Bequest

By Nancy

Thank you to Mr. Dortort who created the Cartwrights and the Ponderosa and shared them. And thank you to Ms. Sullivan who gave them new life. This story is purely for entertainment. Thanks to Kierin, Kathryn, and Christine. Special thanks to a beta reader's beta reader - Marion.

This story follows What Comes Naturally.

Ben Cartwright allowed himself a deep, satisfied sigh as he sat on the porch bench. The late afternoon sun cast long pine tree shadows across the front meadow and bathed everything from the corral fence to the rope swing with a soft orange glow. He'd come home from the long ride with Adam down to see that land for sale along the river. And then he'd indulged in a shave and a soaking bath. And now here he sat, sipping a warm cup of tea, and feeling like he could close his eyes and sleep until dawn.

Of course he couldn't. Hoss and Joe weren't back from town yet, though Hop Sing said he didn't expect them until suppertime. They'd taken a load of beef, and undoubtedly eggs, to Eli's store and would be bringing back a month's supplies. This time of year they were too busy to go into town as frequently as they could later in the summer and autumn. Best to make every trip count.

Adam's and Hop Sing's voices drifted out the open dining room window but their words weren't quite understandable. The smell of the roast and vegetables cooking in the oven reminded Ben how lean lunch on the trail had been.

What Ben could use, he decided, was a little bit of nothing happening. Life out here was about constant changes - life itself was about constant change - but it would be so nice if nothing new could happen for a day or two. Spring had overflowed with changes - everything from Adam returning from the Eagle Ranch with a pistol to Barbara telling Ben about the money that Daphne de Ville had invested for him.

Barbara. Ben had followed up a bit on Joe's short message that she had left to meet a friend in San Francisco. As it turned out Barbara had been going to San Francisco with a friend.

Shelby said that Barbara and she had been having coffee in the saloon early that morning when a man had come in and yelled, "Barbara!" As Shelby so succinctly put it, "The way they acted I got the feelin' they'd met before." Barbara had introduced him as Stephen Braxton, captain of a clipper ship.

When Ben had asked what a ship's captain was doing in Eagle Station, Shelby had shrugged and said, "Looked to me like he'd come for Barbara."

Ruth remembered that Barbara had bought supplies while Braxton and some other men had loaded her belongings in a wagon. Eli had remarked that Braxton had packed the wagon faster than he would have thought possible. Big Dan recalled that Barbara, her friend, and the rest of the wagon train had looked to be headed out on the Carson Route toward Hangtown.

On washday, Little Joe had suddenly recalled a written message from Barbara. It had been nothing if not succinct. She was leaving with Stephen and she would write as soon as possible.

But since then there'd been no word from Barbara.

Ben had almost believed she was settling in Eagle Station when she'd made plans to build a home. He should have known better. Barbara never stayed any place for an extended period of time . . . but she had always said goodbye before.

The change in Barbara's behavior was disconcerting. Almost as disconcerting as Adam's behavior had been after he'd received word about Isabella's marriage in Mexico. But not quite as disconcerting as Adam's behavior every time he was around Beth Parker. Very little in Ben's life had been as disconcerting as watching his eldest son fall to pieces every time he was near that girl. Adam hadn't done that since he'd been a schoolboy.

What Ben needed was a couple of days with no big changes - for a change.

He stood slowly when he saw the wagon coming up the trail from the road to town. Hoss and Joe were talking with the aid of lots of hand and arm movements. Joe was driving and he was doing a fine job of it, when he had both hands on the reins. By the time the wagon drew even with the upper corral, Ben could see the excitement on both sons' faces and he knew for certain this was not a normal return home.

"Pa, guess what!" Joe passed the reins to Hoss the moment the horses came to a halt and he jumped to the ground. Hoss stretched out his leg to set the brake Joe had forgotten. "Pa!" Joe ran to the porch and stopped at the bottom step. "You got a package, Pa." He held his arms wide. "A big package."

Hoss vaulted down from the wagon seat and dusted his gloved hands as Hop Sing and Adam joined Ben on the front porch. "Hey, Hop Sing." Hoss walked to the back of the wagon. "Mr. Orowitz had everything on your list. Got your newspapers, Adam."

Ben's eyebrows rose when Hoss lifted a box from the very back of the wagon. It looked about a yard square. He placed his cup on the bench so he could retrieve the box but Hoss said, "I've got it, Pa."

Joe climbed into the wagon bed to push the boxes and sacks toward the tailgate as Hop Sing and Adam stepped off the porch. Hoss, beaming and his blue eyes full of anticipation, held the large box out to Ben. It was heavy, though not as heavy as Ben had expected, based on its size. He glanced down at it and noticed it was from John Sutter. What would John be sending to Ben this time of year? Surely not fruit; and the last time he'd tried to send smoked salmon . . . well, it hadn't been as preserved as John had counted on.

Ben nudged the front door open with his boot toe and carried the box to the desk in the dining room. He would open it after supper - they needed to get the wagon unloaded before dark. But as he helped carry supplies first to the storehouse and then to the kitchen his thoughts kept returning to the box.

He was almost to the desk, intent on finding out what John Sutter had sent, when Hoss snapped his fingers as he started toward the front door to help tend the team. "Almost forgot." Hoss stuck his right hand in his jacket pocket. "You got this letter, too." He flashed a smile and was out the door before Ben could say thank you.

Between the box and the letter there was no doubt in Ben's mind which he would open first, especially after he recovered from the surprise of seeing Barbara's handwriting. He settled on the living room settee. To his consternation he had to lean closer to the lantern on the side table and hold the letter a bit farther away than he used to have to for reading.

Dear Ben,

Again I apologize for my hasty leave-taking but I trust the letter I posted from Hangtown explained well enough.

Letter? What letter? Ben looked up at the fireplace as if it might know the answer and then frowned as he continued to read.

It is impossible to express the joy I felt when Stephen arrived in Eagle Station. We are now in San Francisco and what an odd place it is. There are so many ships abandoned in harbor that people live on them and have businesses there, as well. I trust that Adam has done as I requested in my letter and not started on the house. I shall advise you where to send the money from the sale of my properties as soon as we are settled.

There had obviously been a good amount of information in that letter Ben hadn't received. Did she mean she has asked Adam to sell her land?

We have paused only for provisions and will soon be bound inland and north, as Stephen believes this grape business could prove profitable.

I hope to hear of your welfare, do not be concerned for mine. I eagerly await your mail in care of Braxton Mill.

With deepest affection,

Barbara

Ben looked the letter over a second time. Braxton Mill must be in California, if he was understanding Barbara correctly.

"-and hoo-ee you should have seen his face!" Hoss exclaimed as his brothers and he entered the house, laughing and sniffling.

Ben stood, the letter in his left hand. "Did anyone forget to give me a letter from Barbara?"

Something in his appearance or tone wiped the smiles off his sons' faces. They looked at each other, shook their heads, and then Adam said, "No, Pa." When they seemed sure there were no more questions, Adam and Hoss made their way to the washbasin. Joe wandered to the desk and turned his head from one side to the other as he studied the box.

Ben looked down at the letter again, trying to make sense of it as he took long strides toward the table. "Barbara said she sent a letter from Hangtown." He watched his youngest son tentatively tap the wooden box with his left fist. "Little Joe, you're certain Eli or Ruth hasn't give you anything to bring to me."

Joe shrugged easily. "Mrs. Orowitz gives me candy but she never said nothin' about bringing it to you."

"Aren't ya gonna open the box?" Hoss motioned toward the desk as he walked to the table.

"After supper." Ben folded the letter and placed it by his dish.

"Maybe it's oranges!" Joe exclaimed, pointing to the box.

Ben shook his head as he sat. "It's not the right time of-"

"Or pears!"

"Joe, I don't think-"

"Or figs!"

Hoss and Adam stopped at the same time, their hands on the backs of their chairs. Adam recovered first. "We haven't had figs since New Orleans," he said wistfully.

"Yeah, but I was reading your newspaper and it said they grow 'em in California so maybe that's what Mr. Sutter sent."

Joe had been reading the papers?

Adam's brows rose as he faced Ben, but not for the reason Ben's had. "The box is from Mr. Sutter?"

"Yeah," Hoss said as he sat. "But it's too heavy for figs. Or it'd sure be a lot of 'em."

"Joseph." Ben stretched the word and then nodded toward the washbasin. Joe's shoulders slumped and he took his time but he obeyed.

