contents, which of course he never did.  In desperation Ma covered it with an old shawl and a burnt china mug, and we all forgot about it; it had  hunkered down in the shadows.            “Look,” said Sal, “you’ll need it for that family history you’ve been threatening to write.”            “That’s what I told Uncle Jake, but he said forget about it, always look ahead, never back.  Grandpa Harmony told me once that I was much too young for such a hefty undertaking, and Pa just plain damped me down, ordering me to stick to my studies.”             “So nobody in the family wants you to write that history.  Yet it’s a dandy story, it’s keen.”            “That’s what I told Uncle Jake.  We owe it to the family, the city, and the nation.”            “Why doesn’t he see it that way?  And why does he want to get his paws on that chest?”            “There must be something in it he doesn’t want us to know about.”            “Then it’s high time we had a look in there ourselves.”              “Pa told me not to mess with it until I got my degree.”            “Oh rats!  We’re going to have a look right now!”            That said, she hustled me into the library, whisked off the scarf and the mug, and with me helping, and the hinges creaking, opened the musty old chest.  Loose papers spilled out amid a smell of dried ink and decay.


                                            2

                                    “What do you make of it?” asked Sal.            Snatching up loose papers from the chest at random, we’d been reading in silence for at least twenty minutes.            “It’s what in pidgin English is called a chow-chow,” I explained, having picked up the term in my readings.  “A mix of stuff, a muddle.  Loose pages from journals and letters, bills of lading, lists of port expenses, ships’ manifests.  Grandpa must have tossed it all in the trunk and forgotten about it.  But it’s super.  For a historian” – so I now termed myself – “a devilish hot smash of a find!”            “Look at this,” said Sal, thrusting at me a sheet of paper yellowed with age.


Rec’d from brig Resolute, J. Hawkins, master, 1 hogshead fine French brandy adressed to Harmony & Biggs, New York, containing preserved remains of Noah Harmony, deseased of Panama fever, Chagres, 11 Sept. 1823, age 31 yrs, 5 mos., 3 days, recovered from sea by said brig off Barnegat Light, having presumably washed overbord from  another vessel, identity unknown, and now duly delivered hear for Christian burial, God’s will be done.  Caleb Harmony, 16 Oct. 1823.


            Sal looked perplexed.  “So Great-Uncle Noah was shipped home in a hogshead of brandy that was lost at sea and then recovered and delivered as addressed?”            “I guess.  Quite a postmortem adventure!”            “I thought he died fighting pirates in the Sunda Straits.”            “So did I.”            “Grandpa said his ship was becalmed, and suddenly thirty whatchamacallits -- ”            “Thirty proas.”            “ – attacked from all sides.  He died a hero fighting pirates.”            “A pistol in one hand, a cutlass in the other.”             “And not from some silly old yellow fever.”            “Killed the pirate chief with his last breath, and was buried at sea with full honors.”            “So do you believe it now, or not?”            “Well, Pa warned me more than once to take Grandpa’s stories cum grano salis.”            “Please, no Latin.”            “With a grain of salt.”            “Grandpa lied?”            “Pa didn’t quite say that.  He said Grandpa liked to spin a good yarn.”            Sal frowned.  “You mean like those silly dime novels you used to read?”            “I outgrew them long ago.  This is something else again.”            “And these,” she said, brandishing a loose page covered with a neat, tight hand.  “Aren’t these journal entries from when Grandpa was rounding Cape Horn?  They aren’t just a yarn too, are they?”


            July 4.  Terrible gale to westward; no thot of celebration.  Mountinous seas, violent hale and snow skwalls.  Strange hissing and singing sounds heard in the roar of the wind, abundant wild fowl, monstrous whales.  One man overbord, reskew impossible; may the Good Lord receeve him in his Grace.  Crew stedfast, passengers terrified.  I prey to God we find good wether soon.  Little progress.  Lat. 56o 20’ S., long. 65o27’ W.


            I glanced at the page she was holding.  “No, those entries are solid, they’re for real.  He always said that rounding the cape was the toughest sailing he’d ever known.”            “Snow and ice in July?”            “In the southern hemisphere it’s winter when we have summer.”            “Oh.”            “That was early in his career; I can tell.”            “How?”            “His handwriting is still quite legible.  Later it became a god-awful scrawl.”            My first job one summer had been as office boy at the Mariners’ Bank, where Grandpa had become president.  They hired me because I alone could decipher his script.            “But the stuff that really gets me,” said Sal, “is Grandpa’s letters to Grandma about the China trade.  This one, for instance.”


