Bitter Eden

by Salvato, Sharon Anne

  Stephen glanced at Peter's excited face. "You have a point. We may be."

  Jack too looked over at Peter, shaking his head. "He's too pretty."

  "Pretty!?" Stephen barked, laughing. "Peter?"

  "Yeah. If I looked like that, man, I'd have a harem escorting me everywhere I went. All them pretty ladies, bowing and blushing and calling me magnificent."

  "You're daft."

  "Yeah ... I am. But His Magnificence there . . . think he'd go for a little bit of fun at the gaming tables?"

  "Not if he hears you call him pretty."

  "How about you, Stevie? You like a good game of chance from time to time?"

  "From time to time."

  "Good. I'll take you to the Abbey. Best place around here. We'll meet some of the ladies and have a good old time. Of course, it won't be like having His Magnificence by my side, but you'll do all right. You

  bring the little pretties over to us, and I'll tell you what to do with them once we get them."

  "I think I might be able to figure that out for myself."

  Jack ignored him and looked back to Peter. "Think we could get him to go with us?"

  "I doubt that his wife would like it much—not with what you have in mind."

  'That's a pity. He's just too damned pretty to waste on one woman. My God, Stevie, with his looks he could keep us all in supply just with his overflow."

  Stephen shook his head, bemused. "Don't you ever work around this town? I've seen horse races down the main street, bets waged on every corner, men stacked five deep at oyster bars midafternoon, and talk about harems. Not much to indicate serious business of any kind."

  'It's all serious, Stevie. We just do our serious thinking in the most pleasurable of ways, and the most novel. It's that kind of town. What's the point of being rich and old when you can just as well be rich and young? There's fortunes to be made on every street corner here. This is a town for a day and the man who is awake on that day. I'll show it all to you before we're done. I've a feeling ours will be a long, happy relationship . . . maybe even a partnership."

  "In what?" Stephen asked suspiciously.

  "The harem, of course."

  "Somehow I have the feeling that you'll end up with the best of the bargain."

  "Never doubt it," Jack said, looking out across the Hudson to the wooded hills beyond the bank. "Sam tells me His Magnificence is thinking of buying the farm next to ours. Want to put in hops? Well, we've got the finest barley crop you'll ever see. Seems as though your hops and our grain combined might

  make a pretty good brew with a brewery not far behind/*

  Stephen looked at him, but said nothing.

  "See, business slips in pretty neatly. Now you ve got a proposition all nice and fixed in your mind. Next time I see you, you'll be filled to the top with a yes or a no to the idea."

  Jack chattered all the way, never once referring to Peter as anything but His Magnificence. Later he shortened it to "old H.M." Stephen liked him. He had no idea why. The man never closed his mouthy and mostly talked of silly things and crazy ideas he had for having fun or wooing women.

  Sam and Peter went below to the lounge to talk. Stephen and Jack remained on the deck with Stephen leaning over its side watching the water and the landscape rush past. The great cliffs on the western bank stood out against the sky, multihued and regal. The forest lands on the other bank were overwhelming. It looked to him as England must have looked when the great forests of Kent were all around and dense. Inside their hidden glades then lived the dark forest animals and the Cantii, according to the stories he'd read. To Stephen, to be traveling through this river valley was to be seeing something for the first time, before it had been touched and altered by time and the efforts of man. Of course, those efforts of ambitious men were already in evidence, but not so much that they obliterated the natural beauty. The sky suddenly filled with eagle screams. Stephen looked from the giant birds above down to the water rushing by the sides of the ship.

  'It was called the Shatemuc by the Algonquins" Jack said solemnly. "Whatever name you call it, it is glorious. You'll never be able to forget this river once you have known it"

  "So you do have a serious side," Stephen said.

  "Well, there are two different worlds here. One is God's and one is mans. It's easy to make fun of man's world. It fair begs that you do, but God's . . . well, it isn't so easy to make fun of that."