Hoss smiled across the table at Hop Sing and rubbed his hands together as he eyed the meal. "Sure smells good."

Although everyone tried to make normal conversation – talking about the weather and the chores and the stock and catching up on what Hoss and Joe had heard in town – Ben noticed his sons and Hop Sing glancing at the box and eating more hurriedly than needed. Even Adam finished the meal before Ben did, and by the time Ben put down his napkin every dish except his had been washed.

"I will take this," Hop Sing offered as he gathered the dish and flatware. "You open package."

Ben didn’t have to lift a finger; Hoss placed the box on the dining table in the spot so recently vacated by Ben’s plate. Adam produced a hammer and small chisel – from where, Ben wasn’t sure – and Joe stood by Ben’s chair and offered to open the box if Ben was too tired.

One thing about John Sutter, he was thorough. Ben pried the lid open to find an oilskin wrapped bundle snug inside the box. There was nothing for it but to take off a side of the box so he could get a grip on the bundle. The oil hadn’t turned the fabric yellow yet so the cloth was fairly new – probably from a sail of one of the many ships Ben had heard sailors were abandoning in San Francisco. Sailors headed for the goldfields along with the hundreds of people who passed through Eagle Station every month.

Ben lifted the wrapped package, certain he felt another box inside the canvas. Adam hastily reached to pull the remnants of the first box aside. By now Joe was kneeling in a chair and leaning on the tabletop. Hoss was bent with his hands braced on the table edge. And Hop Sing stood alongside Adam, wiping his hands on a cloth. Ben leaned to the side and pulled his cutting tool from the pocket inside his boot, not unaware of the grins from his sons. He cut the heavy twine but the oilskin did not fall away – it was too stiff for that.

The first flap of fabric revealed another underneath it. Ben turned back the second piece of fabric and immediately recognized the top of the carved box. He heard Joe ask, "What is it?" but couldn’t respond. Instead his left hand rested on the "C" on the lid of the old chest that contained the Cartwright family Bible. Wordlessly he peeled away the remaining oilcloth and then ever so slowly he eased the box lid open.

How long had it been since he’d seen this book? He could remember being twelve years old and opening it on Father’s desk. Reading from the front pages after Mother had died; studying the line where Father had recorded her death; wishing he could strike through it and bring her back. When was the last time he’d read from it? He didn’t recall noticing it at John’s farm in Cincinnati. Could it really have been the day before he’d sailed for the first time on Wanderer? He’d only been a few years older than Joe then. Had he not seen this Bible for twenty-eight years?

"What is it?" Joe asked insistently, standing in the chair to see into the chest.

Adam pushed on his youngest brother’s back to encourage him to kneel. "A book."

"A Bible," Ben said deeply, without looking up.

"But we’ve already got a Bible!" Joe exclaimed.

"This is our family Bible," Ben said patiently. "It has a record of everyone born into the Cartwright family."

"Even back to Adam and Eve?"

Hoss laughed softly. "Adam and Eve weren’t Cartwrights."

"Well what were they?"

"Folks didn’t need last names back then. There was only two of ‘em."

Ben noticed a letter wedged in one side of the box. He tugged it free to find John Sutter’s handwriting on the outside.

Adam seemed to be the first person other than Ben to understand the significance of the Bible. He narrowed his eyes as he pulled out the chair on the opposite side of Ben from where Joe kneeled in his chair.

"Pa?" Adam ventured.

Ben opened Sutter’s letter. "Mm?"

"Uncle John wouldn’t send you that Bible, would he?" Adam’s voice tapered off as he studied the open chest.

"Not usually, no. The eldest surviving son keeps it."

Hoss sucked in a breath, apparently understanding.

After looking at Hoss and then at Adam, Ben was sure his two older sons knew what Ben knew in his heart. He was aware of Hop Sing turning toward the kitchen – probably to make tea for what would undoubtedly be a long evening.

Joe shook his head. "But Uncle John oughta have it ‘cause he’s older than you. A whole bunch."

"Five years," Ben said automatically before turning his attention to Sutter’s letter. He read a few sentences silently and then started over, sharing the news.

"Dear Benjamin,

I send your way, as appealed by your nephew Will, your family’s Bible.

I have packed it more for travel than your nephew thought to for his journey.

Doubting he has sent word, for he seems not the type, I advise you that he arrived here by way of boat from San Francisco near to the end of December past. He had the mistaken impression that you settled near New Helvetica, such knowledge being all he remembered of your letters to his father, your brother.

I informed him that he would find it difficult to impossible to cross to Eagle Station until late spring but he was not of a mind to remain, as his objective was Mexico. He assigned the safekeeping of the Bible to me with the understanding that I dispatch it to you when the low pass is clear.

My apologies for not doing so sooner, Benjamin. The fort is sold as I find it impossible to remain here in the midst of this madness for the gold. Anna and the children join me and we will move to Feather River, from which I will write later.

I entrust this to Peter Davidson with express instructions to deliver it to your friend, Eli Orowitz, as I am assured Orowitz will make certain this package ends in your hands.

Your nephew absented here at the turning of the new year and has not been heard from, nor do I expect such.

Yours,

J. Sutter"

Ben slid his eyes from one son to the next. Adam’s arms were stretched in front of him, his hands clasped as he studied them. Hoss was looking at Ben wide-eyed, his mouth slightly open. And Joe looked more confused than anything else but seemed hesitant to speak.

Moving with silent ease, Hop Sing placed the tray containing the teapot and mugs on the table. He handed the first cup to Ben, whose thoughts latched on to something solid. "Why would Will think we were in California? John and I’ve written since we settled here."

"Maybe Will didn’t see the letters, Pa," Adam said softly. "Maybe he didn’t live with Uncle John anymore."

Ben sipped his tea. Adam was right. Will would be what – twenty-three now? Apparently the boy was on his own if he had headed to Mexico.

"Well . . . when’d Uncle John die?" Hoss asked cautiously.

Ben counted backwards. If Will had arrived near Sutter’s place in December he must have left Ohio in late spring, going by ship to San Francisco. It was entirely possible that John had died a year ago.

"Maybe it says in there." Joe motioned to the Bible as he answered Hoss’ question. "Like the way Pa wrote in ours when . . . Ma died."

Ben lowered his tea mug to the tabletop and eased the Bible from the carved chest. Hop Sing sat beside Joe, his face unreadable.

Hoss let out a low whistle when he saw the tooled leather cover. He quickly stood and walked to Ben’s right side – obviously aware of the hours the tooling had taken. "That’s real nice," he almost whispered. He reached out to touch it, hesitated, and then smiled when Ben nodded. He traced his fingers over part of the design. "Who did this, Pa?"

"A friend of my great-grandfather’s in England. The real cover is underneath it." Ben opened the Bible with his right hand and kept his left hand against the book’s spine.

Joe craned his neck. "It’s bigger than our Bible."

"How old is it?" Adam asked as he stood.

Ben cautiously turned a few of the pages. "Father was born in 1780 when his father was twenty years old or so. The first person to own it was Father’s grandfather."

Adam propped his left hand at his hip and reached in front of Ben to turn a page with his right hand. "Pa?" he said softly.

Ben looked down to see a newspaper clipping from a Kansas City paper. When had John moved to Missouri? And why? Had he decided to head west?

"It is our sad duty to inform," Adam read aloud, "of the death of John Cartwright of this city. He departed this life at his home on the 14^th of March in the 47^th year of his age, of injuries suffered during a riding accident. He has left behind his son, William Cartwright. He sleeps now with the Lord in the company of his dear departed wife Patience."

There it was. Ink on paper. And final.

It was only after everyone had gone to bed, and Ben sat in a chair by the fireplace with Smoke sleeping at his feet, that Ben turned to the pages in the Bible where the family deaths were recorded. At first he thought he must have missed a page, so he read slowly through the lists. But he was not mistaken. There was no entry for Father's death, nor any that had followed.

Ben quickly thumbed back to the marriages. There was his great-grandparents' marriage in England and Grandmother and Grandfather's in New York, which had been a British colony then. Mother and Father's wedding in Philadelphia before Father had taken Mother back to Massachusetts. Aunt Ruth and Uncle Samuel's marriage two years later in Philadelphia. Uncle Samuel, too, had brought his bride back to Massachusetts. Years later, Uncle Samuel's son Jeremiah had married. Then another of his sons, Amos. The younger sons, Philip and Solomon, had died unwed. Ben slid his finger along the page where the ink had faded to brown. Aunt Bess and Uncle Alexander, Aunt Martha and Uncle Enos . . . but no entry for Patience and John's marriage or any after that.

