THE CAVERN OF DEEP HARMONY
PART NINETY-SEVEN:
Eden stood part way into the living room, watching Marshall. He was seated in a wing-back
chair, Wadsworth's chin resting on one of his knees, the big dog's eyes turned up, raptly staring
at his master's face. Music was playing, the surround sound filling the room with it. She
recognized it as Strauss but couldn't quite put a name to it. Marshall was moving his hand in
that way he had of almost literally touching the notes, of his motion being somehow inside the
music, and he had a wide smile on his face, his head tipped back, eyes closed. She loved him so much she wasn't sure she could contain it. How far, she wondered, was it
possible for a soul to stretch and swell with love? Were there boundaries? She thought not
because she'd found hers for him constantly being expanded and her feelings dwelt now in a
land with no horizon. Not wanting to interrupt him, she remained silent, trying to keep even
her breathing quiet. He sensed her presence nonetheless and, still smiling, held out his hand to her so she would
continue on to him. She came and sat on the arm of the chair, sliding her right arm behind his
neck. "Strauss?" She said it softly, hopefully unobtrusively. "Johann, yes." "You like this piece. I can tell." "I like it very much. Listen to the section that's just about to start." She closed her eyes, the music alive, pulsing, swinging, her body swaying inevitably to its call.
"It...it's happy," she said. "There's no other word for it. It makes me happy to listen to it. What
is it?" "Roses From the South. Even the title is happy I've always thought." "That particular part...it...it's almost extraordinary in its exuberance, its joy." "Merry-go-round," he smiled. "What?" "At Kennywood, the big, old merry-go-round." "Yes, I've ridden it many times." "Can one ride a merry-go-round and not...smile?" he asked. She thought about that a moment. All her merry-go-round memories were, indeed, happy ones. "As fine as the word 'carousel' is, I've always preferred the more descriptive 'merry-go-round',"
he said. "I used to go to Kennywood with my family and my favorite ride was the big merry-go-
round. Do you recall the tiger?"
"I do, yes. Was that your favorite mount?" He nodded. "Most of them, of course, are horses, but the first time my hands found the tiger, I
knew I wanted it to be him I rode. I didn't always get the tiger. Sometimes someone else already
had him, but whenever I could I did." "You, riding tigers...yes, I can definitely relate to that." She was picturing the carousel, all its
lights, its panoply of colors, the very visualness of it. "What was it like for you, darling, when
you were on the merry-go-round?" "Motion...the smooth up and down...the sense of around and around, the air blowing past my
face, my hair moving with it. And music...music like that part of Roses. (*See note at bottom
of page) It would...it would just rise up my core as I rode, filling me with the joy of its notes,
and burst out my face in a wide smile. I can't hear Roses without imagining the feel of the
merry-go-round."
"The whole piece is very, well, sort of 'swingy', you might say. Makes you want to move to it,
to whirl around some glowing, marbled ballroom." He ran his hand lightly down her arm. "I imagine that must be marvelous, but not a thing I
can do." He made a small, indeterminate sound. "But the merry-go-round, that was possible.
It's still there, you know. Maybe this summer we can give it a go? It's gentle enough, I expect,
even for a lady great with child." His hand continued on to her mounding belly. "There are
even a couple of very sedate compartments, like seats on a carriage, depending on just how,
um, great you are." "I want to see you ride the tiger," she chuckled. "I haven't, not for many years now." "Well, we shall just have to remedy that, now won't we?" "I'd like that." "What's your absolute favorite Strauss?" she continued, leaning to kiss the top of his head. "Probably the Emperor Waltz. There are parts to that that just go right through my soul." "Anything especially?" "I like the whole thing, but toward the end the music slows and there's a section where a few
notes become so piercingly bittersweet that...." (*See note 2 at bottom of page) "That what?" He'd left the sentence unfinished and she wanted to know. "It's like...like...love. The notes there actually ache with it, with longing, with...with...possibilities
of separation. I think of stories when I hear them. The ball when sudden word passed and all the
uniformed officers left their ladies to go fight at Waterloo. Like that...aching yet filled with the
depth of the beauty of the mere existence of love." "Is your Susannah going to know that?" "Eventually, yes," he said quietly. "I know it," she barely whispered. "Love, to be full, to be mature, has, inevitably, to confront it. Often, I think the aching is a way
we come to understand the depth of love." She thought about what he was saying, that toward the end of Roses lay the utter joy of the
merry-go-round and toward the end of Emperor lay the ache of Waterloo, and she knew that
the two were actually one and could not really be separated without there being some great
lack of fullness. In mid-October, the Fairhaven, one of Edward Kent's smaller vessels, docked at Capitol Landing,
bringing with it one Anderson Charles, sent by the solicitor in London who was handling the
Kent estate. Anderson, a short, rather stout man in his early 30's, hired a small carriage to take
him into Williamsburg, letting him out at the white house on Nicholson Street where Micah showed
