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1804
Old Peggy barked as she ran excitedly after the stick William had tossed towards the grove of gum trees. He glanced back over his shoulder to where Papa had settled on the bench under the honeysuckle bower. Even though Papa’s writing desk was open and propped on his knees, Papa’s gaze was firmly on William. He wasn’t smiling, exactly, William observed, except that he was. Papa’s lips seemed to naturally lift up at the edges, and his eyes always held a twinkling sort of amusement, like he had a secret jest he was waiting to tell.
The gardens were in bloom around them, the brown and gray of winter firmly replaced with bright greens and purples and yellows of spring. Sunshine glittered on the Hudson behind them and white fluffy clouds floated lazily through the endless blue sky. A perfect day for playing outside, Papa had announced.
William shivered, the breeze off the river still a little chilly. Old Peggy barked again. When he looked over at her, she was shaking the stick in her mouth and eyeing him, as if daring him to come take it. Normally he’d race her around the garden with glee, wrestling the stick away to send her chasing it again. But today, his legs felt like jelly and the bright sunshine was making his eyes hurt. He frowned, and dragged his hand across his runny nose. Hay fever, Mama said, when she handed him a fresh handkerchief at breakfast. It was still in his pocket.
The honeysuckle vines on the bower shaded the long bench where Papa was working. The cushions on the bench looked soft, too, he thought. Papa would place an arm around him and pull him close to his side, his embrace warm against the chilly spring day.
Instead of chasing after Old Peggy, he trudged back along the garden path towards Papa.
“Is everything all right?” Papa asked.
William nodded and clambered up on the bench. His nose was running again. Papa sighed when he dragged his sleeve across his face. He didn’t lecture though, as Mama usually did. He just tugged a fresh handkerchief from his own pocket and handed it to William.
Old Peggy came trotting over while William blew his nose. Papa’s handkerchief smelled like him, he noticed, face buried in the cloth. A sort of delicately spiced, fresh scent, not overpowering, but strong enough to register even with his stuffy nose. Papa leaned over to pet Peggy, who wagged her tail happily and sprawled out at his feet, gnawing on the stick she’d retrieved.
“What are you doing?” William asked, snuggling up against Papa’s side when he sat back against the bench.
“I’m working,” he answered. His arm draped over William’s shoulder securely.
“On what?” He peered at the paper, filled with his father’s steady, sloping script; his eyes felt too blurry and heavy to read anything, though, and he didn’t really care what the paper said. Jamie was the one who liked to sit with Papa and talk about his work. Usually William found the conversations painfully boring, but he liked listening to Papa’s voice, soft and lilting, with just a hint of an accent to make it perfectly unique.
But Papa didn’t start talking about his work. William blinked up at him, and found his father frowning. “Why aren’t you playing?”
William shrugged a bony shoulder.
The arm around his shoulders adjusted so that Papa’s hand rested gently on his forehead. His palm felt nice and cool, and William sighed, pressing forward into his father’s hand. Papa hissed softly and carded his fingers through William’s hair.
With one hand, Papa flipped his lap desk closed and shoved it to the side. Then he gathered William into a proper hug, heaving him up onto his lap. William relaxed against his warm chest. Papa gave the best hugs.
“My poor little lamb,” Papa cooed as he pressed his lips against the crown of William’s head. After a few quiet moments in the warm, soothing embrace, Papa rose from the bench with William still held firmly in his arms. Clutching more tightly around Papa’s neck and wrapping his legs around Papa’s waist, William rested limply against him, content to be carried back into the house.
Old Peggy dropped her stick and came trotting after them again.
They entered the house through the servants’ entrance. The kitchen was bustling with activity, all clanking pots and rattling silverware. William whimpered softly, the noise too loud for his sensitive ears and tender head.
“Shh,” Papa whispered, rubbing his back. “I’m just getting the medicine. We’ll get you to bed in a minute.”
“I don’t want to go to bed,” he whined, even though his head ached and he felt very sleepy. Papa just rubbed his back again.
“Alexander?” Mama’s voice came from the hallway. William adjusted his head to look towards her. She had an apron on over her dress and a heap of laundry in her arms. When she saw him held tight in Papa’s arms, she doubled back to toss the clothes into the laundry room and came straight to them. “What’s wrong?”
