by L. K. Rigel
A round of beers went out to the men in the tavern. Times were indeed changing when a common man could break free of the land he was bound to. Zehetner’s talk had filled Leopold with romantic visions, and his altered eye fixed on a brave new plan.
“Zehetner, my friend, how will you acquire land for this grand New World estate when you are buying beers for all of us here?”
“Singer, I have no money. I admit that. But I have what money wants: knowledge. Benjamin Franklin himself once said, in America it is not asked of a man ‘What is he?’ but ‘What can he do?’”
“I’ve read Information for Those Who Would Remove to America,” Leopold said. “He wrote: The People have a saying, that God Almighty is Himself a Mechanic, the greatest in the Universe; and he is respected and admired more for the variety, ingenuity, and utility of his handiwork, than for the Antiquity of his family.”
“Mr. Singer,” Reverend Haas said. “Quoting clockwork philosophers, we might think you’ve turned Deist.”
Leopold’s face went blank. Since his parents’ death, he had had nothing to say to Haas, but no one knew the real story behind that. The chatter stilled, but the other patrons would learn nothing new that day. Leopold merely said, “You might be right.” Everyone knew he meant the opposite.
“I know how to run the land,” Zehetner continued. “Who will feed the thousands, the hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions who are pouring even now into the New World? I can make anything grow anywhere. I can tan leather. I am a blacksmith. I can make shoes and shear sheep. I know rye and barley and wheat. What strange crops America has, I will soon know all about them, too. It will be an adventure!”
“To Zehetner!”
“And I will hire myself out to a rich immigrant Parley Voos who knows nothing…”
This brought laughter all round.
“…and put money aside until I have enough. It may take until my sons are old men, but the Zehetners will own their land.”
During this declaration of independence, Leopold’s vision had taken form: Jonathan Zehetner had no capital, but knew how to run a farm. Leopold had capital, and he could raise more. “Zehetner, what would you think of owning your own land before even you are old?”
“I would think very well of it, Singer. What’s in your mind?”
“That we work together. I’ll buy the land, and instead of using your talents to make some Frenchman rich—”
“I’ll use them to make you even richer than you are now?”
“And yourself,” Leopold had said. “When you’ve taught me what I need to know to run my own place, you’ll have your land, free and clear.”
Haas had slammed down his empty stein. “And have neither of you any loyalty to your emperor, your homeland?” It wasn’t clear who Haas disapproved of more, the man who dared to better his station in life or the one who had not attended church since his wedding day.
Remembering what Susan Gray had said to him their last day in Bath, Leopold had answered Haas, “An artist’s loyalty must be to himself.” Suddenly everything about the village, everything about Europe itself, reminded him of the opening to Rousseau’s Social Contract: “Man is born free, and yet we see him everywhere in chains.”
He wouldn’t miss this land of man-made chains, nor the chaos that had come to break those chains. Bonaparte seemed eager to forge a new and better order from the one he was ripping apart. If that were true, Leopold wished him success. But he wanted to live where a man could fashion his destiny, unrestrained by tradition. He would have crops, and cows, and a wealth of daffodils on his own hillside, and fellow citizens as free and ambitious as himself.
Even now, while Leopold and Marta were in London, Zehetner and his family were sailing to American on the Maenad. If all went as Leopold hoped, he’d see the last of that vessel after it brought him and Marta to Boston. All he had left to do was sell out his half to the duke and that fop, Sir Carey.
-oOo-
If the Duchess of Gohrum’s plan had been to embarrass Marta, her evening must be a success. The flamboyant Duchess of Devonshire derived wild entertainment from Marta’s costume. “Oh, my dear, you are a breath of spring to me! How fondly I recall those days of Revolution and Hope! Come sit by me here.”
Marta moved awkwardly in the outdated contraption of a dress.
“Fox!” The portly duchess addressed a portlier man at her side. “Are you not reminded of the nobler aspect of our natures? The days when there was no doubt of our devotion to the public good?”