            When our ship rounded a bend in the river, I was thrilled to see a long line of vessels ankored side by side, perhaps a hundred of them, each flying its national flag.  This is Whampoa, the port of Canton.  Proceding upriver in a small boat, I marveled at the thik swarm of craft -- clumsy-looking oceangoing junks with sharp prows painted with huge eyes to watch for the devils of the deep, river junks manned by near naked koolies pulling on long sweeps, and mandarin patrol boats with red sashes around the muzles of their cannon.  As we approached the confined district outside the city where, by the grace of the Son of Heaven, forin devils are allowed to reside and trade, we picked our way thru a hord of sampans with barbers, juglers and storytellers drifting past us, and pedlers hawking bird cages, and wives cooking over open fires on the stern while hens and ducks in wikker baskets clucked and skwawked insessantly.  It was a feast of life, my dear Sarah, a mix of sites, sounds and smells like I have never encountered in all my roavings on the far seven seas.


            Sal read it over twice.  “Yes, that must have been a bang-up sight to see.”            “There’ll be more,” I said.  “We’ve just scratched the surface.  But so far, nothing about any ‘Venture,’ and nothing for Uncle Jake to get worked up about.”            “That letter congratulating Grandpa on becoming president of the bank, what’s that all about?”  She showed me yet another loose paper.


Dear Caleb,            Well, you old dog, you have survived storms and earthquakes and Chinamen and British men-o’-war to get yourself into the Chamber of Commerce, and now, to further dazzle the lubbers, you strut in clean cuffs and glossy patent leathers as the president of a bank.  Congrats, old salt.  Needless to say, I am devoured by envy, hence this hurried hodgepodge of a letter.            Ah, Caleb, if you can holystone yourself, you sly Presbyterian, so can I.  Gideon of old I shall no longer be.  I shall trade my sea togs for finery, put on the sheen of Virtue, and tread its narrow Lane.  You have sprigs, and sprigs of sprigs, as do I.  For their sake – and our own – we must shed our naughty ways.  Rechristened, I shall strut not a prince, but a king.  Embrace me, fellow royal.  Cleansed of our past, we


            I put the letter down.  “From some old pal of his, I guess.  The rest of it is missing.”            “He makes it sound like Grandpa had to become respectable.  Wasn’t he always?”            “Maybe not in the eyes of bluebloods.  He smelled too much of the waterfront.  Once he became a shipowner, that changed.”            “I still don’t get it.  The whole letter, I mean.”            “Neither do I: a mysterium immensum.”            “In English, please.”            “A big mystery.  But ‘sprigs of sprigs,’ that’s us.”            “Us?”            “His grandchildren.”            “Oh.  And in the letter of his to someone about supplies – a copy by a clerk, I suppose – why does he put ‘rum’ and ‘hats’ and ‘soap’ in quotation marks?”            “I hadn’t noticed.”            She showed me the letter; the first part was missing. 


20 “rum” casks, 50 lbs lumber, 1 crate “hats,” 3 boxes “soap.”  Daily exercise and song are highly recommended; an upturned kettle can serve as a drum.  Also recommended is a familiar diet of rice, pepper, palm oil, potatoes, and corn.  Beware of diseases of a febrile character and the flux.  Allow substantial sums for gratuities, and at all times have on hand the two sets of papers.  I wish you Godspeed; the prospects are bright. -- C. Harmony


            I read it again, twice.  “Yes, quote marks.  But why?”            “It’s like saying, ‘I don’t really mean these things; they stand for something else.’ ”            “They’re code words?”            “Exactly.  There was something he couldn’t just say right out.”            “But what?”            “We’ll have to find out.  Maybe this is what Jake’s worried about.”            “Maybe.  And maybe you’ve been reading too many novels.”            “Grandpa’s papers are better than any novel.  Misspellings and all, they’re real, they’re the Harmonys, they’re us.”            That said, she scooped up more papers and resumed reading.  I did, too, and started sorting them into piles.  In time, I hoped, we’d gather together all the scattered pages of the letters and journals, and then organize them in chronological order.   Meanwhile it was a rich, haphazard feast.  We read until dinner, when Ma’s entreaties pulled us away from the chest.  After dinner we went back to it and read until bedtime.            “So?” said Sal finally, with a yawn.            “It’s juicy,  it’s prime.  But the more I read, the less I understand.”            “Me, too.  There’s always something implied, something not spelled out.”            “Fascinating.  But let’s not get carried away.”