What was Ben to make of that? No death entries after Mother's? No wedding entries after cousin Jeremiah's? If Ben's math was correct, the last person to record anything in this Bible had been Father. Ben couldn't fault Patience; maintenance of the Cartwright Bible had not been her responsibility. But what had John been thinking not recording the dates? Had he even opened the book after inheriting it?

Ben rested the Bible on his thighs and leaned back, his hands over his face as fatigue washed through him. Had Father's Bible meant that little to John? Something to be stored in a chest but never opened to record the births and marriages and deaths in the family? Was the Bible's good condition as attributable to lack of use since Father's death as much as to the binding and quality paper? Had the book not seen light of day since for more than twenty years?

Determined to correct the situation, Ben braced the Bible against him with his left arm and carried a lantern to the desk. After putting down the Bible, he pulled out the desk chair and reached for a slate and chalk. He could do this. If he didn't know exact dates, he might be able to calculate the year. If he didn't know the year, he might recall the place. And if he knew nothing else at all, he knew the names. When he was as certain as he could be, he dipped the pen in the inkwell and recorded the births. Then he rubbed out the letters and numbers he'd written on the slate and concentrated on family marriages. Only after he had recorded Marie's and his wedding did Ben give himself a moment's rest. And in that unguarded instant the thoughts he had been hoping to hold at bay beset him.

John was dead, had been for a year. They'd never shared the camaraderie that Ben's sons did. They'd been more prone to argue than to cooperate. John's views on faith and the future and oftimes on morals had never quite connected with Ben's. But they'd been brothers, joined by blood and by circumstance. As boys they'd lived through many of the same joys and tragedies and lessons and history. Theirs had been a shared experience and now John's memories of it were gone. Despite the fact that they'd had so little in common, John had taken something of Ben with him.

Dear heaven. Barbara and Ben were the oldest generation of Cartwrights. Their phalanx of grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins . . . one by one the deaths had left empty places and now no one stood before Barbara and Ben.

He lowered his eyes to the Bible. That was why he was loath to record the family deaths, starting with Father's. To do so somehow diminished their lives. When he wrote the names on these pages and someone in the future read them, all they would see would be names and dates and places. They would know nothing of the hopes and dreams and sorrows and loves and losses.

He needed to do what he could to keep that from happening. He must share more of his memories with Adam, Hoss, and Joe. That way when he was gone - and when Barbara was gone - something of the families would live on.

Family remembrances depended on Barbara and Ben now.

Best to record deaths tomorrow evening, when he wasn't so tired. He gently returned the Bible to the chest and, after he'd wiped his cheeks, he returned to sit by the fire.

By the time Hop Sing entered the kitchen the next morning, humming cheerfully, Ben had the oven hot. The look of disapproval in Hop Sing's eyes caused Ben to smile ruefully. No one liked his coffee or his biscuits or much of anything else he cooked. "I'm boiling water for tea. I know better than to make coffee."

Hop Sing offered a gentle smile and after he'd put the coffee pot on to boil, he made his way to the worktable in the center of the kitchen. "You not sleep?"

"No," Ben admitted softly. He leaned his right side against the wall and crossed his arms. "But the harness is repaired and the horse shoes are sorted and two saddles are clean."

Hop Sing put flour and saleratus in a pottery bowl. "Work is good, eases mind."

He was right. There was comfort in doing familiar chores - anchoring yourself in the present while the past tried to pull you off course. Nevertheless, all these hours later Ben no more knew how he felt about John's death than he had after he'd closed the Bible last night. There was so much loss in life. Best not to dwell on it.

"Hey, Hop Sing!" Joe said brightly as he entered the kitchen. As soon as he saw Ben, he stopped and put down the milk pail. After an uncertain look, Joe motioned toward the outside. "I better get the eggs."

Right now was the time to set the tone for the day. Ben reached over the low part of the stove and ruffled the boy's hair. "I hope there are a lot of eggs because I'm hungry."

Joe's freckled cheeks dimpled with his grin. "Yeah, me too!" He turned to his left and ran from the room, then quickly returned to grab the egg basket.

"That one always in hurry," Hop Sing said affectionately. When Hoss stepped into the kitchen, Hop Sing added, "And that one always want to know what is for breakfast."

Ben smiled. "Good morning, Hoss."

"Morning, Pa." Hoss eased over to the worktable. "Need some help?"

"Yes, you set table."

Hoss had obviously been more interested in making flapjacks. He's loved to play in flour even as a child, Ben mused.

"Aw . . . dang it, Hop Sing," Hoss slapped the sides of his legs and then turned toward the door just as Adam made his barefoot way into the kitchen.

"Morning." Adam sounded hoarse and subdued, which he always did in the morning.

"And that one," Hop Sing pointed a wooden spoon at Ben's oldest son, "is never awake until after coffee."

"Don't worry," Ben assured as he slapped Adam on the back. "Hop Sing made it."

Ben detected the slightest bit of hesitancy on everyone's part by the time they were seated at the breakfast table. Adam studied Ben over the edge of his coffee mug. Hoss' forehead wrinkled in either disapproval or concern. Joe seemed to debate something before softly saying, "Pa, you look awful."

Hoss frowned at Joe and then hastened to add, "Not as bad as on the trail."

Adam snickered at Hoss' attempt to soften Joe's remark. He put down his mug, crossed his arms on the tabletop, and looked at Ben. "You have looked better, Pa."

Mm hmm. He'd looked better and he'd felt worse. His lack of sleep meant this was apt to be a long, achy day. Pride forced him to straighten; that and a conviction that he could still work longer and harder than his sons. Or at least keep them persuaded of that.

"Pa?" Joe passed Ben the platter of venison sausage. "What'd they do?"

Hoss heaped a pile of eggs on his plate and explained, "Your pa and his pa and all."

It would seem the boys had been discussing their ancestors. Good. Ben dripped honey into his cup of tea. "Father designed ships and then supervised the building of them."

Adam leaned across the table toward Joe and raised his eyebrows. "And during the war he was a privateer."

Ben winced.

"A pirate!" Joe exclaimed. Hop Sing held the platter of griddlecakes in front of Joe but the boy had forgotten all about breakfast. Instead he looked at Ben, eyes wide and bright. "He was a pirate?"

Ben shot Adam a look that he hoped showed aggravation. If Joe started talking about pirates he'd see them behind every horse, cow, and pine tree for the rest of the day.

"A privateer," Ben repeated slowly.

Hoss looked from Ben to Adam. "Well . . . what's the difference?"

"A privateer," Adam said in what Ben had heard Hoss and Joe call his school-teacher voice, "is someone who has been given the right to board ships flying an enemy's flag in time of war."

Ben shrugged. Pretty good definition. But, of course, Adam couldn't let it end there. Not Adam.

"The privateers would board the ships and take anything of value and-"

"Pirates!" Joe finally noticed the griddlecakes, snatched one, and returned to taking no notice of Hop Sing.

Hop Sing held the platter out to Hoss but Hoss, too, was only paying attention to Adam.

Adam pursed his lips. "No, they aren't pirates. A pirate keeps all the booty, everything he takes from a ship, for himself. A privateer takes things for his country."

Ben frowned at his eggs. That wasn't exactly right.

"He gives it to the country?" Hoss sounded flabbergasted.

"Not all of it." Adam sighed and put down his fork. "A privateer has papers making what he does legal. And to reward his . . . efforts . . . he's allowed to keep whatever he wants. But he gives cannons and pistols and gunpowder and rifles and food to the nation he is sailing for."

Hoss nodded that he understood. "But he gets to keep everything else."

Adam leaned his head to one side and squinted. "Well-"

"Sounds like a pirate to me," Joe said, wrapping the sausage in the griddlecake.

Ben touched his napkin to his lips. This could go on forever. "Boys." He rested his right arm on the chair arm and waited for their attention. "What Adam is trying to say is that privateers worked with the benefit of the law of a particular country. Pirates work outside the law. A privateer works only in times of war, and only against his country's enemies. He does his best not to kill the crew or damage the ship. He sends any captured ships to port to be used by his country and many times he puts the captured crew on a neutral ship - or even takes them to land."

Of course sometimes events happened a bit differently.

