October 1829

To Pittsburgh

Ben eyed the glossy black stagecoach in the early morning light, attempting to ignore Adam’s clapping hands and cheery exclamations of, "Hord-es! Dee? Hord-es."

Yes, Ben had noticed the horses, all of them. They looked sturdy, well tended, and capable of pulling the coach. He raised his eyes to the flat top of the coach where a man stowed baggage and small trunks between the side and back rails. Near the front rail, the man secured Ben’s rifle under an oiled canvas with knots that Ben knew would hold. Satisfied that the job was being done correctly, the load distributed evenly, Ben turned his attention to the wheels. They were undoubtedly of better construction and sturdier material than he had seen on earlier coaches, less inclined to break apart or spin off the axle at the first rut in the road. The door was, as usual, in the middle of the carriage’s side with a square opening in its top half. Flanking the door were larger openings some people called windows though they contained no glass, only a heavy curtain that could be lowered as needed. The windows were taller near the door, their bottoms curving upward toward the coach’s front and back. Combined with the almost crescent moon shaping of the bottom of the body, the whole looked a bit like a smiling face, albeit with a square nose between rectangular eyes.

The finest improvement as far as Ben was concerned was the straps underneath the coach. They extended from the front axle to the rear axle and would absorb the shock of some of the bumps and at least diminish the effects of the others. Years earlier he had taken a trip from Boston to New York and had arrived with bruises on the top of his head and all about his knees and elbows. He had remarked to Angus that he had been accosted more on land than on sea.

The driver’s box was, of necessity, high so that he could see beyond the horses to the road. As his position was no more than a foot below the top of the carriage body, the man had little brace for his back. Ben did not condone the use of alcohol while driving a team but he could understand why a man who handled running horses all day might need a little something to ease the pains at night.

Ben knew from past experience that the best place to sit in the coach was with his back toward the driver, where there was less bouncing about. The fact that the position inclined some people toward illness played in Ben’s favor. He had triumphed over seasickness a long time ago.

He stuck his boot in the first metal rung of the small ladder that hung from beneath the door and then he placed Adam inside the coach. Ben ducked to avoid bumping his head not only on the doorframe but the ceiling. When he was as comfortable as he could be on the seat, Ben lifted Adam into his lap.

The boy’s excited, mostly meaningless chatter was cut short when the door opened again and first a lady and then a gentleman entered the coach to sit across the narrow aisle from Ben and Adam. Ben fought the impulse to stand at the woman’s entrance but he gave her a courteous nod in return of hers.

"Good morning," the man greeted. He looked to be Uncle Hugh’s age but his companion appeared to be several decades younger. "And how are you, young man?" He leaned toward Adam only to have the child quickly turn away and bury his head in Ben’s chest.

Ben smiled an apology and the man leaned back. "Yes, well, I often feel the same early of a morning." He extended his right hand. "Nathaniel Weld." He slid his eyes to the woman. "My wife, Serephina."

"Benjamin Cartwright," he replied, grasping the man’s smooth hand in his calloused one. "And my son, Adam."

Mrs. Weld’s complexion was a bit pale, or was it a light shade of green? Either way, it was not becoming. She looked entirely too frail for a carriage ride across town, much less a journey to - well, wherever the couple was going.

"Are you bound for Pittsburgh?" Mr. Weld inquired while he vainly sought a more comfortable place to rest his back.

"Yes, and you, sir?"

He laughed. "Only the day." After a meaningful glance at his wife, he added, "If that far."

Ben quickly looked down, lest his smile offend the lady.

"I do pray," Mr. Weld said after a moment’s silence, "that we might comprise the total passengers for at least the beginning of this journey." He sighed deeply. "Last time I traveled thus, I had the misfortune to sit beside a most - portly and inebriated fellow. Friendly enough, you understand, and a threat only to himself, but his bulk did not make the seat any more secure."

Mrs. Weld lifted her chin and, if possible, straightened her back even more. "Truly, Mr. Weld, such is not polite conversation."

"I assure you, Mrs. Weld, I have endured all the polite conversation during this fortnight in Philadelphia that one man should be required to withstand in a lifetime."

Ben gazed out the window, not eager to be witness to, or an unwilling participant in, a dispute between husband and wife. He tapped his son on the shoulder. "Look there, Adam. Two birds are strolling on the walkway." He slid his eyes down and watched the boy slowly, carefully roll his face from Ben’s chest.

Adam’s curiosity got the better of him and he knelt on Ben’s thigh but kept Ben’s shirt front tightly grasped in one small fist. "Burr," he whispered.

"Um," Ben agreed. "Those are sparrows."

Silence. A frown. "Wot?" he asked softly.

"Sparrow."

"Pwa-woe," Adam said. He looked up at Ben, his blue eyes searching. "Burr?"

"Um hum. A sparrow is a bird. A gull is a bird." Ben shrugged. "And Adam is a bird."

The boy leaned back. "Ad-am son."

"Yes," Ben teased. "Adam is a son bird."

Ben had seldom received such a scrutinizing study as the boy managed. Adam scooted forward on his knees. Then he sat suddenly and leaned the side of his head against Ben’s chest. "Pa burr," he announced.

"Is that so? Then Pa is a very large bird."

"Pa," Adam said so softly that Ben could scarcely hear him.

Ben whispered, "Yes."

Adam stretched his arms and with one hand pulled himself to a standing position, a foot on either of Ben’s legs, and placed his mouth next to Ben’s ear. "Hord-es."

Ben tapped his thumb against the wall behind them. "The horses are right there."

"Wye?" the boy asked.

"No, we won’t ride those horses. They’ll be busy."

Adam bent his knees and sat in one smooth movement that Ben envied. Then, at long last, the boy remembered the small wooden toy that Aunt Bridget and Uncle Hugh had given him when they had said their farewells at the house. He held it toward his father. "Boa-t."

"Indeed it is. Wherever we go, Adam will have a boat."

"Do," came the reply, accompanied by a firm nod. "Ting," he ordered.

Ben blinked and shook his head. "Later, when it is only Adam and Pa."

Adam’s arm shot up and the toy narrowly missed knocking out Ben’s front teeth. "Boa-t!" Adam exclaimed. Then he lowered the boat to his eye level and began to chant, "Tor elko, tor elko, tor elko."

Ben closed his eyes and considered turning Adam to face the other passengers, knowing the boy would snap his mouth closed as tight as a clam.

The first day’s travel was not unpleasant in the beginning. It was simple to see why canals were needed to ease the traffic on the road because the passageway was often clogged with groups of huge Conestoga freight wagons and the smaller farm wagons that most often carried goods but also were a means of travel for families headed west. At every inn or tavern where the coach stopped, a hubbub of activity began the moment it arrived. Some people were curious about those on board the coach. Other people hoped for mail or word from back east. Ben had the distinct impression that more than one female was sizing up the possibility of finding a mate.

In a stroke of enormous good fortune, each time Adam grew fretful, the coach stopped for a change of horses. Ben would stand to the side, glad to stretch his long legs, and he would hold Adam’s hand. One of the way stations was located at a particularly busy crossroads where there was a blacksmith shop and several businesses. Adam was treated to the spectacle of the large freight wagons, their wheels as tall as the men who encouraged the specially bred horses to pull the heavy loads. The boy clutched his toy boat to his chest and watched the often-profane freighters in wide-mouthed wonder.

Lunch was a simple affair of bread, fruit, cheese, and some welcome fresh water. The cushioning straps under the carriage had an effect Ben had not expected, much like a rocking chair. The soothing motion, following so closely on the heels of a good chase outside a well-kept tavern and then a light meal, lulled Adam to sleep and allowed Ben the luxury of some much-needed quiet.

Ben had his eyes closed, thinking how very good it would feel to be motionless for the evening, when he began to distinguish the thunder of the horses’ hoofs from another lower, rumbling sound. Cannon fire? That was improbable. He straightened, rolled his head about in an attempt to ease his neck muscles, and noticed Mr. Weld peering out his window.

"Were we engaged in conflict, I should be most assured I hear cannon," the man observed. He shook his head. "It grows dark for this time of day, have you noticed?"

No, Ben hadn’t. He raised the shade beside him and didn’t like the looks of the sky.

The low rolling sound continued.

"Thunder, most likely," Mr. Weld opined. "It would be too much to ask, I suppose, for it to hold until evening."

An ear-rattling explosion announced a nearby lightning strike and also brought Adam awake, his small body rigid. Ben raised the boy to his shoulder and rubbed his back.

The road had been heavily traveled all day and the threat of bad weather caused people to hurry, to run their horses rather than walk them, to yell at others unwilling or unable to give way. The coach driver had been inclined toward speed from the beginning of the journey. On occasion Ben had thought him reckless and had tried to forget the countless stories of coaches overturning on such runs. He hoped the man did not think it necessary to go even faster.

The next bolt of lightning, and its bright flash of light, caused Adam to jerk in Ben’s arms. The child stuffed a balled fist in his mouth and turned his face toward his father’s neck.

Mrs. Weld, who had been so quiet that Ben had forgotten about her, screamed out when another flash was followed by an even louder report. Her reaction brought about a predictable one on Adam’s part, he wailed.

What in heaven’s name was wrong with the woman?

"Adam," Ben said gently. He held the boy closely and hummed softly until Adam snuffled into a soft whimper.

Had he not been turning an eye to the boiling deep gray clouds, Ben would never have seen the fool who crowded his horse alongside the coach. The man shouted something toward the driver but the words were lost to the roar of more thunder. A moment later, lightning split the heavens and made way for a deluge of cold rain; the wind whipped about from the northeast to the south and then to the north; the sky went darker; and Ben watched without believing as the rider’s horse rose to its back legs and slid sideways. There was a stomach-wrenching thud when the carriage wheels rolled over the man and a scream of pain as the horse fell to the wayside.

