The Seekers (25 page)

In a way it was fortunate that he had been a frail child. Of necessity, most of his time had been devoted to sedentary pursuits, chiefly reading. A year at Harvard before Philip’s death only demonstrated to Gilbert that he’d already learned much more than his professors could teach him.

Close association with his father during adolescence had familiarized him with every phase of printing house operation long before Philip’s sudden and sad demise. Philip had died resenting Abraham’s decision to carve a new life for himself in the west. But Gilbert was there, ready and eager to take up the reins—

So, at age twenty, the modernist made his way along Boston’s crowded thoroughfares until he came in sight of the familiar gold-lettered signboard with the tea-bottle design. He felt in excellent spirits until he reached the main entrance.

There, in the shadow of the swaying sign, he saw several large, dark splotches on the cobbles. His pale face lost its aura of good humor.

Tall and extremely slender—at nearly six feet he was a phenomenon in the Kent family—he ducked his head to keep his beaver hat from being knocked off by the sign and rushed through the front door to learn the cause of bloodstains at Kent and Son’s doorstep.

The presses for the book-publishing part of the business still occupied the main floor. But now, instead of the four wooden flatbeds Gilbert remembered from childhood, six presses with cast iron frames crowded the long room. Gilbert had imported them from London.

Perfected in 1798 by the Earl of Stanhope, the new presses were operated by the familiar screw lever. But the iron framework all but eliminated breakdowns due to main members warping and splitting. Additionally, the iron could bear a greater load, critical to the inking and printing of the woodcuts Kent and Son was starting to incorporate in some of its school primers.

Twenty men and several apprentices worked busily in the press room. Among them Gilbert noted a singular absence. His parchment-pale cheeks took on an even whiter cast. On the second floor of the main aisle he detected still more bloodstains—and, behind one press, a pile of ruined sheets.

A jowly young man in a leather apron approached, moving slowly and refusing to look Gilbert in the eye.

“Good morning, Mr. Pleasant,” Gilbert said to his press room manager, the son of the deceased editor of Philip Kent’s
Bay State Federalist.
“I’m afraid I see evidence of a fight.”

“Aye, and a royal one,” Franklin Pleasant answered.

“What was the cause?”

“I don’t know, sir. I was up checking the paper stores when it broke out. The other lads pulled the two apart after a couple of minutes. Regrettably, that was long enough for Tom Naughton to suffer a broken hand and an addled head.”

Pursing his lips—usually the strongest indication of displeasure he allowed himself—Gilbert asked, “And the other combatant, Mr. Pleasant?”

“Well, sir”—Pleasant’s eyes still avoided those of his employer—“he walked out.”

“To go where?”

“I wasn’t informed, sir. The truth is, your brother was in such an ugly mood, I didn’t wish to ask. The lads said he tore into Naughton in what they call the frontier style—”

Gilbert sighed. “Just as on the other occasions? Kicking? Butting? Gouging eyes?”

Pleasant gave a somber nod.

Gilbert forced himself to the hardest question. “Was my brother drunk again?”

“The lads say he stank of it. I don’t doubt he traipsed off for more after he did his damage to Naughton. I—I have no right to speak about a relative of yours, Mr. Kent—”

“You certainly do. He works for you.”

Less apprehensive, Pleasant went on. “Since you gave Mr. Abraham a job last year, he’s done nothing but disrupt this press room.”

“And it took him twelve months to shake off his despondency and reach the point where he’d even consider a menial job.”

“I realize he suffered hard blows, losing his wife the way he did, then coming home to the shock of finding Mr. Philip dead and buried. But the fact remains, he can’t get along here.”

“Nor anywhere, it seems, except in the taverns.”

“Yes, a couple of the lads have told me he consorts with the worst drunkards and trulls on the waterfront. Of course,” Pleasant added hastily, “that may be no more than vicious gossip. Repayment for some of the difficulty he’s caused—”

“It’s not gossip, it’s fact. Abraham’s frequently gone from the house two or three nights in a row. I don’t doubt he’s visited a score of those poor women you dignify with the name trull. However”—Gilbert waved—“it’s not the facts that are wanting, Mr. Pleasant, it’s the solution to the problem, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“See you send Naughton an extra week’s pay for his injuries. And my apologies.”