"Actually," Adam said, "some pirates were the same way. They didn't kill and some times they didn't take the ship. They only wanted the cargo."

Why couldn't Adam leave well enough alone?

Joe rolled his eyes to Ben. "Did your pa kill people when he was a pirateer?"

"Not that I know of, no." Ben swallowed a bite of sausage and decided it wasn't worth correcting Joe's corruption of the word.

"Well, did he steal stuff?" Hoss asked.

"Hoss," Ben said, wishing they would change the subject, "Father did not steal." At least not technically. "A privateer was held in high regard," Ben added. "A pirate was not." Except by young boys.

"But . . . well . . ." Hoss took a deep breath. "Jean Lafitte was a pirate and folks in New Orleans liked him."

Oh . . . no.

"But his older brother, Pierre, was the smart one," Adam added. "And technically they weren't pirates."

Well-

"One of the reasons so many people liked Lafitte, "Adam continued, "was because he sent men and ammunition for the Battle of New Orleans. And he never fired on American ships."

"One of his men did," Ben said, "but Lafitte saw to it that the man paid for the mistake with his life."

Thunder! Ben's brain was sleepy.

Adam narrowed his eyes at Ben but fortunately Hoss spoke first. He looked at the ceiling and waved his fork in rhythm with his words. "So what you're saying is that Pa's pa wasn't a pirate because folks liked him."

But Adam was not to be distracted. "How did you know that?" he asked Ben.

Hoss looked around in confusion. "You just said-"

Adam didn't even glance his brother's way. "Not you."

"Yeah, Pa," Joe piped up. "How'd you know about that man shooting at Americans?"

Ben shrugged. "I heard it when we were in New Orleans."

Now Hop Sing was peering at him.

Adam leaned back from the table. "I don't know, Pa. You sounded pretty sure of yourself. Almost like you were there."

Ben rolled his eyes. "Adam, I don't know anything about it personally. Father told me about it after I met-" Right about then Ben wished that he had his sons' unerring ability to not tell all the truth. Adam was trying hard not to smirk. Hoss' mouth was hanging open. Hop Sing put down his knife and fork.

Joe pulled in a huge breath before shouting, "You saw Jean Lafitte!"

Actually Ben had met him. He'd been at the blacksmith shop when Father and the Lafitte brothers had talked in the back. Ben, who had been on the side of the building admiring horses, had caught bits and pieces of conversation. He'd understood the English but the French had given him problems. He would never forget the shock when he'd realized one of the voices speaking French so fluently had been Father's. But he'd never asked Father about it. It had always been better not to ask Father questions that would lead to him discovering he had been overheard. That time in New Orleans, Ben had admired beautiful horses, been amazed at all the different people and smells and sounds, decided he did not like pineapples, begged to eat croissants with every meal, and been very careful - as Father had instructed - not to say the word 'pirate.' He'd also decided that someday he would go back and stay longer.

"Pa," Joe's insistent voice jerked Ben's attention back to the present, "did you see Jean Lafitte?"

"Yeah, Pa," Hoss added, his face bright with enthusiasm, "did he look like Ma said he did?"

Ben wasn't sure he understood what Hoss was asking.

"Remember?" Adam coached softly. "Back when we lived in New Orleans. One night Ma told us about the Lafittes."

Joe swallowed a huge mouthful of his breakfast. "And she told us about his ghost." He leaned across the table toward Hoss. "Clomp, clomp. Clink, clink."

Ben shook his head. "What are you boys talking about?"

"It's the story Ma told about Jean Lafitte, Pa," Adam said gently, as if Ben were addlebrained.

"I do not remember her telling a story about Jean Lafitte," Ben protested.

Hoss motioned to Ben's dish. "I'll tell it to ya when we finish eatin' . . . while we get that hay outta the loft."

According to Hoss, Marie had told the boys about Lafitte's ghost "way back" when Hoss had been a kid.

"It scared me pretty good back then," he confided as he tossed hay into the wagon inside the barn, "but not anymore."

And so, Hoss told Ben about an evening Ben could not remember, when Marie had spun a tale.

On certain nights - especially foggy ones - people could hear the "clomp, clomp" as Lafitte walked and the "clink, clink" as he had a sword fight with an invisible adversary. The boys must have treasured the story because as Hoss related it he occasionally slipped into Marie's way of expressing herself. Spellbound, Ben gave up all pretense of working and sat on the stool by the worktable in the barn, as much to watch Hoss' animated retelling as to hear the story.

"There's the sound of the sword. Clink, clink," Hoss said dramatically. "And the boots. Clomp, clomp. And then sometimes there's the sound of a duel." His blue eyes rounded and he leaned closer to Ben. "And if the night's real dark you can see the quick light when the swords hit each other. And when there's fog, if you're quiet you can hear the clomp, clomp. Clink, clink. And you can hear 'em breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Clomp. Clomp. Clink. Clink. And then the fog it'll move." Hoss rippled his fingers like a piano player fingering the keys. "And the fog moves here and it moves there." He stepped closer to Ben. "And you hear 'em breathing. And walking. And you hear the swords. And the fog moves. And you feel the cool air. And that's Jean Lafitte walking the street to his shop."

Hoss didn't move and neither did Ben.

"And they say," Hoss whispered, "that anybody who steps into that cool air is stepping in front of Jean Lafitte. And when they do that they fall and they die. And there's blood on their shirt but there isn't a wound."

Thwack!

Ben jerked from Hoss' spell and looked toward the barn door. Adam stood grinning and holding the hammer he'd hit against the sweet feed barrel.

"And that," Adam said pointedly, "is when you clapped your hands and scared the livers out of us."

Ben ran his right hand across his face. A couple more surprises like that one and he'd be an old man before his time.

The slaps of a checker on the checkerboard caused Ben to look from the desk to where his sons sat at the dining table after supper that evening. He set aside the letter he was writing to Barbara and smiled as he watched the boys.

"You cheated," Hoss protested, pounding his right index finger at the table to bolster his claim.

"Hoss," Adam said with theatrical patience, "I don't have to cheat."

"Yeah, Hoss," Joe chimed in from the end of the table. "You're terrible."

Hoss pointed at Adam as he said to Joe, "Well, he taught me."

"No." Adam shook his head as he gathered black checkers. "No, I taught you marbles. Pa taught you checkers."

"You taught me checkers."

"I taught you pick up sticks and how to skip." Adam rolled his eyes. "I thought you'd never get that down."

Joe launched into giggles.

"Yeah?" Hoss challenged. "Well, Ma never could skip."

"But she could jump rope," Joe bragged.

Ben smiled as Hoss and Adam nodded. Marie could indeed jump rope.

"And-" Adam widened his eyes- "Ma could get more skips with a rock than anyone."

Hoss leaned back and grinned. "Remember that time on the trail when she knocked out that snake with her first throw?"

What? Ben placed the pen in its holder.

Adam leaned back and swung his right arm wide. "And then she grabbed the thing and threw it a good three yards."

The boys exploded in laughter that led to hiccups for Joe.

Marie picked up a snake? When?

"Yeah," Joe said, "she was real . . . hic . . . serious about nobody getting . . . hic . . . into that sugar."

Adam pushed his teacup toward Joe and pointed to it, indicating Joe should take a drink. "But the best time was when she got rid of that bobcat."

Bobcat? What bobcat? Where had Ben been when all this had been going on?

"What bobcat?" Joe asked. And then hiccupped.

"Well . . . see . . . it was on the trail and you were off with Micah," Hoss said. "Pa'd been gone a couple of days scoutin' ahead." He pushed the checkerboard aside. "I was helping set up camp and Adam'd come in with some rabbits. Ma and Adam were skinnin' em-"

"And then there was rustling in the grass," Adam added.

"Yeah." Hoss nodded. "We couldn't figure out what it was. Wasn't an Indian 'cause we weren't in Indian territory."

As far as Ben had been concerned the entire trip had felt like some form or another of Indian territory.

"Then the grass parted," Adam said in his mysterious storyteller voice. "And we could see it."

"A bob - hic - cat?" Joe asked.

Hoss spread his hands a good three feet apart. "Must've been about thirty pounds, right Adam?"

Adam leaned his head to one side. "Mm . . . maybe forty."

Undoubtedly a larger than usual bobcat.

"And wouldn't you know that bobcat was interested in them rabbits just like we were," Hoss said after shaking his head. "Course I figure he meant to eat 'em raw."