Ben offered one rapid silent prayer after the other that the coach would not tilt to one side and he breathed again when it slowed to a stop. By that time, the rain was blowing in through the windows. Ben secured the shades on either side of him while Mr. Weld did the same with the ones near his wife and himself. That done, Ben tugged his oilskin coat from the knapsack and dug around for a blanket for Adam.

If possible, the clamor of those on the road grew in volume. Mr. Weld attempted to quiet his wife but had less luck at it than Ben had had with Adam.

The stage door flew open and the driver, his hat and clothes soaked, demanded, "This your rifle under the tarp?" He gave Mr. Weld, and his fine clothes, a fleeting glance and immediately discounted the man. "You," he jerked his chin at Ben.

Ben knew what job the man needed done. He was sure that the horse must be dispatched.

"Are ya good with a rifle?" came the rough-edged demand.

Ben glumly nodded. He wrapped Adam in the woolen blanket. "You are not to move, do you understand me?"

The boy began to sob again.

"Pa will be just outside the door. I do not want you to get wet."

"We’ll tend the boy," Mr. Weld assured.

Ben hesitated then heard another scream from the suffering horse. He crouched toward the door, ducked his head, and stepped into a cold rain driven by a howling wind. The day had grown so dark that only the lightning provided enough illumination to see one’s way. It was in the glow of one such flash that Ben caught a fleeting glimpse of the horse, lying on its side, bone and blood evident on two legs. Ben put his hands to his face and took a deep breath. The poor animal would pay with its life for its rider’s stupidity.

"Step aside!" A burly man extended an arm in front of Ben and pushed him back toward the coach with such force that Ben’s boots slid and he almost fell. He recovered in time to see the form of the man when he turned his side to the slope and then walked slowly downward, a long rifle in his right hand.

Destroying a horse was not an easy matter. The shot had to be accurate in order to be merciful. Undoubtedly the prevailing thought was that two men stood a better chance at a perfect shot than one did.

"It’s ready to fire," the driver said as he smacked Ben’s rifle into his hands. "Go help ‘im, would ya?"

Ben sheltered the weapon under his coat and then skittered down the slope sideways. When he had reached what level ground there was, he looked to the burly man and nodded.

As he heard the animal’s labored breathing and agonizing moans, Ben’s stomach soured, his throat blazed hot.

"Next strike," the burly man shouted.

Ben dared not wait any longer. He blinked once against the rain, then sighted along the rifle to where he had last seen the horse’s head. Please do not let the beast move overmuch. The shot must be true. It must be true.

Lightning crackled from one cloud to another. The roar from the two rifles rivaled that of the thunder.

Dear God, let the animal be dead. Ben could not lower the rifle, could scarcely breathe. He waited and waited but no lightning came.

The burly man stepped closer to the animal. "She’s gone," came the pronouncement.

Ben quickly turned his back, furious that the rider could have been so callous toward an animal. He took a step up the slope but rivulets ran down it and the mud had turned as slippery as wet clay. Someone above took Ben’s rifle in one hand and extended the other to aid him in his climb.

As Ben gained the roadway, he caught sight of two lanterns waving several yards behind the coach. He did not want to see anymore suffering but he ought to offer aid. At the same time, a child inside the coach was more than likely cowering against a corner of the seat, huddled in his blanket.

"Have they enough help?" Ben shouted to the man who had helped him to the roadway.

"Probably too much," came the answer. "Would surprise me if he lives the night the way he pitched under them wheels." He extended his hand again, this time to shake. "Thank you for your assistance, sir."

Ben made quick work of the handshake and ran back to the coach. He opened the door and saw what he had expected. Adam sat with his back to the far corner of the seat, one leg folded under him, the other knee pulled up. One hand clutched the toy boat, the other hand reached out the moment Ben leaned inside. A second later, Adam crawled along the seat towards his father.

"I’m sorry," Ben said to the Welds for the puddles he brought in with him. He shrugged out of the coat and laid it at the far end of the seat. When Adam came near, Ben sat and shook his head, scattering water droplets. "No, son."

Adam stopped. His blue eyes went from Ben’s soaked boots all the way up to his dripping hair. The worry was supplanted by recognition. "Wim!" he declared brightly.

Ben ran his hand through his wet curls, pushing them from his forehead. "Indeed, I did. Might I have that blanket?"

"Peas," Adam reminded while he turned on his knees. He snatched the requested item and then held a corner of it toward his father. "Ban-kit."

"Thank you." Ben rubbed his head and neck and then draped the woolen cloth like a shawl around his shoulders.

"Tor elko!" Adam shouted. Ben winced, not so much at the loudness of the boy’s voice as the thought that he might revive his chant.

Mr. Weld shifted away from his wife. "If I might, Mr. Cartwright, I would suggest that you alight with us at the next way station. Mrs. Birchman, a woman of integrity, is proprietress of a boarding house there. I believe she would be of a mind to rent a room to you for the night."

Ben pulled the blanket closer. "Thank you, sir. A fireside and something warm to drink would be most welcome."

Mrs. Birchman’s boarding house would have been considered a modest, if not primitive structure, in Philadelphia. But it was a most welcome sight for Ben that rainy, gray, chilly evening. The building was two stories tall and built of what he judged to be chestnut, the logs lying horizontally with mortar in the spaces between them. To one side of the structure was an addition perhaps two rooms wide that gave the house the shape of an "L." The front featured a single door over which a roof about six feet long and four feet wide protected a wooden porch of the same dimensions. There was a window alongside the door and another window above the door, at the second story level. He noted all of this while he held his coat over Adam and himself - and ran to the shelter of the porch. He also noted the welcome smoke hanging heavy over a rock chimney.

After a boy that Ben judged to be about fifteen brought in the baggage, Ben inquired of a short, plain woman if there might be a room for the night. She seemed less than pleased at the sight of Adam but then shifted her concentration when the Welds entered the parlor.

"Mrs. Birchman," the man said in a voice that reminded Ben of an orator, "may I introduce our friend, Mr. Benjamin Cartwright, and his son, Adam."

Her expression changed to one that indicated she considered any friend of Mr. Weld’s a cut above the average. "I’m pleased, Mr. Cartwright. I have no more beds in the room above. But I can offer a lodging I believe you will find acceptable."

Anything that kept the rain out and the chill at bay would be more than acceptable. Ben told Mrs. Birchman that he appreciated her hospitality, trying to keep his mind on the woman and not on the burning logs in the fireplace across the wooden floor.

"I wonder, Mrs. Birchman," Mr. Weld said. "Might Mrs. Weld and I partake of one of your fine meals when it is ready for serving so we might be fortified to complete our journey home?"

The woman all but curtsied. "Of course, sir." She spoke over her shoulder to the boy standing near Ben’s baggage. "Show Mr. Cartwright to the room."

The silent youth lifted the two bags and nodded toward a narrow hallway that led to the addition that Ben had seen from the outside. The passageway ended at a doorway that opened into a room no more than ten feet square. It was furnished with a rope bed, an ancient chair made to look like a Windsor, and a small table upon which sat a bowl and pitcher. A highly polished circle of metal hung above the table, doing service as a mirror. Ben supposed this was a room usually made available to ladies.

The young man deposited the baggage on the floor at the foot of the bed and announced that the meal would be served within the hour. Only when their escort had left the room did Adam wiggle to be released from Ben’s arms.

Ben propped his rifle in a corner and immediately turned his interest to removing his wet, clinging clothing. He grinned when his son walked from one wall to the opposite one.

He had hung his damp clothing from the wooden pegs by the table, and was pulling a dry pair of trousers from one of the bags, when Adam waved his arms in the air and babbled, "Biggity baggity bag dag bum." Interesting. Ben pulled on the trousers and buttoned the waist.

Adam shook his head, stomped across the room, and launched into his babbling again. "Abug uh biggity dag abug uh dim," he said, looking down at the floor but waving his arms around with even more flourish.

The boy looked like a very short, and very confused, Shakespearean actor. Whatever was he doing? Ben pulled a dry shirt over his head.

Adam clapped his hands loudly. "Uh gig?" he asked some imaginary person or thing in front of him. He stopped and threw his arms in the air again. "Dim diggity!"

"Would you like to tell me what you are doing?" Ben asked in amusement.

Adam’s head jerked up and his blue eyes looked around as if he’d been wakened from a deep sleep.

Ben crossed his arms. Could it be that Adam was pretending? Was he old enough for that? Ben sat on his heels and smiled. "Where did you hear those words?"

"Hord-es."

Not likely. "Horses do not speak."

His son shook his head. "Hord-es," he maintained.

Despite Adam’s contention, there was no similarity in Adam’s speech and any sound Ben had ever heard a horse produce. Ah well, he stood and shook out a tie.

Adam meandered around the room a moment and then returned to the previous behavior - waving his arms, babbling in a loud voice, almost sounding angry. If Ben didn’t know better he would think the boy was ranting about something. But what in heaven’s name could a child find to be so vociferous about?

Ben coughed in surprise when Adam’s meaningless chatter produced a distinct, "Damn!" No, the youngster had probably just said "Ad-am" with unusual force. Ben turned his head to one side and studied the boy.

Pacing back and forth. Waving his arms in the air. "Dig biggity dum dig!" And then the very recognizable, "Damn!" Pacing. Ranting. Waving his arms. And what did horses have to do with any of it?

Or maybe it was the men who spoke to the horses that pulled the freight wagons.

Ben went weak with laughter. He eased onto the wooden chair, leaned his forearms on his legs, and gasped for air.

"Adam?" Ben wheezed when he found his voice.

The child faced him, blinking rapidly.

"Adam, are you talking about the men who were taking care of the horses?"

His son clapped his hands happily.

"Is Adam one of those horse men?" Ben wiped the tears from his cheeks.

"Ad-am do," he announced with pride.

Ben leaned back and shook his head. His chuckle turned into a rib-hurting roar of laughter that wasn’t helped any when Adam decided he had found a new way to entertain his pa and took up the ranting and babbling again.