  "No," Stephen said, looking dreamily up at the hills. "I didn't realize it would be so mountainous. Is there a mountain or hill near our property?—I mean the farm we are to look at?"

  "Well, it's not on the main part ... it won't hinder your hop yard."

  Stephen laughed. "I have no objection. All land should have at least one decent hill that a man can call a mountain when the mood strikes."

  Jack's eyes lit up again. "I'll take you to the highlands . . . way up. Maybe we'll even go up to the source of the river. You've never in all your days seen water purer or colder than it is up there. In the Cats-kills it is truly paradise. There's places around here that would start your heart to thrumming. I can't let you miss seeing the Lake of Tears. Not you. I can see you're the man for this."

  "Perhaps I am."

  Chapter 20

  The Grampe house sat at the top of a gentle ridge, three white stories with shuttered windows staring out over the Hudson. Paul Grampe had built his house thirty years before, during his prime. He had raised two sons in that house. The cholera took one, and in the last year a sleighing accident had taken the other. With the death of his last son, Paul Grampe lost his zest for his home and his fields. He was as anxious for the Bereans to like his piece of land as they were.

  Sam introduced Peter and Stephen to Paul Grampe. After exchanging niceties, Paul stood scratching his gray head.

  "Seems to me the best way to get a feel of the land is for me to leave you free to walk it. Go ahead, Be-rean. Feel free to poke about all you wish. Til see you up at the house later."

  Peter thanked him and left with Sam as companion and guide to walk every inch of the Grampe farm, mentally clearing new fields and erecting hop wires as he went. At every rod he stooped to dig his fingers into the soil, smelling it, feeling it, noting its color and

  texture. He looked out over Paul Grampe's fields of ripening wheat, and they began to seem his own.

  "Well, what do you think?" Sam asked.

  Peter looked down at the soil in the palm of his hand. "Think he'd throw in the wheat crop if I pay his asking price?"

  Sam considered a moment, then shrugged. "Don't know till you ask. Paul's a fair man though, and he does want out. He just doesn't have the heart for it these days. He might. He just might be glad to throw the crop in with the rest of the deal. You want it then?"

  Peter nodded, brushing his hands free of soil. He turned to look at the house. "Let's go."

  Mr. Grampe took Peter alone into his study. He placed a bottle of applejack on the table between them. 'This is the way my son and I used to do our dickerin'. Let's see if it works for us, Berean."

  It worked. Peter paid more for the farm than he had intended. Paul Grampe sold the wheat he had intended to harvest himself. Each had struck a bargain he considered advantageous.

  Peter emerged from the study smiling. "Come here, Stephen. I want you to see something." He walked out onto the front porch with Stephen. "Look all around you. Everything you see is ours. We've done it, Steve. This is the first Berean hop yard of the great state of New York in the United States of America."

  "Said like that, it's damned awesome."

  "It is awesome."

  Sam came out on the porch to join them. He placed his hand on Peter's shoulder. "You two seem pleased enough and well you should be. This is a fine piece of land. Let me greet you now as neighbor."

  Peter leaned forward with both hands placed on the porch rail. "I hate to leave, but I suppose we should."

  Bitter Eden 297

  "Aren't you forgetting something?" Sa
m laughed.

  "What is that?"

  "Well now, I know it's land you're buying, but don't you think your wife will want to know there's a house on it as well?"

  Stephen stared at Peter. "You mean you didn't even look the house over?"

  "No. I didn't think of it. Did you?"

  "Sure, of course, I did. Hey, Peter, come on. Rosalind will have your head if you don't tell her about this house. It's a beauty."

  Peter followed Stephen inside. The four men, led by Mrs. Grampe, walked through the library, gun room, and drawing room. Peter was trying his best to fix in his mind the details of carved mantel pieces, woodwork, and windows. All the small things that would mean something to Rosalind and nothing to him. It was the feel of the house that held his interest. It was like the farm in Kent had once been. He felt as though he had always lived there. He belonged in this house. That it had a spacious dairy, pantry, and scullery meant nothing to him, and in this instance would probably mean little to Rosalind. What would matter was that it was spacious, would easily lend itself to gracious living and entertaining. After Mrs. Grampe had taken him through the upstairs rooms and shown him the one she had used as a nursery for her own sons, he decided his son had to be born there.