“He has a fever,” Papa explained softly.
Mama reached out to rub William’s back as well, and leaned close to kiss his forehead. That’s how she always tested his temperature. She smelled of flour and linen, he noticed, when he sniffled and sucked a breath in through his nose. It was running again, and he adjusted his face to wipe it on the shoulder of Papa’s coat.
“William,” Mama sighed, though she sounded fond.
“It’s all right,” Papa said. Papa adjusted him in his arms so he could move the bottles in the medicine cabinet. The glass bottles tapped and tinkled against each other as Papa hunted for the proper one.
“Here, I’ll hold him,” Mama offered. Her hold on his back strengthened as she attempted to transfer him into her own arms.
William whined and attached himself more firmly to his father. “I want Papa.”
“I’m right here,” Papa whispered into his hair. Both his arms closed around William protectively. “I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere.”
As Papa rocked him slowly side to side, he realized he was crying. He was too old to be crying. Phil and Betsey cried. But his head ached, and his nose kept running, and he felt too hot and too cold all at the same time. He couldn’t make himself stop.
“Take him up to bed, Alexander,” Mama whispered. “I’ll bring up the medicine and some water.”
“Three drops of this,” Papa directed, his arm lifting from William’s back for the briefest moment to point to something in the medicine cabinet. “Boil the water first, then add the drops and some ice to cool it down.”
Finally, they were moving, past the laundry room and the informal dining room, up one flight of stairs, then another, until they emerged on the second floor. Rather than carry him to the room he shared with his brothers, Papa turned into the master bedroom and laid him on the big bed. William refused to release him when he tried to straighten.
“All right,” Papa chuckled. “Just loosen your grip a little, my dear fellow, and I’ll lie right beside you.”
William unclenched his arms, and, good to his word, Papa adjusted just enough to stretch out on the bed beside him. Scooting closer, William snuggled into his chest. Papa’s arms closed around him again, and he felt so warm and so safe. He fell asleep soon after, listening to the soothing sound of his father’s voice singing a sweet French lullaby.
1805
William couldn’t stop crying. He wanted to, badly, because every sob made his stomach turn and his head throb, but he simply couldn’t stop. Everything hurt, and he was too hot and too cold, and even with the curtains drawn over the windows the light was too bright.
The doctor had come earlier. He’d poked and prodded him, and made William drink a thick, disgusting syrup that left his stomach sicker than ever. Papa’s medicine never tasted like that, he’d thought, glaring at the doctor.
“Honey, please, you need to calm down,” Mama whispered. Her hand soothed over his back comfortingly as she spoke, her voice gentle and calm. “Take a breath.”
He tried to, really, he did. The breath was little more than a hitching sob, though, and he whined as he exhaled. “It hurts,” he moaned. “Mama, it hurts.”
“What hurts?”
“Everything.”
“What hurts the most?” Mama pressed. “Your head? Your belly?”
Hauling in another hitching breath, he thought for a moment, and answered, “My head.”
Mama’s hand soothed across his forehead and her fingers massaged his temples. Her hands were small, soft and warm against his burning skin. His whole body shivered and quaked under his blankets. He didn’t want her warm hands; he wanted the steady, cool touch of his father’s palm. He wanted Papa. Where was he?
“Papa?” he called weakly.
Mama went very still beside him.
Rolling onto his back, he tried to take another breath so he could force more volume into his voice. Surely, if he called loudly enough, Papa would hear. He would come. He always came when William was sick. “Papa?”
“Shh, sweetheart.” Mama’s voice had turned funny, strained.
“I want Papa,” he insisted stubbornly. “Where’s Papa?”
He turned his head, just a little, so his mother was in his line of sight. Her expression had crumpled, and he saw a tear leak from the corner of her eye. He didn’t understand. Everything was so hot and so confusing. Papa would make it better, though. Papa always knew how to make it better. He’d come in and lie beside him, and kiss him and sing him the lullaby, and everything would make sense again.
“He’s not here, honey,” Mama said, voice fragile, like the fine china teacup she kept trying to force him to drink from. “He’s…he’s not here.”