If Ben were any kind of decent father he would admonish Adam for the unacceptable addition to his vocabulary. But he didn’t have the heart to stop the boy. Besides, it was good to know that Adam was such an actor. The knowledge might come in handy in the years ahead.

The boarding house parlor was a simple but clean place that featured several chairs and two wooden settees. The fireplace was all that interested Ben. He nodded to Mr. and Mrs. Weld when he passed them and then stood with his back to the glowing warmth while the three of them engaged in the type of light, meaningless conversation meant to pass time.

Adam had been beside his father, twisting about and looking around, but the child had stopped near a chairside table. A lantern made of colored glass intrigued him. He stood on tiptoe, watched the flickering flame, transferred his boat to his left hand, and made a tentative move to put his right hand against the glowing base.

Ben watched. And waited. When Adam didn’t seem to be using good sense, when he came close to tipping the table, Ben cleared his throat. The boy shot his father a quick look and put his slipper-clad feet flat on the floor. Ben pointed beside his leg. Adam clutched his toy to his chest and walked to stand beside his father.

"Pa."

"Yes."

"Ead?"

"Soon."

Adam sat by Ben’s boot. But he quickly stood when a thunderclap shook the windows. "Boom," he whispered, his dark brows raised for emphasis. He grabbed a small fistful of Ben’s trouser leg.

Most fears were eased with enlightenment. "Shall we see what’s happening?" Ben suggested. He scooted a chair to the window and helped Adam stand on the seat so he could peer out.

The boy reached a palm toward a glass pane but paused to look at Ben.

"You may touch it gently."

Adam tapped the window with his finger. "Wane."

"Yes, it is rain."

More thunder brought another confidentially whispered, "Boom."

Ben leaned his hand against the window frame and frowned. There was plenty of rain and more than enough thunder. He was glad to be inside, dry and warm. And when Mrs. Birchman advised them that the meal was ready, the hearty stew and light biscuits pleasantly surprised him. Adam went characteristically mute when they sat at the long table with the other guests but he seemingly enjoyed the stew and munched enough on a biscuit to scatter crumbs a foot in every direction.

Holding the boy on his thigh, Ben ate one-handed. He had developed all manner of one-handed skills during the past year. He could also see more out of the corners of his eyes than he had ever thought possible. And his hearing had become so acute that he would wake when Adam mumbled in his sleep. At least when Adam grew older and was more able to express himself Ben wouldn’t have to depend so much on discerning the boy’s thoughts and moods without the benefit of the spoken word.

Judging by the number of men who were gathered in the room, that upstairs room was indeed full tonight. The room was in all probability similar to every other sleeping arrangement in places like this; one long room with curtains to create a measure of privacy between beds no wider than cots. He would have bet that the two men who were speaking softly to one another were involved in government. They had what Uncle Hugh called "that look." Another man, wearing sturdy wool pants and a heavy wool shirt, had hands as tan as leather. He was probably a farmer or a lumberman. The three others, dressed in varying degrees of current fashion and expensive fabric, were more than likely businessmen.

Mr. Weld was the gentleman Ben couldn’t figure out. His wife wore the latest fashion in clothing and hairstyle. But she seemed frail and not disposed to life this far inland. Weld was well dressed, his shoes showed no sign of heavy wear, and his hands were smooth, but during the day’s ride he had been knowledgeable about the places they had passed, the source of commerce in each area, and the names of hills, mountains, vales, and waterways. Ben could think of no polite way to inquire about Mr. Weld’s profession and when the couple bid their goodbyes, Ben knew no more about the man than he had when they had met at the coach station in Philadelphia. Well, he knew one more thing while he stood at the door and watched them leave after the rain had eased: the carriage that a servant brought ‘round for the Welds was a fine one with a matched team.

Ben turned to discover Mrs. Birchman looking out the window by the door. She straightened and busied herself wiping her hands on her apron. "He’s a fine one, Judge Weld." She shook her head, speaking more to herself than to Ben. "But I don’t know about that wife of his. Just like the first Mrs. Weld. She’s too much of the city. You know how it is with those people from Philadelphia and such. Don’t know how to survive without folks waiting on them and telling them how to dress and think." She walked away from Ben as she continued to talk. "He should have never brought her here, shouldn’t have for sure. Think he’d learn the first time with the way that wife of his carried on with that law reader. No surprise to anyone hereabouts when the judge shot the two of them. No surprise at all."

Shot the two of them? Ben looked out the window at the back of the carriage while it disappeared into the light rain and heavy fog. Judge Weld might have been a better prospect for dispatching that horse than anyone had thought.

The next day’s journey was less pleasant than the first. Adam was fretful long before dawn, but Ben could find no reason for the child’s behavior. They caught the first stage and ordered breakfast at a small inn during a long layover. When Ben stressed that the boy must eat something, Adam stuck out his chin and angrily upended the plate.

That was enough. Ben lifted the boy and gave him a smart swat on the bottom. "The next time you put on a display like that, you will get my hand more than once," he promised as he sat his son on the chair beside him. "You will not move."

And Adam didn’t. Not even to say, "Do."

After Ben had finished eating, he bent to lift his son, but Adam pushed farther back into the chair.

"I’m not angry, Adam," Ben assured. "Now let’s set off to the coach, please."

Adam allowed himself to be lifted, but he remained taut in Ben’s arms. When they boarded the coach that quickly filled with five other people, Adam turned his head into Ben’s shoulder and didn’t see the light of day until, about two hours out, the stage mired in mud that had washed across the road the previous afternoon.

So it was out with all the passengers, including a woman who spoke only French. Ben trudged through the mud, put Adam on his feet on a tree stump, told the boy not to move, and then joined the other men, who pushed until the coach was free of the quagmire. When Ben returned for Adam, the boy held his arms out and asked to be lifted with a soft, "Pa." The tenderness of the voice warmed Ben through. He kissed his son on the cheek and felt the gentle snuggle of Adam’s face near his neck.

After midday, they stopped at a way station for a change of horses. Sitting on a nearby porch, Ben intermittently coaxed Adam to eat some provisions he’d purchased, and scraped the last of the dried mud from his boots. He eyed the tavern next door. How good it would be to have a drink even if it were some local brew. But he had no desire to carry Adam into such an establishment. Not unless the trip worsened before the day was out.

As they made to start on the road again, two women who had spent the night at the way station argued with the driver in a most unladylike manner. Ben eyed his son worriedly, fearing Adam would lapse into his "Dig biggity dum dig!" in imitation of the threesome. When Ben handed Adam a small piece of apple, his son smiled. Was it a smile of thanks for the sweet fruit or a smile of understanding? Surely Adam was too young for the latter. Surely.

Finally, due more to a desire to be on his way than out of any special consideration, a man who had been inside the coach with Ben and the other passengers agreed to ride beside the driver, and the two women wedged themselves onto the seat between Ben and the French lady. If it bothered the two companions to have their bodies pressed so near those of strangers, they did not exhibit it in their behavior. They complained about the deplorable state of coach travel until Ben contemplated stuffing a fist in each woman’s perpetually open mouth.

The remainder of the afternoon was as warm as the previous one had been cool. Intimidated by the women, Adam had resorted to his "hide in Pa’s shirt" tactic. The warmth of his little body caused Ben to sweat even more heavily. Ben’s head throbbed, the coach lurched, the insufferable women chattered along, Adam refused to be cajoled into any other position, the French woman’s perfume gained in intensity, and Ben’s legs were so cramped that he would have gladly gotten out to push the coach again.

By the time they stopped for a fresh team of horses in early evening, the other passengers had obviously endured enough for one day. They climbed down the wooden steps that the innkeeper placed at the coach door and stalked straight to the inn’s entrance. Ben was resolved to ride as far ahead as the coach should travel before dark, no matter what accommodations, however poor, he might end up with for the night. He wanted distance between himself and the insufferable women. Come early dark, he found what he had expected when the stage stopped: a noisy tavern filled with smoke, loud voices, raw laughter, and men who spat on the floor. The atmosphere of the place was heightened by the permeating smell of rancid fat.

The owner allowed as how he had a storeroom in the basement of the building where the man and his boy might spend the night. But mind, there was no bed to be had. Food? Well, he had some fare but there was a woman three doors down what had bread and produce from her garden for sale.

Ben eyed the basement storeroom with mixed feelings. It was large, with a wide, narrow window at the top of one wall. The base of the window proved to be just above ground level. The other walls were lined with sagging wooden shelves from dirt floor to ceiling. All manner of things, from dry goods to broken crockery, were piled in no discernable order in the corners of the room and along the shelves. The lodgings would be primitive. But Adam and he wouldn’t have to share the room with anyone. Ben dropped their bags on the dirt floor and decided they should locate the "woman what has bread." He rummaged through the knapsack, found one of his pistols, readied it, and then held out his hand to Adam. "Shall we find something to eat?"

The boy quickly, and wordlessly, grabbed Ben’s finger and negotiated the wooden steps to the ground floor. There was another good thing about the accommodation. It was a storeroom and, of necessity, had a locking mechanism. Ben bounced the key in his hand and left their belongings without a second thought.

As it was necessary to walk through the tavern to access the front door, Ben put the pistol in the waistband of his pants and lifted his son. This time when they traversed the room, Adam looked around instead of burying his face. When he saw all the notices and pamphlets nailed to the near wall, he pointed but said nothing. He was equally reticent while Ben purchased enough food to provide a decent evening meal.

Ben needed a glass of whisky as he never had in his life. Well, as he hadn’t for a long time. He stopped on his way back through the tavern and stood with the foodstuffs at his feet and Adam in his left arm and downed a drink that was not the best he had ever swallowed but was also by no means the worst. Best not to think about the cleanliness of the glass that held the liquid. All the time he kept his eyes on the men and women gathered in the lantern-lighted room, seeking out any who might cause trouble during the night. Having spotted more than one, he loaded his second pistol moments after Adam and he returned to the storeroom.