Joe made a gagging noise that reminded Ben of the way Adam had done as a little boy.

"Anyway," Adam said, "you should've heard Ma scream when she saw that bobcat."

Ben wondered if the rest of the wagon train had heard Marie's scream, and if so why they hadn't told him when he'd gotten back from wherever he had been.

Hoss and Adam laughed until Hoss' eyes teared. Adam swiped his hand by his nose and then leaned his elbows on the table. "The next thing we knew she was spewing French at the bobcat."

"She grabbed a wooden spoon and went wavin' it around and then she flapped her skirts and she chased that bobcat straight back into the grass."

Sweet heaven. A good-sized bobcat could bring down a deer. What on earth had Marie been thinking? Why hadn't Adam grabbed the rifle?

"How come you didn't . . . hic . . . shoot him?" Joe asked after another swallow of tea.

His brothers gave him wilting looks. "And start another stampede?" Adam asked. "A week after all the chickens got out?"

Ah, yes, the chicken stampede.

Adam said, "By that time, everyone around had stopped to watch Ma."

"Hoo-ee was she mad. I thought she was gonna skin that cat and serve it for dinner."

Ben remembered feeling that way a time or two himself when it came to Marie.

"Yeah," Adam laughed softly. "But it ran back into the grass and we didn't see it again."

"And Ma went right back to the wagon and started working on them rabbits like nothin' had happened."

Ben smiled. That sounded like Marie.

The boys were silent a moment, each seemingly lost in memories, and then Adam stood. "Anyhow, Hoss, I didn't teach you checkers. If Pa didn't then Ma did."

"Ma didn't know how to . . . hic . . . play checkers," Joe argued.

Oh yes she did.

Adam and Hoss stared at Joe before Adam said, "She used to beat Pa without trying."

That was when the boys seemed to remember Ben was still around. They hurriedly looked his way and then just as hurriedly vacated the table to adjourn to the living room where Hop Sing sat reading a Chinese newspaper.

Ben considered a new thought. Maybe he needed to strike a bargain with his sons. He'd tell them a story from his younger days if they'd tell him a story from theirs. Both he and they would have to be careful about exactly what they told, of course.

He smiled at the idea of Marie chasing a bobcat - even though he probably would have lost his temper at the time. She'd been an amazing woman who had obviously left enduring memories with three boys who had loved and admired her.

Speaking of admirable women . . . Ben picked up the pen and returned his attention to his letter to Barbara.

After he'd finished the letter and everyone had gone to bed, Ben sat at the desk again and jotted names, dates, and places on the slate, this time to record deaths. He started with Father's. That date he was sure of. Feeling a measure of the alarm from all those years ago when he'd made port and found out that Father had died months earlier, Ben wrote the name Joseph Cartwright with extra care. After he recorded the numbers 1821, he returned the pen to its inkwell and stared at the date.

Father had been forty-one when he'd died, two years younger than Ben was now. Dear heaven, the man had packed a lot of living into those years. Not the least of which had been all his adventures as a privateer during the war. Ben doubted that half of the tales had been true. The other half had probably been greatly embellished for John's and Ben's enjoyment.

He wasn't sure of the exact dates of the next few deaths but he was unrelenting in his quest to share as much he could, as much as he remembered. Father's brother, Samuel, had died while Ben and the boys had been in New Orleans, while Ben had been courting Marie. Uncle Samuel's four sons - Jeremiah, Amos, Philip, and Solomon - had all preceded Uncle Samuel in death though Ben had no idea what the years had been. Jeremiah had died in Massachusetts in a hunting accident. Amos had fallen to his death in Boston. Both had left behind childless widows. Philip had died in a shipwreck off Valparaiso. Solomon had been shot to death in a pub, a fight of his own making, fueled by alcohol. Aunt Bess was gone, as was her husband Alexander. They'd outlived all their children. Aunt Martha and Uncle Enos had had two children who survived, but Aunt Martha had married someone named Jones after Uncle Enos' death. The last Ben had heard she had moved to Missouri.

Now for the deaths of his first two sons' mothers. Elizabeth Stoddard Cartwright, Boston. He wrote the date he would never forget and then the year 1828. Inger Borgstrom Cartwright, Platte River, July 1832. He still couldn't remember the exact date. He'd said as much to Marie once and she'd told him Inger's death had been a terrible thing with which his mind wasn't easy. Someday, Marie had reassured, he would recall. Ben took a long breath, let it out jerkily, and continued.

John's wife, Patience, had died in late '41 or early '42. Ben made a note that Patience and John had lost two babies before Will's birth and another two afterward.

Ben lowered the pen and stood, rubbing his forehead. He needed coffee, maybe with a little whisky in it. No, the smell of coffee brewing would wake at least Adam. Probably Hop Sing, too. And here in the hushed darkness with somber memories draped around him like mourning clothes, he dared not open that whisky bottle. He settled, instead, for his pipe and hoped the smoke's aroma would not disturb anyone.

Seated again at the desk, Ben wrote the next to last entry - John Cartwright, March 14, 1849, Kansas City, Missouri. And then with a heaviness he doubted would ever ease completely he wrote, as he had in Marie's Bible, Marie LeClerc de Marigny Cartwright, laboriously adding the date of her death and the place. Even now he didn't know what to add as the reason for her death. Accident seemed hardly to cover it. A stranger's avarice? A man's unthinking, and misguided, retaliation? Ben leaned back in the chair and puffed on his pipe.

Marie. A tender smile that could change to a fearsome frown in the blink of an eye. A touch as soft as a breath and a slap that could give a man reason to think twice before angering her again. A loving mother whose right hand wielding a wooden spoon could quickly redirect a wayward son. The woman who could envelop Ben with the faintest hint of perfume and the allure in those rich, brown eyes.

He needed to rest, but he knew he wouldn't, not with the memories that were his companions tonight.

As he gently lowered the cover to close the Bible, Ben's thumb brushed the page for recording marriages and his heart took comfort. Perhaps Barbara's next letter would give him reason to turn to these record pages again and inscribe an occasion filled with joy, the marriage of Barbara Cartwright to Stephen Braxton. He would write that one with extra flourishes.

Ben awoke the next morning with his heart racing and the half-memory of hearing something slam, followed by an immediate "Joe!" hissed from Adam. As Ben straightened in the chair by the fireplace and groaned, he wondered how he had ever fallen asleep in such an uncomfortable position.

The son who had awakened him - the youngest one - belatedly tiptoed toward Ben. He paused behind the settee and said, "Sorry, Pa."

Ben nodded and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and rubbing the back of his neck.

"Breakfast is on table," Hop Sing said softly from somewhere behind Ben.

Slowly, certain he was creaking like an old ship, Ben made his way to the table. After he sat, he looked at his sons. Here it was again, that vague hesitancy that Joe had shown yesterday morning, except now it was from all three boys and even Hop Sing.

"We took care of your early chores for you, Pa," Joe said with a big, but unsure, smile.

"Thank you." Ben opened his napkin over his knee. "Do I look as awful as yesterday morning?" He looked from the tops of his eyes at the boy.

Joe considered the question, complete with wrinkled forehead and pursed lips, while Adam, Hoss, and Hop Sing busied themselves passing the breakfast plates. "You look awfuller," he pronounced.

Ben pushed at his right cheek with his tongue and nodded his thank you as Adam passed the biscuits.

"Do you feel awfuller, Pa?" Joe jerked and looked across the table at Adam with the familiar, but silent, "what?"

"Hoss and I were talking about what we need to do today," Adam said. He waited until Ben gave him a questioning look and then launched into their plans, aided by Hoss.

When Ben was sure they had finished he put down his fork and rested his elbows on the table. "That's quite an . . . ambitious list," he said slowly. "Sounds like you could use some help."

The boys frowned but Hop Sing smiled. "Burden is less when it is shared."

"Chores tend to be shorter, too," Ben said and then returned the smile.

"Well . . . ya see-" Hoss looked at Adam and then at Ben- "we figured maybe you'd want to think today."

Ben strangled a laugh. "Are you saying I don't think everyday?"

"Uh . . . no." Hoss gave a short laugh of embarrassment. "It's just that . . . well with Uncle John dying and all . . ."

"I appreciate everyone's concern, but I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Joe blurted. He frowned at Adam. "Pa's always saying to tell the truth!"

Adam rolled his eyes. "Telling the truth doesn't mean saying everything you think, Joe."

Ben blinked in surprise and leaned back, studying his eldest son. "My grandfather used to say the same thing."