“Oh, sir, the president of the firm needn’t apologize to—”

“Enough, Mr. Pleasant. I want it done.”

Pleasant looked pleased. “Very well, it shall be.”

“Tell Naughton I rose later than usual this morning—well after seven. Abraham had already left the house. Sometimes, when I catch him at the table early, I can sober him up with coffee and a threat or two.”

“Most days, he still manages a rum before reporting for work.”

Gilbert’s eyes strayed to the stains on the floor. “That would seem to be the case. It must have been an unusually strong draft today—” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Pleasant, be assured—and pass the word—that brotherly charity is not unlimited. Six brawls in as many months are five more than I should have permitted.”

He indicated the working men, a few of whom were watching him in less than friendly fashion.

“Let it be known that I’ll take immediate steps to bring Abraham into line. I’d hoped a job, however lowly, might help put his sad experiences out of mind. Obviously my hope was groundless. I will take steps,” he repeated firmly, moving toward the stairs to the second floor.

A couple of the workmen waved and called a greeting. On normal mornings, most all of them did. Gilbert’s reply was perfunctory.

He climbed to the third floor, to the cluttered office originally occupied by his father. There, along with his usual portion of the day’s work, he confronted the question of what to do about his half brother.

He sympathized with Abraham, but he could no longer tolerate Abraham’s sullen, destructive behavior. Nor, for that matter, could Abraham’s son Jared.

He pondered the problem a while without success. Finally he put it out of mind and turned to other things. Often when a business difficulty needed a solution, he found that the answer came spontaneously if he mulled the subject, then forgot it for a few hours.

He prayed the process would repeat itself today.

Gilbert Kent’s first task was to check on the forthcoming issue of the firm’s expanding newspaper, the
Bay State Republican.
Immediately on taking charge of Kent and Son, he had raised the paper’s price to the prevailing six cents, added the job of general editor to his duties, and ordered a new masthead designed, sans the word
Federalist.

The alteration in name and philosophic approach made him unwelcome in certain homes in Boston. But that was offset by generally widespread, if grudging, admiration for the courageous declaration of his own principles via the new name and the increasingly favorable coverage of the Jefferson administration.

Gilbert believed it was not only right but practical to provide an alternative to the viewpoint of most other New England papers. His judgment was rewarded by a slow but steady increase in circulation. Now the
Republican
appeared twice weekly.

With his coat off, his waistcoat unbuttoned and a quill in hand, he marked some minor changes on the foolscap copy describing the background of Commodore Edward Preble, newly named commander of the naval squadron Jefferson had reluctantly dispatched to the Mediterranean in an effort to get the Barbary states to end their outrageous piracy coupled with their demands for tribute. The tribute was supposed to guarantee the safety of American shipping. In fact, it didn’t.

Gilbert inked a few rousing sentences at the end of the story, predicting that Preble would soon have the banditlike Bashaw of Tripoli wishing he had not increased the sum he hoped to extract. Should some of Preble’s crack marines storm Tripoli’s shores, the Bashaw would regret his greed
and
his declaration of war on the United States.

He returned the copy to one of the two men who wrote for the
Republican.
“Very good, Mr. Morecam.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Gilbert watched Morecam work for a few minutes, then moved over to stand behind the other reporter. Neither appreciated his hovering presence, but neither protested. Shortly he went back to his office to see to the day’s correspondence.

Much of it was inconsequential. But the pile contained two important items, the first being a lengthy letter from one of Kent and Son’s bestselling authors, Mason Locke Weems.

Parson Weems as he was usually called—he was an ordained Anglican, and now a bishop—was a rare bird indeed: a theologian who doubled as a bookman—both writer and seller. Additionally, Weems had an uncanny sense of what the reading public would buy.