            A ship with reefed sails and VENTURE on its bow, foundering in mountainous seas where whales broach and plunge, with sheets of gray water flying over it, its masts and decks coated with ice.  Sinking in a squall, it becomes a junk with huge eyes on its prow, its cannon ringed with red sashes, while clucking hens strut on the deck.  Nearby, rising silently out of a floating hogshead, Noah Harmony looms, wasted and delirious, his clothes stained with bloody black vomit, his skin a sickly yellow, as slowly, accusingly, he points the skinniest of fingers:  Why do you disturb me?  Why?

            I woke up in a sweat. 


                                              3


            “Pa, were you a cabin boy at fifteen?”            “No, at sixteen.”            “A ship’s master at twenty?”            “More like twenty-two.  So long ago.  Why do you ask?”            “Just wondering.”            “You’ve been listening to Grandpa, haven’t you?  The so-called family motto: cabin boy at fifteen, ship’s master at twenty.”            “Well … yes.”            “Don’t worry about it, Chris.  Not everyone is meant for the sea.  I wasn’t.”            “But you went to sea for quite a spell, didn’t you?”            “Six years.  That was my youth, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  But then I’d had enough.  I wanted to come ashore, snug down, get married.  And I did.”            “Uncle Jake didn’t, though, did he?”            “He got married, but he didn’t quit the sea.  Not for a long, long time.  It was in his blood.”            “He sure is Go Ahead, isn’t he?  A real wide-awake, a hustler.”            “Yes, Chris, he’s all that and more.”            “Like Grandpa.”            “But Grandpa has a mellow side, too; Jake doesn’t.  Oh, Jake can be charming, all right, but at heart he’s a mean, hard man.  Keep smooth weather between you; you wouldn’t want him for an enemy.”            “No sir.”            “You wouldn’t want that at all.  And there’s a difference between his side of the family and ours.  They have adventures and tell tall tales, but don’t believe everything they say.  We live quieter; we have the burden of truth.  Remember that, Chris.  It’s important.”            “Yes, Pa.  The burden of truth.”            “Let that be your ballast, your anchor.  In the long run it’ll keep you safe.”