Hoss leaned to see around Adam. "Does he look like him?"

"Does who look like whom?" Or was that does whom look like who?

"Does Adam look like your grandfather?"

"No, Adam looks like his mother."

"What'd he look like?" Joe asked eagerly.

"My grandfather?" Ben shifted in his chair. "My father's father was very tall, very thin. His hair was white by the time I knew him. He had the fiercest blue eyes I've ever seen." Ben tucked his chin and made his voice deep. "And he had a voice that could be heard all the way to the back of the church."

"To the back of-" Adam stopped.

"-the church?" Hoss gaped at Ben.

"He was a leader in the church," Ben explained, aware that Hop Sing had raised his chin and was listening intently.

"Oh," Joe said with a wave of his hand, "we thought you meant he was a preacher."

"He wasn't but his father was. My great-grandfather preached in England and then in New York." Ben ducked his head, trying not to laugh at his youngest son's pained look. Joe associated preachers with church, and church with having to sit very still - which was not one of Joe's natural talents.

"Was he real . . . holy?" Joe asked.

"I've been told he was a very upright man, as was my grandfather."

Hoss set aside his napkin. "What about your pa, was he upright?"

Ben coughed and reached for his cup of tea. After a swallow he managed to answer. "Father was a man of faith but he was not as virtuous as his parents and grandparents thought he should be."

Joe turned his chair to face Ben. "Did you go to church?"

"Every worship day, yes. Father read from the Bible each evening and questioned John and me on it. It was one of the books Mother taught us to read from before we started school."

"Did you have to learn Bible verses?"

"I learned verses and psalms and proverbs and parables and I had to be able to repeat them whenever I was asked to do so."

"What was your favorite story?"

"Noah."

"Why?"

"Because he built a ship."

Adam snorted but it was Hoss who said, "It was an ark, Pa. It didn't have no sails."

Ben held up his right index finger. "You don't know that." He had argued the same point with Father. That had been right after Father had tried to explain what a cubit was. Ben had never heard of such an arbitrary unit of measurement. He wished he'd known the word arbitrary back then. "John learned a lot more of the Bible than I did, though," he added.

"Why's that?" Adam's eyes were bright as he raised his eyebrows.

Ben sipped from his coffee mug. "John tended to do the types of things Mother had us memorize from the Bible for."

"What about you?" Hoss faced Ben, his right arm hooked over the chair back.

Ben cleared his throat. "I tended to do things that Father took care of."

Joe's face brightened with anticipation. "Like what?"

Ben motioned to Joe's plate. "Like talking so much at the table that I let my meal get cold." He waved a hand to stop Joe's protest. "When you ride out with me to check the cattle, I'll tell you one of the things I did."

Hoss pointed at his little brother. "Just remember to remember it so you can tell me and Adam."

"And don't add anything," Adam instructed.

Oh, there'd be no need for that, Ben was sure.

A man couldn't have hoped for a nicer day for late spring. The blue sky and the green earth looked newly created. The plum bushes had lost their blooms - and there must have been twenty shades of green in the grass and shrubs and trees. Ben welcomed the sunshine and the breeze, Buck's easy gait, and listening to Joe chatter about how he planned to beat Wendell at marbles the next time he was in town. Ben didn't even mind the way Smoke kept running after rabbits and mice and anything else that moved.

After Joe had explained his strategy about marble games, which sounded surprisingly like Adam's, he bragged about how smart Smoke was. Joe's dog could flush birds, fetch birds, fetch fish, herd cattle . . . Ben braced himself for when Joe told him that Smoke could fetch cattle but Joe skated over that to tell Ben that Smoke now knew all the tools around the barn and where to get them. "But just the ones he can reach," Joe qualified. "He's not allowed to get the shovel and things off the door."

When Joe had exhausted that topic, he related how Aidan and Sean had gotten in "real bad trouble not just usual trouble" when they'd set fire to the trees by the McNally pond. Joe sat straight in his saddle, his chest puffed out, and said he figured that was because Aidan and Sean were still smoking those pipes like they shouldn't be doing.

"They're like that," he confided in a slightly deeper voice than usual. "They don't do what their ma and pa say to do."

"And you, of course, never misbehave."

Joe shrugged. "Not real bad trouble like they do." He considered. "Not much."

As Ben knew it would, the thought caused Joe to return to begging for the story that Ben had promised him. They had checked the cattle and the lower pastures. Ben could probably think of a story he could tell before they reached the sluice. He rubbed at his chin, wondering what he could tell Joe that wouldn't come back to haunt him in Joe's actions.

"Well, Joseph," Ben said slowly. "I'll tell you about the tar barrel." He looked from the sides of his eyes to find Joe staring at him, ready to memorize every word. Ben waved his hand forward. "Watch where you're going, son."

Joe jerked and quickly turned his attention to riding Paint alongside Buck.

"When I was growing up there were a lot of tar barrels around. They used the tar to protect the lines on board ships."

Joe nodded his head excitedly. "They did in New Orleans, too, Pa. Remember?"

He hadn't until then. "Yes, they did. We called them tar barrels but they were really hogsheads." Ben waited while Joe giggled at the name. "A hogshead holds as much as two barrels."

"Golly," Joe said admiringly, "that's a lot of tar."

"That's a lot of anything." Ben reined Buck to the left, to follow the trail to the upper sluice gates. "Sometimes Father would bring home empty barrels to use."

"For what?"

"Dry barrels for things like apples or potatoes or grain. Wet barrels were for liquids like cider." Or whisky. "But they were regular size. The tar barrel he brought home that day was empty - and it was big."

Joe quickly looked at Ben and then immediately returned his attention to where he was going when Ben pointed ahead. "Tar barrels float, Pa."

Ben looked from the bottoms of his eyes. That had the ring of first-hand experience to it. "Yes, they do."

"Remember when that boat sank at New Orleans? Golly! There were barrels everywhere."

Ben recalled a handful of collisions and several storms that had sent barrels floating downriver. He wondered when Joe had seen that. As soon as Joe sighed impatiently, Ben returned to his story. "You know that Father designed ships and he also sailed."

"He was a pirateer," Joe said proudly. "He was legal."

Let it be, Ben told himself. "And you know that I was a sailor."

Joe pushed on the crown of his hat to snug it against the breeze. Ben wasn't sure he'd ever get the boy trained to tug on the brim. "You went practically everywhere," Joe said.

"I went a lot of places, yes. But I was interested in ships from the time I was small. I was interested in anything that floated." Ben eased his eyes toward his son and saw Joe grin as he guessed about the barrel. "I was about your age, maybe a little younger, when I had the idea that a hogshead would make a good ship."

"How would you make it a ship?"

"The first thing I decided to do was cut a hogshead in half, along the length. But that meant cutting the hoops and when you cut the hoops-"

"It's not a barrel anymore."

"It's not a barrel anymore," Ben agreed. "Then one day I was with some friends. One of us would get in a barrel at the top of a hill." He met Joe's questioning look. "Boston has plenty of hills."

Joe's mouth formed an "O" and he nodded that he understood.

"One of us would get in a barrel at the top of a hill and the other boys would roll the barrel until it was under its own power. Of course there wasn't any stopping it until you got to a flat area. Or hit something." Ben winced with the memories of the bruises he'd sustained simply rolling in the barrel, much less in collisions. "That spring when I was about your age, we were rolling barrels. There'd been a lot of rain so the rivers and streams were high. We didn't take that into account. I got in one of the barrels. The others pushed. I rolled downhill and right into one of the creeks."

Ben paused when Joe stood in the stirrups. Smoke was getting too far afield. Joe's whistle to Smoke rose above the whooshing of the pines as the tree tops swayed in the increasingly cooler wind. The boy sat and asked, "What happened then?"

"My barrel bobbed and floated on the water and then I realized I was headed toward the river." Ben shook his head at Joe. "That wasn't good news. So I made my way out of the barrel and swam to shore. It was a strong current and it would have served me right if I'd drowned."

"But you didn't."

"No, I lived to do something even more questionable." Ben pulled up his jacket collar. "Floating in that barrel gave me an idea that I might be able to sail one."

"Sail a barrel?" Joe leaned back and laughed. "Nobody's sailed a barrel."

"I have."

"You did?"

"Mm hmm. I found some fabric and I oiled it to make it stronger, so it wouldn't rip when it caught the wind." Ben paused and gave his son a mock frown. "What are you laughing about?"