  He wanted to be living in the house before his son was born. It would be quite a feat, for Rosalind was due shortly. Mr. and Mrs. Grampe looked bewildered at one another. Who was to know these two nice young Englishmen would become so pushy once the bargain was struck. Peter, who had been so steady and serious-minded as they worked out the sale, was

  now as eager and erratic as a summer storm. Paul Grampe was moved more by his enthusiasm and youth than any logic, but even another glass of applejack, poured from his own bottle, could not make him agree to move before the end of the month.

  It was less than what Peter wanted, but he was certain with Rosalind's cooperation everything would be fine. After he had managed to get them to New York, found the right place for them to live, delaying the arrival of one small baby seemed no problem at all.

  "You're crazy," Stephen muttered and then laughed. "But I'm not fool enough to say you won t make it happen."

  James Hawkes Berean was born in New York City. His first act was one of disobedience to his father's wishes. If Peter was disappointed that his son didn't wait to be born in the new farmhouse, he was pleased that the infant showed such distinctive independence of spirit.

  "He defied me! Damn it, the kid defied me right out of the hatch!" Peter cried, wildly joyful as he stomped around Rosalind, who lay like a limp violet on her bed. The midwife had taken the baby out of the room, away from his noisy father.

  "Peter, please! Don't shout so. Tell me again quietly how wonderful the baby and I are," Rosalind smiled wanly, putting her arms up for him to come to her.

  Peter sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, leaning over to kiss her. "I don't think I can be quiet. I want to shout and paint signs and hang them in the streets so everyone will know herein lives the most beautiful woman and the most beautiful child the world has known."

  Callie wrote home to tell Meg of the news:

  We all agreed that the baby should be named James, but it was Peter who insisted that Rosalind remember her own father as well. She does not care for the name Rufus, but I think she is rather pleased for Jamie's middle name to be Hawkes. It is difficult to say whom he resembles at the moment He is such a tiny babylike thing, but very beautiful. And very determined according to Peter. He may well be for there is no doubt that he makes known his wishes loudly and clearly.

  Peter has found us a grand home. It is near a village called Poughkeepsie. I doubt that we shall ever become accustomed to the names here; so many of them come from the Algonquin language. Otherwise it is a thoroughly lovely place, and we have so many of the same things here that we had in Kent that we do not become homesick. There is a great hill on the property, and of course, it has already been named Stephens mountain. It is not the same though, and he says there is only one mountain for him and that is in Kent. I must say I agree with him, but it is still nice to have a hill here as well. Maybe this one can become Jamie's mountain. • . .

  She wrote as many letters as she could those first few months, and received news from Meg on nearly every incoming packet ship. In so many ways the letters going back and forth revealed the similarity of their lives: Frank was harvesting hops; Peter and Stephen were harvesting wheat. All three men raced against time, the weather, and the market. The letters also showed where the similarities ended. Frank continued to be beset with the problems of an old country in the throes of reform, and Peters life reflected

  the vigor of a new country not yet hemmed in by laws and limitations. For once Peter had as much to do as he was able, and he stretched the days until there were no more hours to fill, with all the variety of enterprise he could. With fearless audacity and the fortune of a beginner, he plunged the inheritance he had received from James into the games that were becoming a part of New York—speculations, gold markets, railroads, shipping, and the buying and selling of cargoes on the chance his ship would come into port laden with spices and silks and hand-crafted furnishings status-greedy New Yorkers would buy before the ships were unloaded.