“No!” he screamed. His head throbbed so fiercely he thought it would explode. “I want Papa! Papa!”
“Sweetheart,” Mama whispered, with a strange sort of longing that made him think the endearment hadn’t been directed towards him. Her head was in her hands. Her shoulders shook a little, like she was crying. He hadn’t meant to make her cry.
“I’m sorry,” he managed to squeak out. His body felt sore and weak, but he slid his hand out from under his blankets and let it flop down on his mother’s lap. Mama looked up when his hand touched her leg.
“I love you, my dear heart,” she said softly. A watery smile graced her lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her hand soothed over his forehead again.
He swallowed and closed his eyes.
The heat eased a little, and the vise around his head loosened. As the feverish fog rolled away, he understood why his father wasn’t beside him. He remembered why he hadn’t been able to stop crying. Tears leaked from his eyes again.
He huddled back underneath his blankets. “I want Papa,” he mumbled, a statement now rather than a request. He knew Papa wasn’t coming.
“I know,” Mama murmured. “I want him, too.”
1850
The makeshift hospital was filled with the groans of sick and dying men and a stench so rancid that the healthy men trying to offer assistance were forced to hold vinegar soaked rags over their faces. William shivered and pulled a scratchy blanket higher over his shoulder. One of the healthy men stopped beside his cot. “Water?”
William shook his head. The man moved on.
He’d stopped getting sick a few hours ago. Even in the grips of the fever, he understood that was a bad sign. He didn’t have long.
He couldn’t move his legs anymore. Papa had been paralyzed by the bullet, he remembered suddenly. He pushed the thought away.
He felt like he’d been running his whole life. While Alex and Phil had followed in Papa into the law, Jamie into politics, and Johnny combed through Papa’s old papers to write a biography, William had dropped out of West Point and taken off out west, looking for adventure in a faraway land, fighting wars when they found him and taking leadership positions when they were thrust upon him.
It only occurred to him recently that he’d followed his father’s example better than anyone.
He’d never settled down, though. Never married or had children. He came close once, when he first moved to Illinois. Sarah. She appeared in his memory, bathed in the golden glow of nostalgia. She more than anyone had tried to burst through the barricades around his heart.
“You’re so afraid of being abandoned, you never let anyone in,” Sarah had sighed as he packed his bags, ready to strike out to a new town. “That’s no way to live your life, William. You’re going to end up dying alone.”
How right she’d been.
His dear mother was still alive, as far as he knew, and his brothers and sisters as well, but they were all clear across the continent, safe in New York and Washington, D.C., while he shivered alone on some unknown plot of dirt by the Pacific Ocean.
Mama had come to visit him once, just before her eightieth birthday, traveling all the way up the Mississippi to the little mining town. He’d been so worried for her health, but she’d bounced down from the coach with all the energy of a woman thirty years younger. Even after her long journey, she’d still smelled like fresh linen and baked goods.
“I missed you, Mama,” he whispered as he hugged her. Her hair was tucked up in her widow’s cap, and her face was covered in wrinkles, but she felt sturdy in his arms and her eyes still twinkled. Would Papa still have been sturdy at eighty? Would he have shrunk like Mama, or filled out? Would he have even still been alive?
She’d held his face in her hands, her fingers measuring the length of his hair. “My precious boy,” she’d grinned. “You need a haircut.”
Would someone tell Mama that he’d died? His throat felt tight as he tried to imagine her reaction. He hoped not. She didn’t need more pain in her life.
His stomach clenched and he moaned.
No one came.
He closed his eyes. His breathing felt labored and raspy, and his throat was dry. He should have taken the water.
“Shh,” someone whispered, close to his ear.
He shifted towards the sound, but he was too weak to open his eyes or lift his head.
A hand soothed over his forehead, gentle and cool against his burning skin. Someone sat on the bed beside him. The putrid stench of the hospital disappeared, and in its place was honeysuckle and a subtle, spiced, fresh scent, comforting and familiar.
“I’m right here,” a lilting voice whispered. “I’m right here with you.”
He felt tears sting his eyes as his breathing grew shallow. Arms closed around him, so safe and warm. As the world around him slipped away, he heard the soft notes of a long forgotten French lullaby.