"Sailing a barrel."

Ben shrugged. "If you don't want to hear the story-"

"No, Pa, I want to hear it," Joe assured.

"All right, then. I had my sail. I made a mast out of a tree limb. I built a brace to hold the mast to the inside bottom of the barrel and then a deck above the bottom of the barrel so I could stand and see over the top." Ben directed Buck toward the wide trail that curved farther uphill. "I secured the sail with lines. I stowed rocks in a sack to use as ballast. And then I got my friends to help me roll the barrel down the hill to the river."

"The river!"

"The creeks were low by then," Ben explained. "John heard what I was up to. He caught up to me and thought he would commandeer my ship but we had a . . . discussion . . . and I got on board. The last thing I heard as I shoved off was John yelling that he was telling Father."

"Adam doesn't do that," Joe said firmly. "Not much, leastways."

Despite what Joe might think to the contrary, Ben was glad to hear that. Brothers needed to stick together. Most of the time.

"While my barrel tipped and dipped I watched John run toward the harbor. Then I had to put my mind to the matter at hand because my ship finally got on an even keel." Even now Ben remembered the burst of pride that something he had built was not only afloat but moving. "And there I was standing on the bag of ballast on my deck, leaning against the top edge, watching my sail fill." Ben licked his lips. "Unfortunately I hadn't paid attention to the wind. Not the smartest thing a sailor can do." Ben paused to let Joe indulge in another round of giggles. "It was a fresh breeze that day and I gained a bit more speed than I'd counted on. I went around a bend and there were boats everywhere. They were going downriver on the current. I was going upriver on the breeze."

"Uh oh."

"Mm." Ben shifted in his saddle. "When there was no question that my ship was about to collide with one of the boats - and there was no doubt that the boat would not sustain the damages my ship would - I went overboard. I'd meant to swim to shore but there was too much traffic so one of the crewmen on the near boat helped me aboard." Ben let out another deep sigh. "And that's how I got to the harbor."

Joe pulled his coat together against the cooler air but he didn't button it. "What happened then?"

"They slowed the boat and I clambered off." Ben deepened his voice. "And then I noticed where we were."

"Where were you?"

"Right below Father's office."

"Uh oh."

"The boatmen ahead of us had been shouting back and forth about the boy who was sailing the hogshead. And of course John had gotten to Father by then."

"He shouldn't've told, "Joe said angrily.

"I shouldn't have gotten in the river, either," Ben pointed out. "When I made landfall it looked like everyone in Boston was standing there. Including Father." Ben stopped Buck a few feet from the first sluice gate. The water was flowing freely; there was no sign of beaver dams. He leaned on the saddle horn and looked at Joe. "I was filthy from the tar that had rubbed off the barrel. So we went home and I cleaned up. Then Father sat me at his desk and made me figure out what I should have done to have more control of my ship." Ben shook his head. "One of the things I should have had was a rudder of some sort." And a keel. And a pole.

"What happened after that?" Joe looked as if he wanted to know but didn't want to know because he thought he'd guessed the answer.

"Well," Ben said slowly as he directed Buck downhill, "I hadn't lied to Father. I hadn't been disrespectful. And he'd never told me not to launch a barrel into the river so I hadn't disobeyed him."

Joe recognized that particular tactic. "So he couldn't get mad at ya."

"Oh," Ben said firmly, "Father could get very angry."

"But he didn't tell you not to sail the barrel." Joe peered up at Ben as he protested.

"No, he didn't tell me not to. I brought that to his attention. And then he reminded me of several other things he'd never told me not to do - but I knew not to do."

Joe twisted his lips to the side. "You got in trouble."

Ben had expected Joe to revel in hearing how Ben had gotten in a predicament with Father. Having his son as an ally was a welcome surprise.

"Did Uncle John get in trouble for not stopping ya? Maybe for telling on ya?"

How to explain that John had always been able to shine the best of lights on his actions? And that when Ben had set his mind to an endeavor there was little that could dissuade him. "I think, given the situation, Father was grateful that John told him I was in danger." Ben slowly rolled his eyes Joe's direction. "Like when Adam told me about Hoss and you rescuing the wolves."

Joe licked his lower lip and said a very soft, "Oh." But he was not subdued for long. He straightened in the saddle. "But getting in trouble didn't stop ya."

"It certainly did," Ben protested.

"I mean-" Joe grinned up at Ben-"you still went sailing."

Ben leaned his head back and laughed. "Yes, I did," he said as he reached to pat Joe's shoulder. "But I sailed on a ship Father had designed."

With the intention of not being around, so Joe could share the story with Adam and Hoss - and probably Hop Sing - Ben worked alone in the late afternoon. They'd decided, during the dead of winter, that when spring arrived they would put a new larger garden out back between the house and the pond where there was less shade. Hoss had plowed the ground the previous week. Now it was ready for breaking up with the shovel, rake, and hoe. And that was exactly the right kind of work for thinking.

Ben hadn't worked in a garden in a long time. In his youth, tending the garden had been one of his daily chores; weed, remove any bugs, pick any produce, water, provide stakes for the plants that needed them.

John had loathed the chore but then John had pretty much loathed all chores. Ben hadn't been overly fond of gardening but he'd seen the sense in it and he'd learned early on that the sooner and better he did the job, the happier Mother would be and the better chance he had of pursuing his own interests. Sometimes it had seemed to Ben that John had spent the greater part of his time as a boy figuring out ways to maneuver around rules and not get caught. Finding ways around rules had come far too easily for Ben - but he had always gotten caught.

Maybe not always. Ben stood straight and switched from the rake to the hoe. With hindsight he realized that it had seemed he was always in trouble when he'd been a boy, and even as a young man he'd been convinced that he'd been in trouble with Father every day. But the truth was that he'd often gone weeks without incurring Father's anger. Sometimes that had been because Father hadn't been home or Father had worked late. And sometimes, Ben thought with a smile, it had been because of a glorious time when Father and he had seemed to have the same thoughts and the same humor about events.

The low sun warmed the back of Ben's jacket as he turned to work near the edge of the plowed area.

And despite what Ben had once thought, John and he hadn't always been at odds. When they had been younger they'd gotten along well, much the way Adam and Erik had in New Orleans. But by the time Ben had turned six and John had been eleven, they'd had different friends and interests. Sometimes, they had found common ground like hunting or horseback riding. Sometimes they had been forced together, as when they'd visited their grandparents in Philadelphia. When Ben had been little, he had felt important when John had deigned to give him attention. Out of self-interest, Ben had done his best to keep John from being caught because if John hadn't been allowed to go out, then Ben hadn't. The theory had been that John was watching out for Ben. The reality had been just the opposite.

All the same, John and Ben had had fun when they'd been younger. They'd laughed at bedtime about pranks they'd pulled. They'd told stories about pirates and ghost ships and sea monsters. They'd raced to find the most clams and then competed to see who could remove the shells faster. They'd had mud fights and had peeled off their clothes to swim in the lake at their grandparents' farm in the summer. And heaven help the boy who had hit Ben - John not only had put the boy in his place but had managed to convince Father that he hadn't been in a fight. John had always been able to convince people of things.

John really should have been a politician.

Ben laughed aloud when he realized the quirk of fate - John had hated garden work and yet he'd grown up to be a farmer. He had hated math and yet he'd owned a store. And he'd sworn to get as far from the water as possible, only to settle on the river at Cincinnati.

As Ben swapped the hoe for the rake, he wondered why John had been in Missouri. John hadn't said anything about moving in his last letter. Of course if Ben recalled correctly that last letter had been in the spring of '47 - answering the letter Ben had posted from Sutter's during that terrible winter of '46. No, there'd been the letter that Ben had received in the autumn of '48 telling Ben that Aunt Bess had died. That letter had been posted from Ohio so John had moved on to Missouri between that autumn and the following spring. Had he intended to follow the overland trail?

No, Ben decided as he pulled his gloves up, whatever John's reason for being in Missouri it had not been to come west. John had never understood having a dream, much less pursuing one. He'd always had his feet planted on the ground and had maintained that Ben always had his head in the clouds.

Maybe someday Will would show up. He knew where to find Ben now, thanks to John Sutter. Maybe then Will could provide some answers.

The thud of the hoe into the ground alongside him jerked Ben from his musings. He looked over in surprise and Hoss smiled. "Looked like you could use some help." Hoss motioned to Ben's rake. "That garden won't rake itself."