him into the parlor. "Morgan Kent?" Anderson said, looking across the room at the young man who'd stood, laying
aside a book. "At your service," Morgan replied. "Sir, I am Anderson Charles, representative of Martin Howard, your late father's solicitor." Morgan's eyes widened in surprise. "You have come...this far?" "Your father, Sir, he left most specific and detailed instructions on the matter at hand, requesting
in, um, certain eventualities that these," he lifted a leather valise he'd been holding at his side,
"be hand delivered into your care should you not have returned to England. When Mister Howard
received the recent communications from you and Mister Wythe regarding your father's estate, he
dispatched me to bring them." He took a few steps forward, setting the valise near Morgan's feet. "Please, Mr. Charles, do be seated while I have a look at these. Brandy?" Anderson nodded, much fatigued by his trip, and sat back, watching, as Morgan took the valise to
a small table and opened it. Inside was a copy of his father's will, documents stating he was now
the sole owner of Kent Shipping, more papers detailing locations of properties, investments, lands,
buildings, etc. When he came to a listing of finances, he cocked an eyebrow, looking over the
paper at Anderson. "You have been to Philadelphia...before coming here?" "Yes, Sir, I have. Mister Martin has arranged," he eyed Morgan, "since your original missive
stated your clear intention to remain in the Colonies, for your father's bank accounts to be
transferred to Philadelphia." A slight look of disapproval crossed Anderson's bland features. Morgan noted, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a quickly-repressed smile. "I take it you
are returning to London shortly, Mr. Charles?" "As soon as possible, yes. I wouldn't want to be trapped over...." "Of course not. That would be most...unfortunate." He stood and came around from behind the
table. "Please accept my most sincere gratitude for bringing me this and for what you have done
on my behalf. I should like to write Mister Martin a letter for you to take with you. I shall have
it delivered this evening to...." He looked at Anderson inquiringly. "The King's Arms, Sir." "Of course," Morgan smiled, walking the man to the door. Susannah came in the back door, her small wicker basket filled with late fall gatherings from the
rear garden. "Was someone here, darling? I thought I heard a carriage stop out front." Morgan crossed to her, kissing her forehead. "It seems I am not to be quite the church mouse I'd
thought." He was pleased. For some months now he'd been living almost entirely under the
largesse of Harmer Wellington. It was still a fact, an undeniable fact, however, that war was
shortly inevitable and shipping would be disrupted. At least the bank accounts were now in the
Colonies. If the coming revolution succeeded, and he was as yet not at all sure that would be
possible so unlikely did that outcome seem, but if it did...perhaps...just perhaps enough could be
salvaged that would enable him to make a living. Surely the war would not last too long. The
odds were so stacked in favor of England. What would become of the company, of him, should
England win? If he fought on the side of Virginia against his king, he would be considered a
traitor. All of them would, Washington, Jefferson, Henry, all subject to hanging. If he fought.
Yes, that was the question. What would he do when the time came? He could never take up arms
against Virginia, not now. But men his age would be expected to do something. His arms tightened
around Susannah. He knew what he would do. He did. He had to help preserve all that mattered
to her because now it all mattered to him. He couldn't sit by and let it be swept away. He would
go. When the time came he would go. He just had no idea right now how that might come about,
where he would go. His cheek atop her head, a sigh escaped him. "What are you thinking?" she asked. "I'm thinking how much I love you, how very much you mean to me." Morgan was right. By November trade was almost at a standstill. The winter passed, everyone
rather on edge as though waiting for some giant shoe to drop from Mount Olympus. Harmer came
and went, came and went on various trips. As Morgan's health had fully returned some while ago,
Clara decided to accompany Harmer to Richmond in March of 1775 where he went to attend the
second Virginia Convention. It was there that Patrick Henry gave his soon-to-be famous 'Give me
liberty or give me death' speech. He had a way about him, you had to give the man that much,
of stirring the hearts of his listeners. His passionate belief in the cause of liberty was contagious
and Virginia's governor, John Murray, Lord Dunmore, seemed constantly to add fuel to the
patriotic fires in the hearts of men. Late on the night of April 20th, Morgan was awakened by the sound of drums, distant and rolling.
He lay there trying to determine the why of them. Again the drums sounded and his heart beat
faster as he recognized it as the call of the Independent Companies to arms. He sat up, then walked
to the window, opening it to the cool spring air, leaning out a bit to discern its direction. It wasn't
far and seemed to him to be coming from the Duke of Gloucester Street, possibly the Powder
Magazine. Oh, God! That must be it! Quickly he began to dress. "What are you doing, Morgan?" Susannah asked. He'd dropped his boot and sat on the chest at the foot of the bed, grabbing for it, yanking it on.