Marta prayed she would not have to speak. Where was Leopold?
“I confess I am moved,” the man yawned, obviously not at all moved. “Excuse me, your grace.”
“Think what could be done today, George,” the duchess said as Fox blew a kiss toward her hand, “with a coalition of the best of both parties! The slave trade abolished; Catholic emancipation.”
Fox seemed at war with himself, ready to pursue the matter, but occupied by some interior distraction.
“Oh, go and find your Mrs. Armistead.” The duchess feigned exasperation.
Marta felt like a pet that had found momentary favor. This duchess appeared kind enough, but Marta doubted the woman’s devotion to the ‘public good’ or that she harbored great love for anyone not of her class. To her relief, another elegantly dressed woman screamed “Georgiana!” from across the room, and the duchess left in ecstasies to embrace her new admirer. Marta decided to negotiate her pannier and go in search of Leopold.
“And whither the Spirit of America?” said a man beside her, magnificent in an amalgam of greens in silk, satin and velvet. His waistcoat was black satin with two dragons embroidered in gold thread on each side. Red braid formed two dragons’ tongues which linked to close the garment. Against his cheek, he rubbed a walking stick topped by a silver dragon’s head.
Marta changed course and fled to an adjoining room.
“My dear,” Leopold held out his arm as Marta nearly passed him by. He was standing with the Duchess of Gohrum.
“I commend you, Mrs. Singer,” the duchess nodded. “You make a lovely Spirit of America.” She was all sweetness, showing nothing but the sincere wish that her guests enjoy their evening.
“Thank you, your grace,” Marta curtsied. How many times was it proper to stoop to these people?
“Spirit of America!” Three young girls descended upon her. “The duchess wants you for her tableau!”
“Come with us!”
Delia’s pout disappeared behind a red, white, and blue silk fan as Marta was dragged away. In the center of the ballroom, a collection of ladies and gentlemen in American Revolutionary dress formed a human frieze to depict, apparently, Revolution and Progress.
The Duchess of Devonshire removed her gown, revealing ample carriage in all its decay. Over white undergarments festooned with red and blue ribbons, she wore something like a deerskin jacket of an American frontiersman complete with fringe. She carried a flag with the motto Don’t Tread On Me.
The green man who had accosted Marta without introduction lay on the floor under the duchess’s foot.
In her enthusiasm to recapture the extravagant performances of her youth, the plump duchess failed to look formidable. Marta laughed, and as she did so, the green man winked at her.
“Put her on top!” The duchess pointed at Marta.
At once, she felt herself lifted up to a raised platform in the center of the tableau. “My friends,” the duchess called out with glee, “I give you ‘The Romance of America’!”
During the applause, a bearded man dressed as elegantly as a king lifted Marta onto his shoulder. The onlookers showered the players with shouts of “huzzah!” as the man lowered Marta to her feet and kissed her right on the mouth.
The green snake man slipped away from the tableau to join the Duchess of Gohrum in a corner; both seemed to enjoy Marta’s distress. Leopold came to Marta and bowed to the man who had so boldly kissed her, and she realized who it must be.
“You
r Majesty,” she curtsied.
He smiled. “A bit premature. ‘Highness’ will do, though I’ve been called far worse.”
Marta flushed. The rules here were Byzantine. What to call whom? Who was higher in rank: a baroness or a duchess? A highness or a majesty? Her mother had been right in one thing: she would be happier to avoid all aristocrats.
The prince left them, and Leopold touched her elbow. “My wife has now been kissed by both Beethoven and the Prince of Wales. I don’t know how to feel about that.”
In the corner Sir Carey said, “That lady with the Prince is your guest?”
“Mrs. Singer is hardly a lady. But yes,” Delia said.
“Mrs. Leopold Singer. Very good. She seems quite sweet.”
“A provincial bore. As sweet as they come.”
“I should like to meet this sweet person.”