Ben laughed and resumed work.

"Hop Sing and me were talking about what we oughta plant here." Hoss was busting clods faster than Ben could count them. "I'm gonna haul some of that sand up here from the pond. We'll mix that with this dirt and it'll be nice and loose and we can grow more carrots for Adam."

Ben's laughter grew louder.

"And then Little Joe'll be wantin' some mushrooms."

Ben stopped to lean on the hoe. "And what about you?" he asked as he wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes.

Hoss shrugged good-naturedly. "I'm not worried. There's no way to grow cheese." Hoss turned to attack more dirt clods. "Hey, Pa?"

"Mm?" Ben racked the area where Hoss had worked, driving the tines into the smaller clumps of dirt.

"Ain't there something that you don't like to eat?"

"I'm not particularly fond of crow."

Now Hoss laughed. "For real, Pa."

"Or liver."

"Liver's good. You just need to try it. What I mean is, isn't there somethin' that people grow that you don't like to eat?"

Ben tilted his head as he considered the question. "Not that I can think of. Mother didn't like onions. Father didn't like leeks." Ben grinned as an earthworm wriggled into the dirt. "John didn't like apples."

Hoss looked up in wide-eyed surprise. "Apples?"

"I had something to do with that," Ben confessed.

Hoss stopped work as Ben did. "What'd ya do?" Hoss' voice was as eager as his eyes.

Ben turned his mouth downwards. "Not much."

"Must've been somethin' if it made him not like apples."

"Well-" Ben looked over his shoulder as Adam and Joe walked toward him.

"It's supper time." Adam shoved his hands into his jacket pocket.

Ben glanced at Hoss. "Maybe I should tell you about John and apples later."

"Aww, Pa." Hoss frowned. "How bad can it be?"

Ben narrowed his eyes. "Pretty bad."

Joe stepped in front of Adam, effectively using his oldest brother as a wind block. "What about Uncle John and apples?"

"He didn't like 'em," Hoss answered. "Pa had somethin' to do with it."

"Imagine that," Adam said.

Ben motioned toward the back of the house where they could stand in the lowering sun and more importantly, be out of the chilly wind. He leaned the rake against the wall and put his hands at his waist. "John had a bad habit of biting into an apple and then leaving it laying around. And then he'd get another apple and take a bite and put it down somewhere. So when I wanted an apple there weren't any in the house . . . that I'd eat."

Hoss leaned on the hoe, face wide with a grin. Adam had his head down slightly and looked from the tops of his eyes. Joe went up and down on his toes, swinging his arms beside him, and prompted Ben to go on with the story.

"One day I was working in the garden and I accidentally cut an earthworm in two."

Hoss squinted, Adam and Joe didn't flinch.

"And then I got an idea about how to break John of taking one bite and leaving the rest of the apple."

Adam snickered.

"I carried half of the worm to the house and I used my knife to dig out a small area right where John had taken a bite." Ben fought a laugh. "I carried the apple out to where John was with his friends and right before I got to him I forced the worm half into the apple."

"Was it still moving?" Joe asked excitedly.

"Mm hmm. I held up the apple and said, 'John, did you take the bite out of this apple?'" Ben rubbed at his chin. "He heaved his breakfast right there in front of everyone."

Hoss and Joe burst into laughter, Hoss slapping at the side of his leg, but Adam rocked back on his boot heels. "There's more, isn't there?"

There was no explaining how Adam knew that. There was no explaining how Adam knew a lot of things. Hoss and Joe went still and looked at Ben from the sides of their eyes.

"Maybe." Ben shrugged. "He didn't care for cider much either."

"What'd ya do?" Joe prompted.

Ben frowned. "What makes you think I did anything?"

All three sons waited, smiling.

Ben motioned toward the barn so Hoss and he could put up the garden tools. "I had an uncle in Philadelphia, Uncle Hugh, and he was fond of bitters. It was a drink made from herbs and plants like rhubarb." And alcohol.

Joe shook his head and made a face as if he'd bitten into a persimmon. "Rhubarb's terrible."

Ben stepped into the barn. "We were visiting our grandparents' farm outside Philadelphia. Uncle Hugh had some cider which John and I weren't to touch. John decided that he would have some cider anyhow. And he did. And he wasn't caught. So he crowed about it to me and said he could have cider anytime he wanted to." Ben paused to hang the rake on the door and stepped aside so Hoss could hang the hoe and shovel. Bracing his left hand against the top of the near stall, Ben continued. "So the next time John dipped into the cider barrel, I was nearby. I asked if I could have some. He handed me the dipper and I took a sip. And then I pretended I was coughing so I leaned with my back to him. And that was when I put the bitters in the dipper." Ben tugged his right glove off. "John laughed at me because I thought the cider was strong so he grabbed the dipper and tossed back a big drink. When I left he was running for the pump to get a drink of water." Ben slapped his gloves against his left palm. "And he never drank cider again."

"But-" Hoss leaned forward -"how'd you get those bitters?"

Ben grinned. "That's a story for another time."

"Aww, Pa," Joe moaned.

Adam ducked his head and tugged at his hat brim. Ben paused and then shook his head. No, there was no way Adam could figure out how Ben got the bitters.

Was there?

For the third evening in a row, Ben looked at the family Bible. But this time he opened it on the dining room table, with his back to the low-burning fireplace. And this time he didn't open the book to write, this time he opened it to study and think.

He read Mother's favorite psalm silently, though he knew it by heart. "Fret not thyself because of evildoers, neither be thou envious against the workers of iniquity. For they shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb. Trust in the LORD, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed. Delight thyself also in the LORD; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart."

Mother must have delighted in the Lord, for she had seemed to have everything she needed: family, home, flowers, friends, music, and books. Well, she'd also liked wine with dinner. And much to Father's horror, Mother's country-rearing had manifested itself in the way she liked to go barefoot around the house in summer. Ben had never understood Father's aversion to Mother's tendency, given that most sailors went barefoot while on ship. But Ben had usually had his shoes near at hand to slide on when Father showed up unexpectedly. Interesting that Father had never commented on Ben's lack of stockings at those times.

Ben lowered his eyes to the Bible. He couldn't recall that Father had a favorite psalm but Father'd been partial to the story of the prodigal son. Not long before Ben had gone to sea, he had asked Father what Father liked so much about that story. Father had smiled and said he identified strongly with one of the characters - and it wasn't the elder son. Father had said he took great hope and solace in that story.

And John? Ben leaned back in his chair and put down his pipe. As far as he knew, John's favorite story had been of David slaying Goliath. Ben's, of course, had been the story of Noah because it involved a ship but also because Mother and he had been known to sit by the fireplace at night and try to name every animal that Noah had taken on the voyage. Mother had indulged her imagination to its fullest, creating animal combinations that caused Ben to smile even to this day. His favorite had been the gorse - a three-legged animal that was half goose and half horse. Ben had carved one for Will that winter when Adam and Ben had stayed in Cincinnati. He wondered if Will remembered the story of the fanciful animal. And then he realized, much to his surprise, that he'd never told his own sons about it. Adam and Hoss were too old for the story but it would be a fine one to share with Joseph some night before bed.

Ben carefully turned the pages back and accepted that he would never know for sure why John hadn't kept the family record. Lack of interest, perhaps. Or maybe he'd let the duty slide for a while and then convinced himself he could never catch up. Possibly his intentions had been good but his actions had failed. Father'd had a saying for that: Hell is paved with good intentions. Father'd had a saying for just about everything as far as Ben could determine.

No matter why John hadn't written in the family Bible, one thing was certain. He'd kept it. Kept it in the box it had been in when Father's grandparents had sailed from England, Kept it in the box where Father's parents had stored it in New York. Kept it in the box John and Ben had been so accustomed to seeing on the lowboy in the parlor of their boyhood home in Boston. And though Ben couldn't recall seeing the box in John's house, it must have been kept somewhere with care. John had kept the Bible in his own way and passed the legacy on to Ben.

Ben pushed back his chair. The lamplight played across the Bible cover, casting shadows in the carved leather. He heard the boys burst into laughter in the living room. Even Hop Sing was laughing softly.

Ben lifted the Bible, ready to store it in the chest.

"I did not," Adam said indignantly

"You did, too," Hoss said as Joe giggled.

Ben raised his eyes, smiled at his sons' backs, and marveled at time's magic. He had his hands on the past and he was looking at the future.

+++