Chapter 23: Conclusions

1876

M. Peter Holmes stared down at the man with the big pistol in his hand, feeling his pulse quickly increase, his stomach churn, his eyelids flutter. The flickering gaslight was behind the gunman, and Holmes could not make out his bristly face. He quickly reached for his whip, and the man smashed his forearm with the barrel of his heavy weapon, a Navy Colt from the look of it. "Git down," he demanded. "Be quick about it. Ain' gonna tell you agin."

Holmes stepped to the brick street carefully, hands raised in submission, sore wrist throbbing, and the gunman shoved him back against his carriage. I did this before, Holmes thought, when that young feller up in Rockville caught me, same kind of fear that night. He had just collected a fat wad of bills for three barrels of what he called whisky and had been feeling very good about himself. He was looking forward to some late evening celebrating and knew just where he was going to start. He could smell the foul man with the gun; he reeked. The muzzle of the pistol pressed hard against his ribs, jolting him back.

Now he watched his gold watch being taken from his waistcoat, chain and all. His diamond pin disappeared into the stranger's pocket and then his heavy wallet was lifted from inside his jacket. He still could not make out the thief's face, just a pock-mark cheek now and again, but noticed that he smelled of sweat, tobacco and garlic.

He wondered if the man with the gun worked for the bar owner who had just paid him. Wouldn't be surprised, he thought with a shake of his head, but I have ways of finding out. I'll get my own back. The gunman made him turn about and put his hands up on the edge of the seat while he went through his trouser pockets. Won't find anything there, thought Mac Holmes, starting to relax.

Then he heard a click, a very sharp and metallic sound, and started to turn and to say 'Don't.' The robber pressed the pistol against the middle of Holmes' back and pulled the trigger twice. The sound was muffled by the man's heavy coat which briefly burned from the powder flash, a semi-circle of tiny flames that rose and quickly died. Holmes was thrown against the side of his carriage by what felt like a hammer blow to the spine, sank to his knees and then fell on his face, arms outstretched as a curl of smoke rose toward the tree limbs.

The thief put the pistol up on the driver's seat, tossed in the curb weight, stepped up into the polished rig, flicked the reins at the well-trained horse and drove away at a fast-paced trot. Only one wheel passed over M. Peter Holmes body, making his legs move as though he were still alive.

On the Fourth of July, the Williams family joined Annie and her husband and his prosperous parents for a celebration on the Capitol lawn. Seth stayed home to tend to his chores. Then they enjoyed a sumptuous meal at the redstone house on K Street where all the tall windows were open and, as the sun began to set, made their way home, tired but still excited by the memory of arm-waving speeches, military band concerts, an actual 21-gun salute and roaring, spinning and spurting fireworks, some of which continued to light the sky behind them, their sharp bangs echoing and reflecting from the old river as the moon rose.

Caroline and her children rode as far as Tenallytown in Michael Masterson's well-sprung rig with its fringed top and yellow-leather seats. It was the first time that Caroline had a chance to talk to her sister-in-law about Seth's proposals.

"He did what?" Annie nearly screeched, jolting Daniel in his sleep so that both his arms and legs jerked.

"He asked me to marry him. The first time was three months ago," Caroline said in a matter-of-fact manner, rather enjoying herself.

"Three months ago. I can't believe it. And you didn't tell me."

Caroline nodded in the dusk as Michael pretended not to be listening. Johnny and his sister nodded on the seat behind the adults, both deeply asleep, pudgy arms flopped beside them, palms turned up, heads bobbling loosely. "And he has asked me every month since then, on the first of every single month in fact, like clockwork. I think he marks the calendar or does it when he turns the page."

Michael laughed and then said, "Sorry."

"How romantic," Annie said. "That's my brother, a man of habits."

"You're mean, both of you," Caroline said, but then she joined in the laughter, inwardly pleased and excited.

"What have you told him?" Annie asked.

"I told him no. I told him I would consider it. I told him he was crazy. And then I told him no some more times, as kindly as I could."