“I should like to introduce you.”
“Not just yet. I’d prefer a less public venue.”
“Now I think on it, I should hardly be a good hostess were I to expose the wife of my husband’s guest to such compromise.”
“Oh, dear. So you will want something in exchange. Gohrum unhappy with you again?”
“I know you have my marker.”
“Yes, the little matter of—what is it? Five thousand pounds, I believe.”
“Five thousand,” Lady Delia agreed. The number should be higher. Five thousand was the original amount, before interest.
“It is a trifle to me. Perhaps we could exchange that chit for, say, a private meeting with Mrs. Singer.”
A trifle! This debt could ruin her. Gohrum had promised to banish her to Millam Hall—for her own good—if she incurred another large loss at gambling. It would be a godsend to retrieve that marker; it would be a triumph to do it at the expense of Leopold Singer!
“I hate him,” she said.
“Tell you what, m’dear,” Sir Carey said, “put your diabolical little brain to the task, and let me know what you devise. I leave for the Peak tomorrow to escort the baroness to Asherinton. I should think her soiree might be just the time and place for a tete a tete with Mrs. Singer. When I am satisfied, the marker is yours.”
A Gift of Longing
Willie Zehetner was exasperated. It wasn’t fair he should have to search for Josef—again. His little brother could be hiding somewhere in the hold, but Willie resisted going down below. It smelled so bad down there, and he was just getting over the nausea that had plagued him and all the other Zehetners since leaving port—all of them but Josef.
That darned Josef always got the best of everything. Dieter was the dependable workhorse, and Willie was his mother’s knight in shining armor, but Josef had been a scamp and a mischief-maker from the beginning.
It’s that red hair was how their mother explained it. Josef’s hair was bright as a new copper pot, his sea-green eyes were full of fun, and to make it worse his face was covered in freckles.
“God has been kind,” Gisela Zehetner liked to say. “He gave Josef that hair and those freckles as a sign, so we’d know it’s no use to try to tame him.”
“More good luck than God’s mark,” their father Jonathan would answer.
God’s grace or good luck, Josef was allowed to roam free, to sleep on the roof, and to disappear for hours in a way that brown-haired, brown-eyed Willie would never attempt.
“Ah!” He spied a small, shiny mass of orange-red behind a dinghy. His brother was sitting cross-legged on the deck, entranced by a length of rope. “Josef! Why do you disappear like that? You worry Mutti, and she is sick enough as it is.”
The Zehetners were en route to America on the Maenad ahead of the Singers. There were Father and Mutti; Willie, nearly thirteen; Dieter, eleven; and Josef, ten. And because Leopold Singer had provided them free passage, they’d been able to bring Grandfather Carl.
“Look.” Josef ignored him and kept working a knot in the rope. It was in his nature to go his own way. He couldn’t answer for it any more than he could answer for his red hair. As for their mother being worried, that was untrue. Mutti accepted his ways without question. She never worried about Josef.
“I think I have it.” He held the knot up.
Willie took the rope and tugged at each end. The knot fell out easily, as did Josef’s proud smile. “You’ll get it, Josef.” Willie returned the rope and patted Josef’s head. “It takes practice. Didn’t Janson tell you as much?”
“I want to show Captain Dahms I can do it, Willie. I have to!”
Josef wasn’t used to the desperation in his heart. Captain Dahms was the only person he’d ever met who’d not liked him immediately. It was disturbing – and puzzling. The moment he’d boarded the Maenad, he felt as if he’d come home. He was madly in love—with the ship, with the crew, with the way the stars blazed in the night sky like jewels God had made for every human being to enjoy.
He was determined to earn the captain’s good regard, and he’d spent every day roaming the three-masted beauty with Willie, learning everything he could about her.