With his coat on the ground and then the blanket over it as a mattress, Ben laid one of Adam’s dresses and a shirt of his own on the side where his son would sleep.

"Hungry?" Ben invited and patted his leg for Adam to sit.

The boy diligently ate everything Ben gave him. Then, by the light of a candle and a lantern, he romped around the room, looking at, but not touching, the goods stored on the wooden shelves. Adam took no notice when Ben rigged a rope to secure the door from the inside.

Well, Ben had done everything to guard against intrusion that he could. He sat on the blanket. After Ben sang a song, and they had discussed horses and wagons and cards, Adam lay down and pressed himself against his father’s thigh.

Ben finished his pipe at leisure. He stretched out. At least the moon and the lantern in front of the tavern sent a shaft of light through the high window. He knew he would sleep lightly, and with good cause.

Perhaps an hour after midnight, no more, furtive sounds brought him full awake. Whoever was sneaking around the place hadn’t much skill because he made entirely too much noise. Ben sat, then stood, as quietly as possible, as much to keep from disturbing Adam as to maintain the illusion that the intruder was undiscovered. He held a pistol while he walked up the steps and then waited behind the door.

First there was a little fumbling with the lock with some sort of tool. Then the hinge squeaked slightly when the door handle was pushed down from the outside. The door met the resistance of the rope that Ben had tied to hold it fast. A piece of metal slid between the door and the jamb. It was a long, wicked knife blade, but not a good one. Ben hit the metal with the pistol butt and heard the knife handle fall to the brick floor of the hallway when the blade broke free.

He tugged at the end of the rope and the slipknot gave way in a smooth motion. Ben gently pushed the door open, glad that it fronted directly into the walkway and provided no hiding place for an attacker on either side.

The inept prowler looked up and, by the scarce light, Ben recognized him from the tavern. His large size and incredible incompetence were well matched.

"Good evening." Ben pointed the pistol at the top of the man’s throat.

The fellow smelled more of rum than a keg aboard ship. "I - I seek the way out," he stammered.

"This" - Ben raised the pistol and pressed it between the man’s eyes - "is one way to leave. I assume you prefer another."

The prowler gulped and nodded.

Ben motioned toward the hallway. "You’ll have better fortune going that way."

The man turned, lost his balance, and steadied himself with a hand against the wall. Or so it seemed. But if he thought to catch Ben off-guard when he whirled, he had underestimated his prey.

Ben crashed the side of the pistol into the man’s nose and then slammed his fist against his attacker’s ear. When the man threw his hands to his head and left himself unguarded, Ben recognized a poor fighter. He stashed the weapon in his trousers waistband, assured that his adversary would never bring his hands away from his body, and struck the fellow in the stomach with a fist that had driven into much stronger foes than this one. Ben’s other fist struck the man’s side and, when the blighter crossed his arms to protect his middle, Ben finished him with another fist under the jaw.

Stars he hadn’t been in a good fight in a long time! Too bad this hadn’t been one. Ben grinned and threw the man over his shoulder. He carried the unconscious fellow to the end of the hallway and then stretched him out so his inert form could be viewed from the common room of the tavern.

On his way back to the storeroom, Ben stooped and retrieved the knife handle. He closed the door, made it fast with the stout rope and a knot, and lay down with the two pistols within arm’s reach. Adam stirred, Ben patted the little back, and the boy quickly returned to sleep.

Following a short ride on a farmer’s wagon the next morning, Ben and Adam arrived at a way station before dawn and were rewarded with a Pittsburgh-bound coach bearing only two other passengers and an abundance of mail and parcels. Both of the men on the opposite side of the aisle were polite but not overly inclined toward conversation. Whether it was their natural temperament or the early hour, Ben couldn’t decide.

Adam knelt on the folded blanket at Ben’s side and, with Ben’s arm securely around his middle, watched the passing scenes. Since he had his side to the two men, Adam forgot their existence and ticked off the names of the things he saw: hord-es, twee, burr, flur-uh, hord-es, wog-an, and more hord-es. In between the recognized objects, Adam occasionally posed a mute inquiry by looking at his father and raising his brows.

Ben leaned to look out the window when he was presented with one such request. The countryside had been a study of tended fields, brick and wood homes, tall trees, well-fed stock, and every so often the gray smoke hanging low over a factory. But what held Adam’s attention for the moment, at least, was a fast-running stream. Ben told him the word.

"Teem." Adam smiled. "Wim."

"No, we can’t swim in the stream today, son." Ben wished they could and hoped a request for a bath wouldn’t elicit too much of a suspicious look in Pittsburgh. Plenty of people considered such a thing unnatural at the least, the work of the devil at the most.

"Teem," Adam said again. "Wot?"

Ben looked from the sides of his eyes. "Bridge."

"Big." The word triggered a memory. "Biggity dum dig."

The father could not scrounge quickly enough for the deck of cards in his pocket. "Shall we read the cards?"

Adam sat down with his legs folded underneath him. "No wee."

Ben nodded at the correction. "Yes, you’re correct. We can’t read them." He fanned them in front of the boy. "But we can discuss them."

After an excited hand-clapping episode, Adam said, "Cuss."

No, that was exactly what Ben did not want Adam to do. "We’ll talk about them," he explained.

"Do," Adam agreed. He pointed. "Hahr." He looked from the tops of his eyes and grinned. "Diema." Again the look, again the grin. "Pay."

Ben headed off a possible catastrophe. "And there’s an ace."

"Aassuh." He yanked a face card from Ben’s hands. "Pa!" he exclaimed and waved the king around. Then he plucked another king and declared him also a "Pa." When he selected a queen, he murmured, "Kwee." He held the card toward Ben. "Noid."

"Noise?" Ben blinked in surprise. "That’s a queen, Adam."

"Do." Adam indicated that he understood. He wagged the card at the end of his father’s nose, causing Ben to cross his eyes. "Noid."

What was the boy talking about? "Son, cards don’t make noise." At least not in the way he meant.

Adam let out a short breath and clamored to sit on Ben’s lap, his back to the forgotten fellow passengers. "Kwee," he said with an adamant stab at the card. "Noid." Ben watched in astonishment as the youngster rolled his eyes. "Noid."

Well, there was no doubt about it. Ben was obviously not following Adam’s thoughts. He frowned at the card in question. "Queen noise?" he asked.

The boy was so delighted that he dropped the card and clapped his hands. "Uht," he said and bent to retrieve the fallen queen.

How in thunder did a queen make noise? It was a piece of paper. Ben studied the other face card that Adam had called "Pa." If a king was a "Pa" what might a queen be?

"Adam?" Ben asked without looking at his son. "Is this - " he tapped the queen "- is this a lady?"

"Lay-ee," Adam agreed. Then he added. "Noid."

"Lady noise," Ben repeated softly. "Lady noise."

"Lay-ee. Noid."

"Apparently," the man in the gray waistcoat said, "the boy is of the opinion that ladies make noise."

"I would tend to agree, on the whole," the second man opined.

But where had Adam gotten the idea that ladies were - oh, heaven. Ben wiped his hand across his face. Adam was referring to their ever-complaining companions of yesterday. "Son, not all ladies make noise," he hastened to correct.

"Do," Adam contended.

They would discuss - talk about - this later.

Ben pointed out the window. "Another stream." He accepted the card that Adam offered him before returning his attention to the scenery.

As evening approached so did the Monongahela River to their left. Adam scrambled over Ben and stared out the window. "Teem," he said.

Ben gazed at the wide, glittering water several miles away. Hills and beautiful fields were everywhere the water wasn’t. The traffic, and commotion, on the road had increased. Anticipation coursed through Ben’s body. "It’s a large stream so we call it a river."

"Wot?" Adam asked.

"River," Ben said slowly.

"Wiv-uh." He was silent but a second. "Wim?"

Water meant only one thing to the boy, it seemed. "No, not now." Ben held his son around the waist while they enjoyed the view.

"Wog-an." Adam pointed. "Hord-es. Wog-an. Hord-es. Flur-uh. Hord-es. Wiv-uh." He chattered along until they could no longer see the river.

Ben tilted his head to the right. "Look out this other window. There’s another river."

Adam glanced up at him. "Wiv-uh?"

"Um." He pointed. "That way." Ben scarcely had the chance to hold on to the boy as he scampered across Ben’s lap to the other side of the seat.

"Wiv-uh!" Adam shouted. "Hord-es. Wog-an. Hord-es."

"He’s excited," Ben explained to their companions.

The man in the gray waistcoat nodded in understanding. "Those wagons with which he is so enthralled bear coal for the eastern cities - it is the lifeblood of Pittsburgh."

"There are also the rivers," the first man corrected.

"But the coal is where our future lies, Hiram. Not the rivers. Our coal is what the ports desire, not our water."

"The fates know they do not wish for the soot," Hiram said after a chuckle.

"Soot?" Ben inquired.

"Ah," the man in the gray waistcoat said, "you will note the coal dust on several of the workers you see there. The nuisance settles on every possession in one’s home. Best not wear light clothes, young man. They shall be soiled in short time."

Ben thanked him for the advice but said that they would not be in Pittsburgh any longer than necessary. "We plan to take a riverboat to Cincinnati."

"A fair city indeed!" Hiram exclaimed.

"So my brother writes," Ben observed.

"You’ve not been there?"

"No, sir."

"It is a delightful place. There are fields of corn and tobacco and such. There are also the factories and the woolen mills and trade to Natchez and New Orleans, though it is said that the canal has altered the shipment of certain goods. What profession will you pursue in Cincinnati?"

Ben hesitated. "I’ll spend the winter. Then we’ll move on to the west."

The man in the gray waistcoat said, "Were I younger I should set out tomorrow."

"Were you not a slave to luxury, too," Hiram jibed. "You’ve been too many years on land, Mercer."

Ben straightened. "On land?"