            Uncle Jake and Dwight came to dinner by carriage, which Ma considered just a bit flash, since we didn’t keep one.  They had a hint of pomade in their hair, and both sported gold cuff links and a diamond tiepin.  Ma used our best dishes, a set of blue-and-white chinaware that Grandpa had brought back from Canton long ago.  Jake and Dwight raved about Ma’s roast turkey, which Jake carved with a flourish, eyes flashing, announcing, “The nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat!”  They ate with gusto, pronouncing Ma’s turnips and spuds delicious and her plum cake “confoundedly good.”   Ma’s cooking was super, but I thought their praise just a bit much.  Throughout dinner, and afterward in the parlor as well, they regaled us with stories, Dwight telling about running the Vicksburg batteries with Farragut and his fleet in ’62, and Jake relating how years before on the brig Hunter, bringing palm oil and ivory from the Guinea coast, he took command when the captain and mates were stricken with fever, and sold the cargo for a roaring good price in New York.            “You know how I never come down with fever, not in Africa or in the Americas either?  I took the advice of a Spanish gent who’d been in those parts many a time: soak your feet in brandy, wear thick wool socks, avoid night air and the noonday sun.  Other poor devils took sick, turned yellow, and wasted away, but I was in fine fettle.”            Finally he sent Dwight to fetch their carriage; a look passed between them.  Then, to end the evening with a bang, he entertained us with a host of anecdotes about old merchants and skippers he had known.  This was Uncle Jake at his best.  He had us laughing one minute, and shocked or all but in tears the next.  Yet as he talked, he kept fingering his gold penknife, which struck me as odd.  When he launched into yet another yarn about a sailmaker who married three ladies of property – albeit one at a time – and had even Ma, who was kind of straitlaced, laughing to the point of tears, Sal slipped quietly out of the room.  Moments later we heard her shout, “Chris, they’re stealing the chest!”            I was on my feet in a flash.  Darting into the hallway, I found Dwight and Uncle Jake’s black coachman Luke lugging Grandpa’s heavy chest toward the open front door, while Sal shouted and protested.  Making a flying leap, I landed on the chest, which under my weight crashed to the floor.  Luke stepped back in astonishment, but as Sal and I yelled “Thief!” at the top of our lungs, Dwight’s look of surprise changed to rage.  Lunging, he pummeled me with his fists.  I tried to hit back, couldn’t, so I huddled up and fended off his punches as best I could, while still yelling “Thief!  Thief!  Thief!”  By the time our cries brought Ma and Uncle Jake from the parlor, and the cook and the maid from the kitchen, my face was bloodied up and pretty much of a mess.            “Stop it, Dwight!” yelled Jake.            Dwight stepped back, breathing hard, scowling.            “Thief!” I cried, pointing at Dwight.  I was sitting crumpled on the floor, one eye shut, nose bleeding.            “Sal,” said Ma, “fetch a wet towel and help your brother stop the bleeding.  Annie and Meg, get back to the kitchen.  Dwight and Jacob, what’s this all about?”            The servants left.  Dwight started to speak, but his father cut him off.            “Martha, I was only taking what’s rightfully mine; I didn’t think you’d care.  But Dwight’s too free with his fists; I’ll deal with him later.”            “Jacob, that chest isn’t yours.”            “I’d be doing you a favor to take it off your hands.  What do you want with all those old papers?”            “More to the point, Jacob, what do you want with them?”            “Just a matter of winding up some loose ends from Pa’s estate.  Dull legal stuff.  Those papers may or may not be relevant.”            Ma eyed him something fierce.  “The chest stays here.  Put it back where you found it.”            Jake’s features tightened, but at a nod from him Dwight and the coachman lugged the chest back into the library.            “And now, Jacob, you and your minions can leave.”  She said “minions” with a sting of contempt.            “That chest is mine, Martha, and I mean to have it.”            “Jacob, you are not a gentleman.”            “Martha, I never said I was.  But thanks for the dinner.  I hope you’ll make it into half mourning soon; Mark would approve.  When you do, I’ll welcome you back to the land of the living.”            Preceded by his “minions,” he flashed a sour smile and left.            Sal came with a wet towel and dabbed my face; I was surprised by the splotches of blood on the towel: roses, a whole bouquet.  Then she ran to a front window, looked out.            “They’re going,” she reported.  “They’re gone.”            “Did they put the chest back exactly where they found it?” asked Ma.            Sal ran to the library, looked.  “Yes, Ma, they did.”            “And that’s where it shall stay.  Christopher, I advise you to take up boxing; I don’t think Dwight is done with you.  As for the chest, the two of you must go on searching it.  Jacob’s worried about something; find out what it is.”            “Yes, Ma,” we chorused.            “Sal, put some salve on your brother’s wounds.  Annie and Meg will see to the dishes.  I’m going to bed.  I suggest that you two do the same.”            Of course we didn’t.            “Dwight really hates you,” said Sal, as she put on the salve.            My bleeding had stopped, but the sight in one eye was a blur.  “I guess he does.  I didn’t know it until today.”            “Me neither.”            “But why?  I’ve never done him hurt.”            “He’s jealous, because you were Grandpa’s favorite.”            “I wasn’t!  He liked all of us.”            “Dwight was the oldest, biggest, strongest, and fastest, and we all knew it, but Grandpa liked you best.”            “Why?”            “You were the youngest of the boys, not as big and strong as the others.  You had a wonderful smile, an even temper, and you loved to hear his stories.”            “We all did.”            “Yes, but as Dwight got older, he got bored with them, he fidgeted.  He didn’t want to hear any more about Grandpa’s adventures; he wanted to get out and have adventures of his own."            “He did.  Look at all he went through in the war.”            “But he’s still jealous.  Take Ma’s advice, learn to box.  I’d love to see you punch him in the face.”            “So would I.”            “Chris, you’re a hero.  The way you jumped right on that chest!”            “I feel like mush.”            “You’re a hero.”            “And I’ve never been in a war.”            “You’re in one now!”

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Dark Knowledge is available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Signed copies are available from the author; contact him at his e-mail address: cliffbrowder@verizon.net.

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Coming soon:  Symbols of Hate.  Should those objectionable statues -- objectionable to some -- come down?  Is Columbus a hero or a sponsor of genocide?  And why did I hate Teddy Roosevelt?

©   2018   Clifford Browder