The thirty-two gun ports had captured Willie’s imagination, but then he’d been disappointed to discover that a quarter of the ports were painted on with no guns behind them at all. Josef was drawn more to the life of the ship than its mechanisms for death. He preferred to learn more about sailing the Maenad than destroying others. He longed to climb through the rigging, but Mr. Mills had ordered him pulled down when he was discovered above the lowest ropes.
Willie sat down beside him. “No one will expect me to have found you so soon.” He took in a deep breath of the fresh topside air and closed his eyes.
“Last night, I slept above decks,” Josef said. “It was much better than the roof.”
Willie smiled, his eyes still closed. “I agree, Josef. The night sky on the ocean is grand. Beyond that, I don’t like the sea – though it’s a pleasure to see you admire someone besides yourself for a change.”
“I’ve got to show Captain Dahms I can do this.” Again the knot fell out, and Josef started over.
“I don’t understand why you fixed on Captain Dahms to admire when Leopold Singer is in the world,” Willie said. “He’s brave. He speaks his mind. And he’s sending all of us to the New World.”
“Mr. Singer?” Josef looked at Willie to make sure he’d heard right. There wasn’t anything interesting about Leopold Singer.
“Dieter wants to be like Father and live a farmer’s simple life, but I’m like Leopold Singer. I want more. Like you do, Josef.” Willie stood up. “You almost had it that time,” he said when another knot failed. “I’m going to see if the steward has any tea for Mutti. Pop downstairs sometime to let them know you’re alive, yes?”
Josef nodded absently. “You mean ‘below’ there, mate.” He again set to work on the rope. He was ten years old, and he was a completely free being. He would never feel guilt—what some called responsibility—unless it was over a burden he had chosen himself.
A shadow fell across the knot. Mr. Mills and Captain Dahms were standing over him, and Josef sprung to his feet to salute. The captain grunted. “Takes more than a crisp salute and a twinkle in the eye to make a sailor.” He walked on.
Mr. Mills stayed behind. “Now, young Josef, don’t mind the captain.” He took the length of rope and examined Josef thoughtfully. “Let me show you something about the sheepshank, my boy. I think Janson was having it on with you when he showed you this one. See there?” Mr. Mills tied a knot exactly like Josef’s, perfectly proportioned. He tugged at the ends, and it fell out. “A sheepshank will fall out even when made by an expert such as myself. What you want is the ‘sheepshank man o’ war.’ A far finer knot for your purposes.”
The man showed the boy the nuance of the thing, how to add an additional crossing turn to stabilize the knot. Josef tried it and created a mess, but this didn’t perturb him. He was excited now. He knew he would get it.
“Keep working, then.” Mr. Mills patted Josef’s hair.
That night, Willie found Josef bedded down out in the uncovered jollyboat and climbed in with him. “They’re still puking and shitting nonstop down there,” Willie said, provoking a belly laugh out of Josef. “I can’t take any more.” For some while, the two boys counted shooting stars and looked for the constellations Janson had showed them.
“Willie, do you think you will grow up to be a good man?”
“Yes—despite what Reverend Haas says!”
“I wonder if I will.”
“Why do you say that, Josef?”
“Earlier, when you told me to go and see Mutti, I didn’t want to, and so I didn’t go. I wanted to work on my rope knot. I don’t think of other people, Willie.”
“That is true,” Willie said.
“Do you suppose I will go to Hell?”
“Father told Mutti he doesn’t believe in Hell. I heard him.”
“Willie!” Josef imagined Reverend Haas in fits over that. “If there is no Hell, then why would people try to be good?”
“Well, I think most people like being good anyway. It just feels better.”
A large shooting star made a long arc directly overhead. Josef knew then what he believed: that this place was surely Heaven, and Hell would be to never see the ocean again.
“What will you do when you are a man, Josef?”
This question would never have occurred had they remained at home, but they were going to the New World. The mere phrase made both man and boy ask that question and dare to break the great chain of being.
“I will be the captain of my own ship.”
Willie smiled in the dark.
“Do you think it’s possible, Willie? Do you think I could become the captain of my own ship?”