"Something's going on at the Powder Magazine. I mean to see what it is." She heard the distinct sound of him buckling on his sword, something he'd never done before
except for some friendly practice with Thomas Sutter once in a while. That he was doing so at
night and in a hurry sent a chill of foreboding through her. He came to the side of the bed,
gripped her shoulders and kissed her briefly but firmly, then said, "I'll send Layla in to stay with
you until I come back." He half-walked, half-sprinted down Botetourt Street, turning right on Gloucester, the drums
swelling and fading, swelling again as he hurried along. A few horses galloped past him and there
were shouts, loud voices here and there in the night. He almost stumbled into Sutter as he neared
the court house. "Tom!" he cried, "Do you know what's happened?" "It's gone, Morgan. The powder's gone." "What?" What they didn't know was that secret orders had come from the British ministry to the royal
governors to move the military stores so that the colonists couldn't have access to them. Word had
not had time yet to reach Williamsburg but the very day before, in Massachusetts, attempts by
Governor Gage had resulted in the conflict at Lexington. In Virginia, Governor Dunmore had
waited until after midnight then had marines from the armed schooner Magdalen remove the
powder to the vessel. They had been discovered, but the powder was already gone. The drums,
then, had raised the Companies. A crowd of citizens had gathered in the streets and seemed now
to be moving toward the Palace Green. Morgan and Thomas went along with them. "He won't let our spokesman in," growled a man Morgan recognized as the proprietor of a
carpenter's shop. "Did you hear?" asked another man. "He's armed his servants." People were muttering, shaking their fists at the Palace, and Morgan began to wonder if they
would actually attack the brick building and drag Dunmore bodily out onto the Green. It was
only Peyton Randolph's arrival, riding up onto the Green with his new authority of being the
President of the Congress at Philadelphia, that stopped them. The crowd began to disperse when
he promised them he would make a formal demand for the return of the powder. They dispersed,
but they were still muttering, still angry. "This doesn't look good," Thomas said, shaking his head. No, Morgan thought, it didn't look good, not at all. What would Dunmore do next? He didn't return the powder, making up some excuse about needing it in case there were a slave
uprising in a neighboring county. Patrick Henry was having none of it and assembled a corps of
volunteers at New Castle, marching toward Williamsburg. When he got to within sixteen miles
of the town, he was met by some of Virginia's delegation on their way to Philadelphia. They
informed him that Dunmore was frightened by what Henry was up to and when Henry demanded
the value of the powder, which was 330 pounds, he got it, sent it immediately to the treasury in
Williamsburg and his volunteers disbanded on May 4th and went home. Henry himself, being a
delegate to Congress, left for Philadelphia a week later. Dunmore, greatly irritated, threatened to burn Williamsburg. He didn't do so, but he issued a
proclamation against Patrick Henry and some of his 'deluded followers' which forbade everyone
from countenancing them at all. His Palace he surrounded with cannon, turning it into a garrison
and fortifying it. "This is most injudicious," Morgan sighed, standing at the end of Nicholson and looking toward
the Palace. "He is doing everything possible to isolate himself and make the Virginians, make
us," he amended, "feel separated from him and what he represents." Thomas, a tall, raw-boned, and dark blond young man Morgan's age, was studying law at William
and Mary. He nodded his head. "Look there, Morgan. Going through the Palace gate. Isn't that...." "Parker Harrelson," Morgan finished for him. "Yes, I understand he practically lives at the
Palace now that Dunmore is gathering his adherents about him." Nine days after the first shot had been fired at Lexington, an exhausted express rider brought the
news of it to Williamsburg, then rode on toward the Carolinas. Morgan and Thomas had been at
the Raleigh when the rider practically fell in the front doorway, muddy, worn, quite haggard, yet
with an excitement in his voice as he told about the small bridge where the first official shots of
the war had rung through the springtime air. "It's coming, Morgan," Thomas said. "It has come, Tom. It's here." He was thinking of the Scots, who carried a fiery cross to call the
men to grab their swords and gather for battle. As he watched the rider gulp down a tankard of
ale, he could almost see such a cross superimposed over the man. The news he carried would
ignite every single one of the colonies. Letters from Dunmore to ministers had been found, publicly read, their meanness causing the
governor to be even more despised. The first week of June several barrels of powder were
discovered under the floor of the magazine, evidence that Dunmore had plans to blow it up. On
the 7th, a rumor circulated rapidly through town that the Magdalen was coming up the river with
a hundred royal marines. Instantly the men of Williamsburg flew to arms. The rumor proved false,
but Dunmore was shaken by the readiness of the people to seize arms whenever alarmed, and his
fear of personal violence increased to the degree he took his family and left Williamsburg, going
to Yorktown, then aboard the Fowey, a British man-of-war, becoming the first royal representative
to, as the townspeople put it, 'abdicate government'. "Dunmore refused?" Morgan stood just inside the high brick wall surrounding the capitol building.