Mercer nodded. "I sailed - during the war."

"As did I," Ben announced. "Not during the war, of course."

Though they were strangers, Ben and Mercer shared so many yarns and found such common interest in the ports they had both visited that Ben paid no heed to the rest of the journey until they approached the city’s outskirts.

"Fi–uh," Adam announced solemnly.

Fire? Saints it had grown dark suddenly. On the horizon, he saw what Adam had described. The last remnants of the orange blaze of sunset were almost hidden by the smoke plumes rising from factories and homes. There was also the low roll of thunder.

"Wane?" Adam asked worriedly.

"I don’t think so," Ben answered. "Just thunder."

"Not thunder, sir," Hiram corrected. "You hear the factories that are powered by steam."

Pittsburgh might be a prosperous city, Ben mused, but the scene before him would have been a fine substitute for Hades with its fire, smoke, and rumbling noise.

Several miles passed before the coach pulled up to an inn along a dark street.

"Where would the town be?" Ben asked, seeking the glow of streetlights like those in Philadelphia.

Mercer waved his arm. "This is it. Are you disappointed with its size?"

Ben assured the gentleman that he was not. He explained that he required lodging and was directed toward the next street and down about five buildings. There, he was assured, he would find good food and pleasant accommodations.

As he carried their baggage and picked his way along the unfamiliar walkway, Ben repeatedly cautioned Adam to stay at his side. The warning wasn’t necessary, given that the boy was gripping a bit of the cloth knapsack with a tight fist.

When he found the address that Mercer had given him, Ben’s muscles eased. He did not care for unknown dark streets, much less when he had a child in tow. "Here we are."

"Ead," Adam declared. Apparently he had walked all he cared to for the time being.

"A good idea," Ben agreed.

"Wim."

Ben shook his head. "Later."

"Cuss?" the boy inquired.

Ben’s face grew warm. "Much later."

Adam nodded. "Do."

The morning’s light revealed a city quite different from what Ben had envisioned. Mercer had not overstated the effect of the coal dust. When combined with the smoke billowing from stacks and chimneys, it settled a black film on buildings and anything else unguarded. As accustomed as he was to industrial areas, Ben had not seen anything quite like this. Adding to his lack of ease was the narrowness of the streets. He missed the logic of Philadelphia’s roads, had to stop and ask directions more frequently than he would have liked, and still managed to make wrong turns.

One of those wrong turns led Adam and him near the wharf area. He stood on the narrow sidewalk, maneuvering to keep the passage clear for others, and eyed the busy waterfront. Though these were not the beautiful vessels Ben had watched in the shipyards of his childhood, the sounds of tools and men and water were not so different. A few larger boats were being fashioned but there were more of the barges with sheets of canvas stretched over their loads. Off in the deeper water were a variety of small sailing vessels and a steamboat putting in, more than likely for another load of wood to feed to its insatiable boiler. Farther downriver, Ben watched men trimming the cargo boats, keenly aware of distributing the load evenly. He had done no small amount of securing goods in the hold of a vessel and he wondered at the vulnerability of the merchandise on the flat, open decks. Although, truth told, if a boat or ship went down, freight tended to sink to the depths no matter where it had been stashed.

Ben inquired of yet one more person the location of the steamboat company offices he was searching for and chided himself when he found the building located two streets up from where he had first sought directions. After their roundabout route, Adam was so tired that his eyes kept drifting closed as they walked back to their room. Ben doubted that Adam had ever been so glad for a bed in his short life.

While the boy was lost to his afternoon dreams, Ben sat at the small desk and wrote a letter to Uncle Samuel. He confirmed Uncle Alexander’s information about the accommodations not being what Ben had grown accustomed to but he assured his uncle that Adam and he had not suffered for want of basic needs. Ben had known far worse places to spend the night in his sailing youth. Assured that the story would produce gales of laughter, Ben shared Adam’s imitation of the freight drivers. And then he mentioned the steamboat on which he had booked passage, stating that the water depths were more than adequate. He closed with the promise that he would write as soon as possible from Cincinnati and assured his deepest affection for all the family. That done, he wrote a shorter letter to Aunt Bridget and Uncle Hugh, not including the "biggity dum dig" episode since he was certain his aunt would not be amused.

Ben folded both the letters and had just finished addressing them when Adam awoke, rolled onto his back on the bed, and rubbed at his eyes with his fists.

"You know what you need, young man?" Ben leaned the chair on its back legs. "You need a cleaning. I can see the dirt on your face."

Adam spread his arms. "Wim?"

"No, the streams are too cool." Ben lifted the pitcher from the chamber set. "Stay here. I’ll fetch warm water."

"Do," Adam assured after a mouth-stretching yawn.

Ben made a quick trip to the kitchen to mix hot water from a kettle with cool water from the well. When he opened the door to their room, Adam was sitting in the middle of the bed, practicing putting on his socks. The things were dingy with coal dust.

Having given Adam many a washing-off these past few months, and aware of Adam’s delight in running about unhindered by clothing, Ben not only closed the door behind him - he locked it. "After Pa washes Adam, Adam may wash his socks."

The child went to hands and knees, crawled to the edge of the bed, and slowly slid to the floor. He did all that with the socks clasped in his hand. Ben spread his oilskin coat on the floor and nodded toward it. His son frowned.

"Stand there, please, so Pa can wash you."

That explained, Adam’s eyes lit up. "Do," he replied and ran to stand on the coat. He held his arms up so Ben could take off the dress and then lent one-handed assistance in removing the remainder of his clothing. Ben dipped a small cloth in the warm water, rubbed it across his shaving soap, and started with Adam’s face. The boy grimaced and sputtered. Ben slid the cloth down to his son’s neck. What an amazing amount of dirt was sheltered under Adam’s chin.

The youngster turned his attention to what he held in his hands. "Tock," he said. "Tock, tock, tock. Tor elko. Tippuh. Hord-es. Tock. Tippuh. Boos. Peas." His voice rose and lowered until the words sounded like a chant from a church choir. "Wog-an. Pa. Ad-am. Flu-uh. Burr. Teem. Wiv-uh. Tock. Tippuh." He paused only a moment. "Cahs. Flu-uh." When Ben washed the slender little shoulders and arms, Adam licked his lip and looked from the tops of his eyes. "Fi-uh," he said solemnly.

Ben held up the cloth and showed Adam the soil on it. "Dirty Adam."

"Ad-am son."

The man rinsed the cloth. "Yes, well Adam is a dirty son. Hand, please."

His son transferred the socks into the other hand and spread his fingers. Why was Ben washing a hand that would soon have the filthy socks back in its grasp? He turned the boy around and washed down Adam’s back. Smiling because he knew what would happen, he slid the cloth over his son’s bare bottom.

Adam giggled and quickly sat down. "Tiggle."

Ben bent forward, using the opportunity to wash Adam’s legs and feet. He poured a small amount of water into the basin and then put the bowl on the coat. "Wash your socks."

It was all the excuse for splashing that Adam required. He scooted up, his legs splayed on either side of the bowl, and set to dunking his socks with the greatest of vigor. Ben sat on the rug and pulled up his right knee. It took so little to entertain a child.

When Adam grew tired of drowning the socks, his eyes roved to the floor on the other side of Ben. He held out his hand. "Boa-t. Peas."

Ben gave the boy the wooden toy, idly wondering how long it would take Adam to capsize the unsuspecting vessel. The youngster scooped a handful of water and poured it over the boat. "Wane!"

"More like a gale," Ben said dryly.

Adam’s full attention locked on his father’s face. "Wot?"

"Gale. That’s when there is a lot of wind and rain at sea."

The full lips puckered. Apparently Adam found no words of interest in Ben’s statement. He swirled the socks around in the ever-darkening water and the little boat bobbed and listed to starboard. Ben was watching the toy, paying no heed to Adam, when lukewarm water splattered against the side of his face.

He startled and raised his hand to his soaked cheek. Adam jumped to his feet, clapping his hands, and singing, "Wane. Wane. Pa. Wane."

Ben growled and reached for the boy, but Adam took a quick step to the side and then ran. Ben stood, returned the pitcher and the basin bearing the gray water to the top of the chest, and carefully carried the coat toward the fireplace. He shook it, letting the water drip to the hearth, and then hung it on the back of the chair. All the while he could hear Adam scampering about, laughing, clapping his hands, and having an all-together good time. When Ben turned around, wiping his damp palms on his pants legs, Adam let out a whoop of laughter and raced around the bed.

"I’m not chasing you," Ben said, trying to sound especially serious.

Adam peeked around the foot of the bed.

Ben crossed his arms at his chest. "You may run about all you wish. Pa is not chasing you."

Doubt flickered in the deep blue eyes. After a moment of thought, Adam stepped away from the bed, cautiously approaching his father.

"I’m not chasing you," the man repeated. But when Adam was close enough to grab, Ben snatched the screaming boy and swung Adam above his head. "But I’ll catch you. And I’ll swing you." He pretended to lose his grip. "And I’ll drop you." Adam screeched. "And then," he said, "I’ll feed you to the sharks!" He threw the boy on top of the bed and laughed when Adam shouted, "Boom!"

Ben stalked toward the bed, wiggling his fingers. "There’s a lot of Adam to tickle."

His son yelped, got to his hands and knees, and made for the edge of the bed.

"Ah, but you be too slow, laddie." Ben grabbed Adam’s ankles, pulling him back. "And them that’s slow is shark food fer sure."

The youngster twisted and laughed and then curled into a ball when Ben tickled his side. "And now here’s the eel. He’s sliding all about yer body, lad. And he’s ticklin’ as ‘e goes."

Adam rolled to his back, his small hands flailing at his father’s arms.

"The sharks and eels have eaten poor Adam. He’s nowhere abouts. Poor lad, ‘e promised to be such a fine young man, ‘e did."

"Ad-am do." The boy declared his presence.