"So," said Annie, "are you going to marry my poor, dear brother?"

"Yes," said Caroline with a happy smile, glad to be sharing her decision, "I suppose I will. He's worn me down, and so much has happened. Things have changed. They're still changing, and best of all, they are getting better."

"When is it to be?" asked Michael, his hands held high as the prancing horse skittered on some cobblestones. He whistled sharply.

"After the first frost probably," Caroline said. "When we close up the stand and harvest our last bean. Annie, I don't care if I never see another bean. I really do not."

"Did he ask you this week?" Annie said.

"Of course," said Caroline, "on the first of July."

"And you said?"

"I said I would think about it, that there was a lot to think about. It is your mother's house after all. We'd have to find a place to live, perhaps a tenant farm. I'm still not sure." She sighed.

"Hm," said Annie. "I guess you would have to leave."

"Or she would," said Michael. "Your mother I mean."

"Oh Michael," said his wife, clapping her hands. "Hush, how silly. Can you imagine Mother moving?"

On a very hot August day when all the windows and doors to the general store were wide open to both the droning flies and the faint breezes, Thomas Anderson stopped his open rig in the shade of Luke Williams' driveway, got his horse some water and then came inside, mopping his hatband with his handkerchief. He bought himself a glass of cold beer, well aware that he was breaking the law, and a German sausage and half of a huge dill pickle and then sat across the checker board from Mr. French, fanning himself with his straw hat and balancing his brown-paper-wrapped meal on his thigh. He set his glass on the corner of the table. He was wearing an alpaca suit and his collar looked freshly starched despite the heat.

Anderson introduced himself to Mr. French and moved a red piece forward. He put his hat on the floor and attacked his lunch with some vigor, keeping his knees wide apart so as not to dribble sausage fat or pickle juice on himself.

Mr. French shook the elderly attorney's bony hand, said his own name and then moved one of his faded black pieces toward the side, his usual gambit.

"I know your daughter, sir," said Mr. Anderson after he chewed down a piece of sausage, countered several moves in an absent-minded fashion and drank some beer. "I'm sure you are very proud of her."

"That so?" said Richard French seeing that his opponent's attack was coming right down the middle of the board and that it was both careful and well conceived, an attack with depth to it despite his opponent's seeming nonchalance and distracting manner. He did a lot of loud chewing.

"Indeed," said the lawyer, taking a jump that had been forced on him, one of the few he had made during his massed offensive.

Mr. French studied the checker board, and a small finger of worry poked at him, just a wiggle of doubt. "How did you know Caroline?" he asked, holding onto his moved piece until he was almost sure it was the proper thing to do, surprised at his own indecision as he looked under his raised arm with his forefinger on his man.

The lawyer put up his sacrifice and then sprung his long-planned trap with the suddenness of a summer storm - click, click, click. "I knew her late husband quite well, hoped to take him into my office some day, good man, sad business, and then I helped settle his estate, such as it was. She's a remarkably fine young woman, one of the best." He carefully stacked his accumulation of black men. "King that one, please," he said, pointing.

Mr. French studied the board, made a crooked face, and looked up at his opponent. "You win," he said although almost half of the checkers were still in play. "Another?" His opponent smiled and nodded, chewing hard at the thick skin of the highly-spiced wiener.

As they put the men back in their starting rows, Mr. Anderson asked, "Have you declared bankruptcy, sir?" He popped the end of the dark sausage into his mouth, savoring the juices and licked his fingers before he moved again, fetching out a handkerchief after he did so.

"I don't believe that is your business, sir," said Mr. French, surprised by the sudden question and wondering if this man was attempting to distract him, "but no, no I have not."

"Perhaps you should," said the lawyer, swallowing hard and rubbing his hands together. "There are some advantages."

"Really," said Mr. French, noting that this game had begun in an altogether different manner with all the action on the board's right side, the red men coming on like an avalanche, all but tumbling over each other as they surged toward the back row, ignoring their few losses in a stoic manner, trading blood for land. All of Anderson's moves had been made very quickly, seemingly without much thought.