I couldn’t bring myself to be angry.
The smell of black powder came in with the night air. Calyxa stirred and asked sleepily whether something was burning. “Smells like the whole town’s on fire,” she murmured.
“Just mischief,” I told her.
I shivered, though the night was warm. Then I shuttered the window and went back to bed.
4
In the days before the Fourth of July I wrote up a special Introduction to the revised edition of The Adventures of Captain Commongold (Now Revealed as Julian Comstock), the Youthful Hero of the Saguenay , and replaced all the commas Mr. Theodore Dornwood had deleted or misplaced. In the matter of the Introduction I accepted the tutelage of Sam Godwin, who said it was very important that I should not insult the reigning President, but rather say something to praise him.
I didn’t like to do this. After everything Julian had said about his uncle, it felt like hypocrisy. I told Sam so.
“It is hypocrisy. A lie, frankly. But it’s for Julian’s sake. It may save his life, or at least prolong it.”
I could hardly refuse, then, for this was the same document that had imperiled Julian in the first place, and I was not sorry if it could be made to serve the opposite purpose. So I wrote down that Julian had joined the Army of the Laurentians under an assumed name “so that he would not receive any special treatment that might otherwise accrue to a President’s nephew, but would be treated as an ordinary soldier of the line.” Not that Deklan Comstock would ever stoop to influencing the military to obtain a better position for Julian: “The President no doubt believes, as Julian does, that a man must distinguish himself on his own hook, and for his own behavior, and no one else’s. It was Julian’s fear that some commissioned officer might attempt to curry favor through favoritism; and his pride and patriotism would not allow him to accept any such unearned privilege.” Julian, I wrote, wanted to achieve the condition of heroism, if he achieved it at all, “as Deklan Conqueror had: on his own behalf, and without any softening help.”
Julian winced when he read this, and told me I ought to work for the Dominion, since I was so facile with a flattering lie; but Sam rebuked him and explained that I had included the passage at his insistence.
“I’ve been spending time with Army officers on leave from the Laurentians,” Sam said. “In the high ranks, particularly the men around General Galligasken, there is considerable discontent with Deklan Comstock. The President attempts to rule the Army like a tyrant, and orders peculiar attacks and strategies of his own contriving; and when these fail—as they almost inevitably do—he punishes some hapless Major General, or appoints a more servile one in his place. Unfortunately our success at Chicoutimi isn’t typical of the general progress of the War. The Army of the Laurentians can’t continue to sustain losses at the current rate—the President will have to recall veterans, or whip up a new draft, if he wants to prevent a complete collapse.
I tell you this in utmost confidence: if we can placate Deklan Conqueror, even temporarily, we may also outlast him.”
That was unsettling news, even if it had a bright side, but there was nothing I could do about it. Julian accepted it with a nod and a frown.
Later that day I asked Sam whether he had been in contact with any of the Jews of New York City, for there were many of them—I had seen them walking black-suited to their Saturday services, in an enclave near the Egyptian part of town. [At first I thought the immigrant Egyptians might also be Jews, since they worshipped at unusual temples of their own; but this was not the case, Sam said.]
“In Montreal I could afford such associations,” he said. “As Sam Godwin I’m too well known to risk it.”
“What would the risk be? Judaism is legal in this state, isn’t it?”
“Legal but hardly respectable,” said Sam. We were strolling down Broadway, not for the exercise but in order to have a conversation that wouldn’t be overheard by servants. The rattle of carriage wheels, the clatter of horses’ hooves, and the flapping of Independence Day banners made it impossible for anyone to eavesdrop on us—we could barely understand each other.
“What does respectability matter?” Having very little of my own, I was inclined to devalue the commodity.
“It matters not at all to me personally, but a great deal to certain people I deal with. The military, of course. The Dominion, it goes without saying. I can’t do what I have been doing on behalf of Julian if I become known as a practicing Jew. And even in my private life—”
“Do you have one, Sam?” I asked, and immediately regretted the impertinence. He gave me a sour look.
“I hesitate to talk about it. But as a newly married man perhaps you can understand. Years ago—even before the death of Julian’s father—I had the misfortune of falling in love with Mrs. Emily Baines Comstock.”
It wasn’t earth-shaking news. I had seen him blush whenever Mrs. Comstock entered a room; and I had seen her blush, too, in a way that suggested the possibility of mutual affection. Sam was nearly fifty years old, and Mrs. Comstock the same, but I had learned that love can blossom even in the elderly. Still it was shocking to hear him speak of it aloud.
“I know what you’re thinking, Adam—the barriers are insurmountable.”
It wasn’t exactly what I had been thinking, but it would do.
“Nevertheless,” Sam said, “I’ve confided some of my feelings to Emily, and she has hinted that those feelings might be in some measure returned.”
“She told you to grow your beard back,” I observed, “and you did it.”
“Beards don’t come into the matter. This is serious. When Bryce Comstock was alive I kept my affections to myself, and Emily was a devoted wife to a brave soldier, a man for whom my respect was immeasurable and my friendship absolute. But Bryce is gone these several years, and Emily is a widow, and in social eclipse on top of that. The day may come when I can propose a wedding to her. Not until political matters are settled, however—and not at all, if I’m revealed as a Jew.” The Dominion forbade such marriages, and called them unnatural.
“That would make you Julian’s step-father,” I said.
“What else have I been, since Julian was a child, except a second father to him?—though he thinks of me more as a servant, I’m afraid.”
“He’s fonder of you than he can say. He trusts your advice.”
“I don’t deny that I’m of value to him—only that he values me as a useful servant might be valued.”
“More than that!”
“Well, maybe so,” said Sam. “The situation’s murky.”
That was the third day of the month of July, the eve of our visit to the Executive Palace.
* * *
Independence Day! What cherished memories of Williams Ford that date provoked, despite all my present anxieties.
It had always been the least solemn of the four Universal Christian Holidays, second only to Christmas in my childish calculations. It was, of course, a profoundly sacred occasion, marked by innumerable services at the Dominion Hall. There had been many public lectures by Ben Kreel about the Christian Nation in which we lived, and the valuable role of the Dominion in all our lives, and such weighty matters as that. But Independence Day also marked the true beginning of summer—summer in its maturity, July and August populating the world with perfume and insects. The creeks that fed the River Pine, though still cold, were available for swimming; squirrels begged to be stalked and shot; peddlers came up from Connaught with fireworks to sell. Best of all, Independence Day drew the Aristos out of their Estate for picnics and celebrations, which meant that my mother, in her role as a seamstress, could sneak into the Estate library and fetch out a book or two for me to read. (These volumes were usually, but not always, returned in good order.) I was prompted by this sentiment to compose a letter to my mother in Williams Ford. Because Julian’s identity had been revealed I could finally write to her openly, and receive mail in return, and I had already sent her several notes—though no response had been received. I sat by the window in the room I shared with Calyxa; there was a small desk there, and I took a sheet of paper from its topmost drawer.