Ben turned his head. "What’s that I hear? Sure but it sounds like Adam."

The small hands grabbed at Ben’s hair and pulled him to the bed. "Pa."

"You’re taking me with ya, lad? Into the belly of the shark?" Ben fell back on the bed. Stars, it felt good to be lying down. "Oh, Adam. Pa is tired."

Adam climbed onto Ben’s chest. "Seep," he suggested.

"While Adam’s awake? I think not, young sir." He patted Adam’s unclothed bottom. "Let’s get you dressed and go explore."

"Wot?"

"Explore. That means to look around while you walk."

Adam slid off the bed. "Pa."

Ben put his hands behind his head. "Yes."

"No - tocks."

"Oh, yes there are. There’s a clean pair in that satchel."

Adam ran across the room. "Dwess. Boos." He dug through the baggage. Then he looked over his shoulder at his father. "No - tocks."

"Then we can’t explore," Ben bartered.

The possibility of staying in the room didn’t bother Adam in the least. "Do," he announced.

So it was all right with the scamp if they stayed inside, was it? Ben was tempted. But if they stayed inside and quiet, Ben would surely fall asleep - something he preferred not to do until Adam was slumbering. Ben rolled his tongue against the inside of his check. "We won’t be able to see any horses," he said.

Adam’s head bobbed up from the baggage. "Hord-es?"

"Um hum."

The boy suddenly found what he had been unable to lay his hands on a moment earlier. "Tocks!" he exclaimed. Then he scampered back to Ben.

Wouldn’t he be a sight in socks and skin? "We probably ought to put you in some clothes, too, son."

Adam lowered his head and looked at his bare stomach. "Dwess," he said and ran back to the satchel.

"And boots," Ben reminded.

"Do," came the quick answer. Adam waddled toward Ben with the necessary items in his arms.

As Ben dressed his babbling son, he wondered again what it was that was so reputedly difficult about tending a child.

*

October 1829

Ohio River

The riverboat that Ben and Adam boarded at noon the next day was relatively new. Ben wasn’t sure how he felt about that fact. Granted, if it was new then there had not been much time for the workings to become worn. Then again, there had not been much time to be certain the workings performed as needed. So he lessened his concerns by determining that the captain had years of experience with the Ohio.

Though it was against Ben’s inclination to pay the higher price for the cabin deck, he did not want Adam to experience the main deck’s crowded conditions. Often as not the passengers there shared space with animals and other cargo. A cabin provided some measure of safety for Adam. More importantly it provided control of the ever-curious child, at least as long as he didn’t know how to unlock a door. When Adam learned that skill - well, Ben would deal with that when the time came.

Ben’s displeasure was not with the cabin but with what it represented, one more distinction between those who could afford some modicum of luxury and those who were struggling toward a better future. When they had first boarded, Ben had stood with Adam in his arms and had studied how the men with heavy pockets had ignored the less well dressed. How many of those gentlemen, he wondered, had come from just such beginnings?

If he were alive, Joseph Cartwright would certainly have argued with Ben about Ben’s discomfort with the class distinction. Ben’s father would have stressed that those men in their fine clothes, who owned the fancy trunks and escorted such delicate women, had worked hard for their pleasures. They had sought nothing from anyone and had achieved success on their own. If they found it to their liking to travel separately from men of less means there was nothing about their decision that was not democratic. All men were equal when it came time to vote.

Ben would have listened respectfully, for his father had never tolerated insolence. And Ben would have aspired with every ounce of his being to keep his opinions to himself. But he wouldn’t have. He never had even as a child. He had always considered his views just as important as Father’s.

When Ben had been younger, and motivated more by passion than reason, his father had waved a dismissive hand at his arguments. By the time Ben had turned ten, though, he had discovered the secret to engaging his father in debate: an opinion based on fact. He had eagerly read books and pamphlets and newspapers in his quest for confirmation of his ideas and had derived great pleasure in besting Father in more than one debate by the time he had turned twelve. For his part, Ben’s father had been kind in accepting the validity of Ben’s opinions but on several occasions had informed his youngest son that they still did not see eye to eye.

Having mulled over the fact that all men were not born with equal likelihood at a better life, Ben shifted Adam. The boy had been quietly moving his boat anywhere on Ben’s body that he could reach by twisting about. He had repeatedly ignored Ben’s cautions not to tip Ben’s hat and had quickly uttered, "Uht" when the thing had fallen to the deck. Perhaps it was time to return to the cabin and let Adam find other surfaces upon which to float his boat.

Some time later Ben halted briefly in unpacking the larger piece of baggage and glanced at Adam. The boy stood on tiptoes, struggling to look out the window. Ben slid the single chair in the room to the wall and patted the seat. Before he could count to five, the youngster had climbed into it and stood. Adam’s eyes widened and he rested his palms against the glass. "Teem," he said.

"River." Ben returned to the baggage.

"Teem."

Ben smiled to himself as he shook out a shirt. "River," he said. He didn’t have to look, he knew that Adam was puckering his lips at Ben’s back and frowning slightly.

"No wiv-uh."

Ready for amusement, Ben asked why the water was not a river.

"Wot?" Adam asked.

Ben secured the clasp and then hefted the baggage out of the way. "What is the difference between a river and a stream?" It would be interesting to see if the boy could explain. Ben faced his son, hands on hips, and raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

Adam lifted his chin as high as it would go and declared, "Pa - wiv-uh. Ad-am - teem." That explained, the boy smiled in triumph and waved his hand toward the window. "Boa-t."

Oh, this was too good to pass up. Ben wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes and challenged, "Ship," knowing full well the riverboat was exactly what Adam had called it, a boat.

Adam’s little back stiffened. "Boa-t."

Ben leaned against the near wall. Time to employ a bit of Adam’s reasoning. "Adam boat. Pa ship."

The dark hair bounced as Adam shook his head. "No."

It was so hard not to laugh again. He gave Adam a bit more of his own logic. "Pa knows."

Adam scrambled from the chair and stood at Ben’s knees, peering up until Ben feared the boy would topple over backwards. "Ad-am know." When a percussive roar filled the air, Adam grabbed Ben’s pants leg so fiercely that Ben feared the wool fabric would tear at the seam.

The father bent and pried the little fingers loose, then lifted his son. "That was a ship’s gun," he explained, rubbing his hand on Adam’s back.

"Noid," Adam whispered.

"Indeed it is." Ben walked to the nearby chair. "When Pa sailed the sea he heard guns like that." He picked up Adam’s toy boat and held it at the boy’s eye level. "There were ships that had many guns. They would come along and then they would turn a side toward the other ship. And they would fire their guns - boom!" He made a childish face at Adam that brought about a giggle from the youngster. "And then they would fire more guns - boom!" A longer giggle that bubbled with happiness. Ben lowered the toy boat. "And then the other ship was gone to the bottom of the sea."

Ben scarcely believed his ears when Adam said, "Teem."

Ben leaned back slightly, studying his son’s face. This was interesting. "Sea," he said.

Adam shook his head. "Teem."

Was that humor Ben detected in the deep blue eyes? Was Adam teasing? But teasing required anticipation of an action from the other person. Could a child this age -

"Ships sail at sea, Adam," Ben ventured slowly.

Well, there could be no doubt about it now - Adam was smiling. "Teem."

Fascinating. Adam knew three different versions of water: sea, river, and stream. No, he knew four. He knew what water was in a cup. Ben sat on the chair and settled Adam on his lap, facing him. Curious to see how his son thought, Ben posed another problem. "Which is bigger? Pa? Adam?"

The child laughed and slapped both hands against Ben’s chest. "Pa!"

"I think Adam knows," Ben praised.

"Ad-am know."

Ben lifted the boy as he stood, and then placed him on his feet on the chair seat. Only then did he notice Adam’s feet were bare. "Where are your socks, young man?"

"Teem," Adam declared.

"I don’t think so." Ben rested his hand on top of the chair back. "What did you do with your socks?"

Adam looked as impish as Elizabeth had at times. "Teem."

"Adam." Ben lowered his voice. "Where are your socks?"

"No tocks." The youngster turned to look out the window.

Ben rubbed at his chin and a memory nudged its way into this thoughts. When they’d checked into their cabin, Ben had taken off Adam’s boots. Then they’d strolled outside to watch the other passengers board the riverboat. While Ben had held Adam, the boy had held his toy boat in one hand. But the other hand had been free. And he’d done a good amount of twisting and turning.

No, surely Adam hadn’t thrown the socks. Ben hadn’t been standing that close to the rail. Had he? What was it that Ben had been leaning his hip against? Had Adam’s socks truly gone overboard into the Ohio River?

There was one way to find out. "Well now - that’s a shame." Ben shook his head sadly. "I thought once we were underway we would walk around the boat."

Adam slowly turned his head. "Boa-t?"

"Um. But not without socks and boots."

Adam scuttled from the chair. He dropped to hands and knees and crawled to the smaller piece of baggage. Resting one side of his face against the floor, he pushed his hand under the cloth bag and slowly extricated two socks and two very flat boots. He stood then and walked to Ben, holding them at arm’s length.

Ben sat on his heels. "It is very fortunate for you that you found these socks."

"Wot?"

"If - if Adam had thrown the socks into the water Pa would have been angry."

Adam gave his father a blank look until he recognized the last word. "A-gwee."

A discharge from the boat’s stacks caused Adam to drop the socks and boots and reach to Ben. "Noid," he whimpered as Ben held him.

"Um hum. We’ll be hearing more of that noise while we’re on the river. But that noise can’t hurt you, son." Given the boy’s dislike of the deep, resounding bellow, and the amount of that sound there was apt to be during departure, Ben motioned to the window, intent on distraction. "Let’s watch the stream a while, shall we?" He grinned.

Adam shook his head. "Wiv-uh."

"River?"

"Wiv-uh." Then Adam pointed to the toy boat. "Tip." He hugged into Ben’s shoulder when the man tickled the bottom of his bare foot.