He'd been waiting for Harmer to come out, intending to walk home with his father-in-law. "We pledged our honor to the safety of his person," Harmer shrugged, "but he was adamant about
not leaving the ship." "What else did he say?" "He demanded that we present ourselves aboard his ship. Then he says he'll sign the bills the
Burgesses passed." "You're not going? Surely you'll not?" "There is, pardon my language, no way in hell that that will happen." "What do you think will be the consequences of this?" "We've adjourned until October." "But won't that...." Morgan was surprised.
"Not really. A committee of the delegates has been appointed as a permanent convention."
Harmer turned, looking back at the capitol building. "They've been entrusted with unlimited
powers of government. Their intention, Morgan, is to raise an armed force of large enough size
to defend the colony. This, you realize, along with Dunmore's flight, will effectively terminate
royal power in Virginia." Morgan wiped his hand across his mouth. What would England's response be to that? By late July Susannah was pregnant. As happy as the prospect of fatherhood made Morgan, he
was concerned that he might have to leave Williamsburg and join the fight before the baby was
due in March of 1776. One had no idea from day to day what course events would take and the
effect they might have on daily life. The thought of not being there when his child was born
weighed heavily on him. And to leave Susannah while she was pregnant? No, he mustn't do that.
Perhaps the gods would grind their mills more slowly? It was a hope he had. He was thinking of that in September as he lay beside her in bed. It was still warm, the window
was open, and a maple leaf floated through. He watched it do a little flip in the air, then settle
atop Susannah's stomach. He simply stared at it a while in the pale light, meditating on how it lay
right above where the baby was growing. Susannah was asleep and his eyes moved from the leaf
up to her face, which was tipped toward him. There were times when he could hardly grasp all
that had come to pass in his life, the fact that this utterly adorable creature was his wife and lay beside him, carrying his child. Unable to resist, he picked up the leaf, holding it close to his face, studying its structure and
veining. How strange that it should come in the window as it had and settle just there. "Is there
some meaning, some portent in your coming?" he whispered as though addressing the leaf itself.
"Portent?" Marshall chuckled. "Are you making reference to our 'wheeling mapled portent'
that led you to walk in the woods rather than down to the lake that fateful day?" "Just maybe," Eden replied. "It was a very significant leaf, you know." "One I shall never forget," he added, "as it saved my life." "It was a good maple leaf, indeed." "Is this one?" he asked. "Not so much, I think. I wanted him to be lying beside her in early autumn while she's pregnant
and the leaf just, well, happened." "So, what is he thinking now as he holds it?" Morgan twirled the leaf, rolling its long stem between his thumb and forefinger. Could it possibly
mean anything? Perhaps the very looming quality of a great war beginning led his thoughts down
such odd pathways. He didn't know. He just lay there, twirling it, trying to find some sense of his
own place in the inexorable march of events. Finally, with a sigh, he lay the leaf back atop
Susannah. "It's your leaf, little one," he said softly to his unborn child. "It came for you, not for
me." Gazing at it for a while longer it suddenly came to him that a leaf only floated away from its tree
because it had become detached from its source, was no longer able to receive nourishment from
its tree, was no longer alive and growing. A shudder went through him and he snatched up the
leaf, crumbling it in his fist. "No," he said, "no you don't!" He'd said that more loudly than he'd intended and Susannah woke up. "What? Did you say
something, darling?" "Nothing important," he replied, leaning to place his lips softly atop hers, the crumbled leaf still
in his tightly clenched hand. "Mmmmmm," she murmured against his lips. "Feels good." "How good?" he asked, reaching over her to let the bits of leaf sift to the floor. "Very, very good." He found he had a deep need to get past that thought the leaf had generated and so reached under
the cover, curving his hand over her not really mounded yet belly. Then he pushed the cover down,
pulled up her night shift and covered both her and his child with countless small kisses.
*****************************************************
NOTE # 1: link to YouTube of Roses From the South
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w6_616gIUrk&feature=PlayList&p=9B6D707D55551293&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=2
This is 7:53 long. The first merry-go-round section comes at 5:03. If you don't want to listen to the whole piece, try moving
it to start at somewhere around 6:03 as that will give you a good idea. The second merry-go-round is near 7:00.
NOTE # 2: link to YouTube of The Emperor Waltz
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4qISPR1giE
This is 8:22 long and the exquisite notes Marshall is talking about are from 7:42 to 7:57.
ON TO PART 98
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