  Some called New York the City of Ships, and it was true that one could barely see the sky for the masts that stretched upward all along South Street But it was not only the hustle and traffic-clogged streets that fascinated Peter; nor was his interest merely in making money. The longshoremen held his interest and admiration. They were plain men, ordinary men, not unlike the laborers in Kent, but as early as 1825 these men understood the strategic position they held on the New York docks, and had staged a strike. And here, in America, they had succeeded without an army of magistrates arresting all in sight, without hangings and unreasonable punishments. The laborer here was valued, and Peter felt a joy that he tried to describe in letters to Frank.

  Callie also dutifully reported all these things to Meg and Frank and Anna, and received in return news that Frank thought Peter a fool who would end up penniless and begging for passage money home once the truth of the situation in America was known.

  As Callie read the most recent letter from Frank aloud after supper, Peter and Stephen laughed.

  "Frank never has any view but one," Peter said.

  "Would you like to wager, Stephen, that he has been talking to Mrs. Foxe lately? If those aren't the words of that old horse blanket, 111 eat them. Wait until he hears we will be expanding the size of our fields this year. Be sure to tell him that in your next letter, Cal-lie. See if he still thinks we need passage money home."

  Stephen laughed then. "I can tell you now what he'll say. He won't believe it. It's too near winter to be able to prepare additional fields."

  "Oh, no, it isn't We'll do it"

  Peter, true to his boast, insisted on clearing more of the land. He and Stephen worked with the field hands from sunup to sundown. By the end of that first harvest season, they had, by determination, grinding work, additional hired help, and sweat, cleared twenty-five acres in addition to the thirty-five-acre field Paul Grampe had put into wheat. Sixty acres would be ready for planting the foUowing spring.

  But even with this, Stephen was not completely satisfied. Brewing season was well underway when they had arrived in America, and it was the first year he could not recall not having brewed at least small beer for the house. Paul Grampe had once thought himself of brewing and had the beginnings of a modest brewhouse, but he had never equipped it. The building stood empty and idle, a thorn in Stephen s side until he could stand it no more.

  He gathered up what odds and ends he could find and began his brewing as though it had never been interrupted. Peter walked into the brewhouse to see him industriously fidgeting with the fire, trying to get the wort, a mixture of fermented malt, boiling properly. Peter looked at the oddities Stephen had collected. Hogshead barrels were serving as mash tuns and back coolers. For the copper needed to boil the

 
wort, a suspicious-looking object served. Peter touched it with the tip of his boot.

  "Where did you come across that? It isn't what I think it is, is it?"

  Stephen looked up from his awkward position on the floor. "Oh, don't mention it. Don't say a word about it, even to me. Callie will have my skin. It's her best kettle, but I had to have it. For the moment I have her believing there are thieving Indians about."

  Peter laughed and gave the conglomeration of barrels and kettles another look. "What's this stuff going to taste like?"

  "Well, it can only be small beer. Maybe a bit of stronger if I'm lucky."

  "What are you using for hops?"

  "A few of the wild . . . but mostly Tm not using them at all." Stephen beamed. "Jack told me of a way to use corn or molasses as substitutes. I've been experimenting, and have a pretty good mix. Jack says it's pretty good."

  Peter made a sour face, sitting down on the ground beside Stephen. Idly he fanned the fire. "If this is the stuff they drink, there's little wonder that the brewery industry is slow in growth here. It makes me all the more certain that we must get your brewery going as soon as possible. That's all there is to it. Even if it's only a few barrels at a time in the beginning we've got to get started. Callie can take it to market when she takes her butter and eggs. Once we give people a taste of real beer, we'll have so many orders well never fill them fast enough." He stood up> brushing himself off, and glanced back at the boiling wort "And for God's sake go buy yourself another kettle before she finds out that you have this one."

  "Ahh, she'll never find out. She doesn't come in here"

  Peter shrugged. "It's your neck, but don't say I didn't warn you."

  "Leave it to me. I can talk Callie out of anything."

  Peter shook his head, eyes twinkling. "I hope like hell I'm around to hear that."

  Stephen grimaced at his brother and continued working.