Almost all the chairs at the tables were occupied later that day when Ben entered the dining room as he held Adam’s hand. Father and son would have arrived earlier if they hadn’t had a dispute about doing as Ben said. Adam had perceived the wisdom in obedience - but he hadn’t liked the lesson. He had pouted during the walk to the dining area and had not improved his attitude until Ben had fixed a warning look on him.

Ben paused inside the doorway of the busy room with Adam leaning against his father’s leg to hide his face. The only choice was to approach a table where a dark-haired woman about Aunt Bridget’s age sat with a girl who looked to be no more than sixteen.

"Excuse me, madam," Ben apologized. "I would not approach without the benefit of introduction but" - he glanced at the room - "there seem to be no other chairs for my son and me."

She did not smile but she gave a slight nod. "Of course." She waited until Ben was seated, with Adam on his knee, before she said, "I am Mrs. Windthorst. This is my niece, Virginia Appleton."

"Ben Cartwright. My son, Adam." He sensed a desire on Mrs. Windthorst’s part to keep the conversation to a minimum so he was surprised when Miss Appleton spoke.

"You are from Boston, Mr. Cartwright?"

She must have known from the way he spoke. "Yes, and lately from Philadelphia."

The girl’s face brightened. "Not a Philadelphia lawyer, I trust."

Ben smiled at her wit. People ascribed uncommon intellectual prowess to lawyers from that city. "I assure you that I am by no means so well-schooled." He paused and then added, "Nor as argumentative."

"I would like to be," Miss Appleton informed him, fluttering the dark lashes that surrounded her green eyes.

"Argumentative?" Ben asked.

"There are those who would assert that I am already that, sir," she replied. She folded her hands in her lap. "I would be a lawyer."

What in thunder ought a man say to such a declaration?

"Do you believe a woman incapable of such an accomplishment?" she prodded.

"Virginia," her aunt cautioned, "you speak out of place."

Miss Appleton quirked an eyebrow at Ben but held her tongue. If Ben was any judge of people, holding her tongue did not come natural to the young lady.

Of course, he recognized the girl’s kind immediately. His eleven-year-old cousin would be like this, or even more forthright, in only a few years.

What was he thinking? Barbara Cartwright was already more brash than Virginia Appleton would ever dare dream. When Barbara had been no more than six or seven, Ben’s cousin had left her home in Boston and had found her way to the boarding house where Angus and Ben had been rooming near the harbor. She had gained access to their room by picking a lock and had been sitting on the floor awaiting their arrival when they had opened the door. If Ben had not been so startled by her presence he more than likely would have taken a switch to her. It had been no mean trick to sneak her from the house in order to return her to an un-amused Uncle Samuel.

The fact that Miss Appleton could never surpass Barbara notwithstanding, Ben sensed that the dark-haired girl kept her aunt’s life interesting.

As time passed, washing away like the water behind the paddles that pushed the boat down the wide river, Ben grew to appreciate Virginia all the more. They called each other by first name by the second day but kept such familiarity a secret from her aunt. Virginia enjoyed amusing Adam and informed Ben that his son reminded her of her younger brother. When Ben inquired as to the boy’s whereabouts she answered, "The cemetery in Cincinnati. Fever."

That was how he learned that Mrs. Windthorst and her niece were bound for the same city as Adam and he were. Virginia’s chatter divulged that her uncle owned a bank, and a shop, a newspaper, and a large parcel of land downriver. She liked Cincinnati, the girl confided, because it was not nearly so impressed with itself as New York.

She had grown up in New York City, she said, and abhorred every moment of it. Except for the water, she loved watching the sea. Why, if she were a man she would be a sailor and she would go far away and see all manner of curiosities.

Ben had choked on his hot tea at that assertion. The girl had not the slightest idea of what she was talking about. He was certain that were she around sailors for any length of time their behavior would send her into at the least a faint.

His contention was validated near the conclusion of the following day when a disturbance developed on the lower deck and about a dozen men slowly, inexorably brought their problems to the small area where Virginia, Ben, Adam, and several other passengers were seated near the stairs on the cabin deck.

Ben didn’t find it a remarkable occurrence for a fight to journey upstairs. When room was restricted in a tavern or pub and there was no easy access to a street or alley, he had known more than one dispute to go up steps - usually with the man below driving fists into the man who was backing up. He slumped slightly and prepared for the entertainment but quickly realized that he was not of the majority. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, the people around him seemed to believe the brawling men would involve them. Oh, one might momentarily tumble into a person but a reputable man would never tow a bystander into the fray.

He spared a look at his son who sat in the chair beside Ben’s, his lips around one fist, his toy boat in the other hand. He looked more curious than frightened.

Assured that Adam was not anxious, Ben again turned his interest to the brawling men. He cringed when one fellow fell backwards on the top step, propelled by the strong left fist of the man a few steps below him. And what an interesting way that fellow over there had of twisting his opponent’s arm behind him. It was a hold Ben had not seen before but made note to remember.

He had absolutely no intention of interfering until a knife flashed in the afternoon light. Fists were one thing, blades quite another. Ben stood without knowing he had done so, waiting for the other men to talk the fighter out of his weapon. Even more folks from the deck level had found their way to the higher locale, money was exchanged in betting, and there was a rumbling of discontent expressed when boat hands and a man who looked comfortable with command pressed their way through the throng and demanded an end to the spectacle.

Ben would hardly have called it a spectacle. Forty men battering one another in a pouring rain on a wharf in Italy - that was a spectacle.

Apparently not a man in the assemblage considered himself an equal of the knife-wielder. He was not large but he had the look of a wolf about him and Ben gauged that he could be just as ferocious when attacked. There was also no reasoning with the fellow. When he backed up no more than two arm lengths from Ben, the cause of his perverse behavior was apparent; the odor of liquor hung around him like a fog. The fighter slowly walked backward, holding the blade in a right hand that looked to know savage ways to use the metal, and unaware that he had blocked two women from any possibility of escape. The ladies were backed to the wall, so filled with horror that neither could scream.

Ben’s eyes went from the man to the women and back to the man. With loathing, he realized the man knew the women were behind him. The knifeman never turned his head when he reached back with his strong left arm and whirled a stunned young woman in front of him. When the man slid the blade near the hostage’s slender neck, Ben had the impression that the very air had died away. The lone woman against the wall melted to the floor like the vestiges of a forgotten candle. No one moved to her assistance.

"Ya back away, all uh ya!" the man shouted. "I’ll take the girl ta the deck and I’ll let her be as soon as we put in fer wood!"

Proceedings would have gone along very well if the captain hadn’t decided to come down the stairs from the pilothouse to take hold of the situation. He looked to be a man of experience but a long time from a fistfight. Ben doubted that the captain had a chance against the man holding the woman at knife’s edge. And if he didn’t take care, Ben noted, he would imperil the poor lady’s life.

Well, thunder, the resolution seemed to be beyond the whole lot of them. This could go on half a day.

"You!" Ben bellowed in a deep voice he had developed at sea. "She’s mine, not yours." He walked directly toward the drunkard, put his hands on his hips, and jerked his chin toward the pallid woman. "You want ‘er, you pay for ‘er."

The dear lady looked as if she honestly believed she were in the middle of a dispute over ownership. Horror was probably the best description for her expression.

The man squinted watery eyes at Ben. "What’s that ya say?"

"I said, she’s my woman. Ya don’t go takin’ a man’s property without paying ‘im. That’s thievery. I reckon ya can get off with killin’ ‘er but they’ll hang ya fer sure if ya steal ‘er from me." Ben focused on the blade that was immediately below the woman’s chin. He continued to step toward the man, backing him to the stairs. "So what’ll it be? Ya buyin’ ‘er or givin’ ‘er back?"

"I ain’t givin’ ‘er back!" The man staggered and the blade wavered.

Ben chose to ignore the terrified eyes of the hostage. "Then ya’ll be buyin’ ‘er, I suppose. Ya’ve made a fine choice, ya have. She’s a good one, tends ta come around when she sees yer fist. How much are we talkin’, man?"

"What’s this yer sayin’?" the drunkard demanded. "I’ll not be payin’ for this!"

Ben raised his fists. "Then ya’ll not be takin’ ‘er, either. I’m not a man ta go givin’ away property to every jack who comes along with a knife ‘e doesn’t know how to use."

His words had the desired result. The man hurled the woman to the side and crouched. "Ya say I don’t know what I’m about?" He made an awkward jab toward Ben.

It went against Ben’s nature to take advantage of an inebriated man but there was no choice this time. The fellow with the knife was as much a danger to himself as he was to everyone else. "I’m saying ya’ve never held a blade before in yer life," Ben taunted.

The man did as Ben had anticipated. He lurched forward. Ben raised his arms for balance and kicked a booted foot down on the man’s right hand, trusting to the angels that the flying knife would fall to the deck. He didn’t need to lay a hand on the man - the fellow who knew the interesting way of twisting an arm behind his opponent’s back stepped in and manhandled the drunkard down the stairs.

Ben turned to look behind him. There was Adam, sitting in his chair, fist in his mouth, and the toy boat in his other hand.

The woman who had been held hostage was slack in the arms of a surprised looking gray-haired gentleman. Virginia Appleton, who had talked of going to sea, was as slack as a forgotten piece of fabric. She would have fallen from her chair had her aunt not appeared from the crowd and waved a small porcelain bottle filled with smelling salts under the girl’s nose.

Ben walked past Virginia, who was temporarily unable to speak, and reached toward his son.

The little fist came out of the mouth. Adam held out his arms and allowed Ben to lift him. Then he put his lips to Ben’s ear. "Pa."

"Yes."

"Noid."

Odd how folks responded to Ben after that simple kick. Some men turned away when he walked past them, giving him a look of disdain. They obviously considered him riff-raff of the lowest order. Various women seemed to be of the same opinion. But then there were the women who smiled, however decorously, and one - bless her soul - even fanned herself although the weather was cool enough for a jacket. Ben’s favorites, by far, were three men who nodded and grinned knowingly, obviously remembering events from their own younger days.