His
Life of Washington,
written to the popular taste in 1800, was already into several editions. Gilbert had negotiated to print a deluxe volume that was selling handsomely to the well-to-do who maintained private libraries.

Weems’ letter reported on his progress in revising his text for yet another edition. The parson tiptoed around the question of
“embellishing”
the biography with some
“possibly apocryphal”
material.

Gilbert smiled. The good parson had raised the subject in his last letter too. Gilbert sensed Weems intended to invent anecdotes about the first president in order to add novelty to future printings.

His suspicion was confirmed as he read on. Weems said that
“reliable sources in Virginia”
had provided a story about young Washington hacking down a cherry tree, then manfully admitting his guilt when confronted by his father.

Gilbert sharpened another quill in preparation for a reply. He didn’t allow himself the luxury of a male secretary. Even though his handwriting was small and difficult to read, he preferred to write his own letters to keep costs down.

In his reply, Gilbert tactfully suggested that George Washington’s life was dramatic enough without
“apocryphal embellishments,”
and that Weems might do well to refrain from including such material, since it would only befuddle future generations hunting the truth. Since Weems was important to Kent and Son, Gilbert closed with an assurance that of course he would rely on the parson’s
“honesty and good judgment”
—and accept the revised text exactly as submitted. He was cynically certain said text would include the invented material.

The second letter of importance was addressed in a hand Gilbert recognized at once; its owner had written him twice before.

With anticipation, he broke the letter open. It was dated the first of July.

Dear Mr. Kent—

The President has requested me to tender his thanks to you for your eminently fair and reasoned support of the purchase of the Louisiana Lands completed May second last by Minister Monroe in Paris. Your recognition of the importance of this Acquisition, and your praise of the treaty of cession in your most excellent Newspaper, have come to the President’s attention, and are deeply appreciated.

The President is particularly gratified that you share his view of the purchase, viz., that it is a transaction replete with blessings to unborn millions of men. As you might assume, contrary opinions expressed in various New England gazettes have distressed him.

Gilbert could well imagine Jefferson’s ire over some of the extreme reactions. A number of northeastern editors claimed flatly that because the new land would eventually be parceled into states, the influence of New England was already destroyed—and therefore, the northeast should consider seceding from the union in order to establish itself as a separate country.

Gilbert had personally written two
Republican
editorials to prick that hysterical bubble, dismissing the notion of a “southern plot” to wrest control of the country from the easterners. The editorials hadn’t increased his popularity among Boston Federalists. But then, it was his opinion that the party had seen its heyday. Incurring the wrath of its diehard supporters troubled him not at all.

He started to refocus his attention on the letter. A sudden spasm in his throat prevented it. He coughed. Then again, harder—

Damn! He hadn’t been bothered with the cough for several weeks. Now it was nearly doubling him over.

He thrust the letter to the desk, gripped the arm of his chair with his other hand. He squeezed his lids shut, still coughing. Water trickled down his cheeks from the corners of his eyes. With the cough came the familiar chest pain.

As he rocked back and forth in his chair, he heard the voice of one of his writers. “Mr. Kent? Shall I summon the doctor?”

Through sheer will he raised his head, opened his eyes. “No, I—I’m over the worst.”

His cheeks still shone from the tears. But the strangled feeling in his chest had lessened.

The reporter hesitated in the doorway. “Perhaps you ought to keep a window raised in here, sir.”

“Air won’t do a bit of good,” Gilbert answered, wiping his eyes. “When one of those damned spells hits me, I can’t get enough air no matter how many windows I throw open. When the spell passes, so does the struggle to breathe. The doctor tells me many people are afflicted with the condition and suffer nothing more than occasional discomfort all their lives.”

He was fully recovered, and affable. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Morecam.”

With a bob of his head, the writer vanished.

Gilbert cleaned his cheeks with a kerchief. God, how the infrequent but painful seizures angered him! He detested them because they impaired his ability to function at full efficiency. It was one of the few segments of his life he was unable to control.