Nor, he found, had they forgotten how to gamble. The trio, comprised of Mr. Stockon and Mr. Wellesley from Natchez and Mr. de Ville from New Orleans, were worthy opponents at cards. Because so many of the other travelers were of New England stock, and were explicitly moral and religious, the card game convened in de Ville’s cabins, which were more spacious than Ben had expected was possible on the boat. Having been invited to join the gamblers, Ben studied the group the first day after the kicking episode, leaning his chair back against the parlor wall, and determined that the players were superior but not professionals inclined to cheat a man. The following afternoon he sat at the table willingly, particularly when Mrs. de Ville offered to watch Adam.

Ben was slow to entrust his son to someone else’s care but there was an air about Mrs. de Ville of supreme confidence and infinite kindness. He judged her to be perhaps fifteen years his senior, based more on the silver just beginning to thread its way through her dark hair than on any of her other features. With her high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes, Ben decided she was a woman who would be beautiful at any age.

That evening, the de Villes invited Ben and Adam, or as Mrs. de Ville phrased it, "Adam and his father," to dine with them in the privacy of the de Ville cabins. When Ben arrived with Adam in his arms and saw the linen tablecloth and paper-thin crystal, he went weak at the thought of Adam anywhere in proximity to the place settings.

But Mrs. de Ville eased Ben’s concerns greatly when she produced a small pottery mug that she said was especially for Adam. The boy was shy about accepting the object and leaned the side of his face into Ben’s chest but he took the cup all the same. He was quiet but hungry and showed no inclination to get down from Ben’s lap.

After they were all seated at the table, Mr. de Ville asked Ben about his plans to push west from Cincinnati in the spring. "Why the frontier? Have you considered New Orleans?"

The inquiry did not chafe at Ben, more than likely because the man was inquiring and not questioning Ben’s judgment. He absently ran his finger up and down the stem of the wine glass. "Why do you suggest New Orleans?"

De Ville’s dark eyes narrowed when he laughed. "Have you visited our city?"

Ben smiled. "When I was young. The city was unlike any I had seen. And the bread was excellent."

Mrs. de Ville shook her head. "That is all you recall?" Her tone was as light as the soufflé on her dish.

"I was very young." Ben directed a spoonful of squash into Adam’s open mouth, noting how Adam rested his hand atop Ben’s.

"There is opportunity for a man like you in New Orleans." Mr. de Ville pursed his lips when Ben looked from the tops of his eyes. "And I do not necessarily imply at the gambling tables, although you seem to be quite accomplished at that enterprise."

"I learned at sea."

"So did I."

Was all the world comprised of ex-sailors? Ben locked eyes with the man, sensing there was more to come. Adam patted his father’s hand, turning Ben’s attention back to the food. He offered Adam another bit of squash and smiled when the boy fairly sucked it out of the spoon.

Mr. de Ville sipped from his wine glass before continuing his story. "I sailed aboard Dancer." He touched lightly at the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin. "The first Dancer, not the one that sails now."

"The second Dancer does not sail now, either, sir." Ben motioned to Adam’s pottery cup. Adam complied quietly but as he drank his eyes roved over the rim of the cup to Mr. and Mrs. de Ville.

"What is this about Dancer?" Mrs. de Ville placed her fork across her plate and folded her hands in her lap.

"She was in a collision off South America," Ben answered. "Near the cape."

"And the crew?" The woman’s question held more than casual concern.

"No word, ma’am."

To Ben’s disbelief, the meticulously proper woman rested an elbow on the table and touched her fingertips to her cheek. She leaned nearer her husband. "Do you suppose Murielle has received word?"

"I would wager that if the news has reached Philadelphia then without doubt it has found New Orleans." Mr. de Ville, too, laid down his fork and looked vacantly past Ben.

"I am sorry if I have - " Ben’s apology was cut short by Mr. de Ville’s wave of a hand.

"It is better that we know. I will have more time to consider how to approach my sister."

Ben accepted the pottery cup that Adam offered him. He filled his spoon with soufflé. Adam seemed to especially enjoy the new taste and reached out for more.

"Forgive our distraction, Mr. Cartwright." Mrs. de Ville regained her composure. "My nephew was aboard Dancer."

"There is no word in regards the fate of the crew, Mrs. de Ville. It would be ill-timed to presume that all hands were lost."

"Have you known many who lived through a collision?" Mr. de Ville countered.

Ben spoke before he thought. "I did, sir."

The couple’s attention was so keen as to be uncomfortable.

"This land, what was the distance from Dancer ?" Mrs. de Ville twirled a ring on a finger, not aware that she was doing so.

"I am not sure but debris was found on shore."

"The collision that you survived," Mr. de Ville said. "Was it near to land?"

"Just off Palermo."

"And the water was warm?"

Ben understood the point that the man was making. "Warm enough."

"And I am of the estimation that you know how to swim. Am I correct?"

"Sir, men have been known to grab hold of masts and all manner of items and drift to safety or be rescued by another ship."

Mrs. de Ville picked up her fork and knife. "We have lived by the water always. We are most aware of the dangers of the boats and the ships." She added as an afterthought, "And our nephew did not swim."

"A most damnable circumstance." Mr. de Ville tilted his head at his wife’s slight frown at his language. "You must admit, Daphne, it is rather like putting a man in the saddle when he has never so much as patted a horse’s head."

"Hord-es." Adam’s soft, halting voice surprised all three adults.

"He’s a grand admirer of horses." Ben smiled gently at his son and offered him more soufflé. "And books," he added.

"Buhk," Adam said.

"A true gentleman," Mrs. de Ville answered. "He shall undoubtedly accomplish great things."

Ben raised an eyebrow. "At present I will be grateful when he has learned how to feed himself."

The days aboard the riverboat passed rapidly. Virginia appeared on a regular basis to discuss interests with Ben in a most disarming manner. She enjoyed leading Adam about but confided to Ben that she thought perhaps Adam would never speak well. Ben hadn’t the heart to tell her that not only was the boy reserved, even if he had been inclined to speak he could not have done so for Virginia’s steady monologue.

Ben and Adam enjoyed the company of the de Villes, either while they took pleasure in the scenery along the river or when they shared unhurried dinners. He felt a kinship with the pair such as he had not experienced since his mother’s death

Saints, what Aunt Bridget would have had to say about the afternoons when Ben sat at the gambling table! Adam sprawled nearby on the floor, playing with his own deck of cards; Adam sitting in Ben’s lap while Ben drank whisky; Adam listening intently to tales of river life and the famous boatman, Mike Fink; and Adam being allowed to run around the table after he had been taught not to call out the cards that every man held.

Yes, indeed, Adam learned quickly. Within a few days he persuaded Ben to sit opposite him on the floor of their cabin so he could throw cards to Ben, slap a few down, and lean back and laugh. The next step, of course, was to have cups of water near their hands. Ben had a rib-hurting laugh when Adam lifted the cup to his lips and attempted to toss back water the way the gamblers tossed back whisky. All that the boy managed to do was to give himself the better part of a bath.

"What do you think you are doing?" Ben asked as Adam and he enjoyed a quiet evening in their cabin. He had looked up from his reading to discover his son bent over a piece of baggage.

"Do." Adam’s reply was muffled due to the fact that his head and shoulders were well inside the canvas knapsack.

Of course he was "doing." Adam was always "doing."

Ben lowered his book to his lap. "I know you are ‘doing,’ Adam. Why?"

There was no answer. Was the boy ignoring Ben?

"Why are you into Pa’s knapsack?"

"Do."

Ben rubbed his hand across his face. He would be so elated when the boy could speak a complete sentence.

"Dis!" Adam held up one of Ben’s pipes in success. He sat on the floor, his cards scattered all around.

"You will not put that in your mouth," Ben ordered.

Adam tucked his chin and looked from the tops of his eyes. "Peas?"

Ben held out his hand in silent request for the return of his property.

Most of the time, Adam quickly obeyed. Most of the time. But this time he turned the pipe slightly, his eyes sliding down its length. "Dis?" he asked, wanting to know what the item was called even though he had been told by his father several times before and had seen Ben smoke tobacco in one almost every night.

Asking for knowledge was a clever way to avoid compliance. "Pipe," Ben answered.

"Pipe."

"Pa’s pipe."

Adam nodded.

"Bring it here."

Again the tucked chin. Again the, "Peas?"

All right. That was enough. Ben stood.

Adam jumped to his bare feet so quickly that he almost tumbled. He ran to Ben, holding the clay pipe out. In his haste he misjudged, thinking his father had grasped the stem, and when he released the pipe it fell and shattered on the floor. "Uht." Adam squatted and surveyed the damage. "A-gwee," he predicted.

"It was an accident." Ben sat on his heels and gathered the pieces. He smiled when Adam pinched a small fragment between his index finger and thumb and then gently laid it in the palm of Ben’s hand. "But you should not have bothered the pipe."

Adam moved his head up and down. He stood as Ben did and then grabbed his father’s leg in a fierce hug. "Dub."

Ben laid the clay pieces atop the table near the bed. He lifted the boy and waited for Adam to raise his eyes. "You will do as Pa asks, young man."

The deep blue eyes seemed hesitant. The small mouth was slightly open. "Dub," Adam whispered.

Warmth filled Ben’s throat. His son was trying to say he was sorry. Ben stroked the boy’s soft hair. "Love."

The word brought a smile to Adam’s face. "Tor elko."

Ben held up his index finger in warning. "Don’t start."

Adam giggled and burrowed his face into Ben’s shirtfront.

After a look at the scattered cards and the water cup and the shattered pipe, Ben laughed until he shook the boy in his arms. Why was it that Adam only imitated the bad habits and none of the good?

Click here for Part 3