Chapter 7: Be It Ever So Humble
A private club, Boston, Massachusetts, April 1871
Gary Desmond, the founder of the fight, was propelled clear out of the melee. He stood, shaking with fury, holding onto a table for balance. His eyes searched the battle for a glimpse of Scott. In a blind rage, beyond logic, Desmond groped in his pocket and found the derringer he always carried.
He raised it toward Scott's undefended back.
Pushed to the edge of the battle, Johnny worked his way clear. He was grinning, ready to enjoy more combat; but, in the surging mass of strangers, he had lost track of the sides. Rather than accidentally take a swing at one of Scott's friends, he decided it would be better to finish his beer.
He surveyed the battle with satisfaction, as he took a healthy swallow; then he saw Desmond take aim at Scott.
"Scott! Get down!"
In unison with his shout, Johnny threw his beer mug at Desmond. The beer splashed in the Bostonian's face as the heavy mug hit his shoulder.
His shot went wide of Scott, who had fallen to the floor at Johnny's warning, pulling Burstyn with him by his lapels.
The crack of the shot and the smash of the glassware the bullet hit, shocked the room into silence. Combatants froze in place like a game of statues. Only Johnny was in motion, hurtling at the back-shooter with blood in his eye.
One work-muscled arm caught Desmond around his pudgy neck. Johnny threw the Boston man to the ground as if he was bulldogging a steer.
Back-shooting was the foulest crime in Johnny's book and back-shooting his brother put him nearly beyond sanity. Only the sight of Scott coming to kneel beside him, obviously unhurt, prevented Johnny from breaking Desmond's neck.
Instead, in Johnny Madrid's most emotionless, and therefore most chilling, voice, he said, "Drop the derringer or I'll save the hangman a lot of trouble." A bit more pressure on the neck emphasized his point.
Desmond would have begged for mercy, but he could hardly breathe. He whimpered and opened the hand that was still clutching the small weapon.
Scott plucked it out of Desmond's fingers, but Johnny still didn't release his victim. He pinned him helpless, studying him remotely as if he were a new specimen of insect. Scott could sense the quivering tension in his brother.
"You're getting blood on your new suit," Scott said, pointing to a cut on Desmond's neck, which was leaking onto Johnny's knee.
"It's already ruined," Johnny explained. "It wasn't made for sports."
It was true that several rips and stains marred Goldberg's handiwork. Scott judged the tailor might be able to mend it, at the price of a thousand exclamations of horror. Then again, when he heard the cause of the damage, he might agree it was worth it.
"Ah, well," Scott sighed. "It was only a hand-me-down."
Johnny snapped a look at Scott and received only a bland gaze in return. The tension surged out of the younger Lancer.
"Hand-me-down!" he snorted, shoving Desmond away violently and climbing to his feet. "Remind me to tell Mr. Goldberg you said that."
He took the derringer from Scott, unloaded it and tossed it back to Desmond who was being brushed off by his friends.
"Next time you pull a gun on my brother, you'd better remember that we mongrels have sharp teeth."
Scott clapped his arm around Johnny's shoulders and they walked toward the bar to get new drinks. Desmond and his cronies picked up their scattered accessories and crept toward the door.
Scott turned as if he'd forgotten something.
"Oh, Gary," he called. Desmond turned. "See you tonight," Scott said pleasantly.
Desmond might have replied, but he saw the manager bearing down on him to demand payment for damages from the one who started the fight. Since Desmond was strapped for cash, as usual, he jammed his hat on his head and stormed out before the manager could catch him. His cronies hurried to follow. The front door slammed behind them.
The manager grimaced at the door and went to put the damages on Desmond's tab.
Johnny was trying to puzzle out Scott's parting remark.
"What did you mean, 'see you tonight'? You don't mean, he's …"
"Afraid so," Scott replied. "My cousin, Gary Desmond … Garrett Desmond."
"Madre de Dios!" Johnny said fervently, tossing off the remains of Scott's beer while his brother amiably ordered two more.
"Amen!" Scott agreed.
The Lancer Ranch, California
Teresa rushed to greet Murdoch when he rode in from supervising the afternoon chores. Brimming with curiosity, Jelly followed the girl.
"Murdoch! Frank just brought this letter from town. I didn't know what to do with it. It's addressed to Scott, but it's marked urgent."
"I don't know this Michaelson," Murdoch said, examining the return address. "But this is Harlan's address." The Lancer patriarch debated with himself for a moment. "Well, I suppose Scott will forgive us for opening his mail," he decided.
With an expression that grew ever grimmer, Murdoch read Justin's account of the plotting he'd overheard.
"I'm afraid they are planning to murder Mr. Garrett," the letter read. "But I don't know who they are. It could have been any of the servants or the family. You're the only one I can trust, Mr. Scott. Please help." It was signed "Your faithful servant, Justin Michaelson, footman."
"What is it, boss?" Jelly asked in concern.
Without a word, Murdoch handed the letter to Teresa. Jelly read over her shoulder.
"Surely this Michaelson fella will tell Scott and Johnny they're livin' in a house full of killers," Jelly tried to reassure Murdoch, with no success.
"Probably, but we'd better not take any chances. I'm going to send a telegram to Scott," the rancher said, heading back to his horse.
He told the whole story to Jason Jeffers at the telegraph office and together they composed a message that gave the gist of Michaelson's message and told of Murdoch's concern. It ended, "Reply immediately."
Jeffers tapped out the lengthy message and sat back.
"Now we just have to wait for an answer," he said.
The Garrett Mansion, Boston
Scott Lancer was choosing a tie when Johnny knocked and came into the room without waiting for a reply. He posed in the doorway.
Scott regarded him with a whistle of appreciation.
Slicked up in suit he brought from California, with his high-heeled cowboy boots buffed to a high gloss and his silver studs and conchos gleaming, Johnny had never looked so Mexican. His cowboy hat hung neatly behind his neck. His blue eyes, the only incongruous note, laughed at Scott from beneath the unruly black locks which contrasted so vividly with the crisp white of his ruffled shirt.
The fair-haired older brother shook his head.
"You're asking for trouble, aren't you?"
Johnny grinned as he bounced onto Scott's bed, but he answered seriously enough, "I figured I was going to get it whether I asked for it or not."
"So you decided to dare my relatives to say anything, is that it?"
"Yup," he said with the complacency of a young man who had never run into any trouble he hadn't been able to handle eventually.
"Besides," he added with devastating honesty, "It's the only good suit I have left."
The butler had sent the suit back to the tailor shop for repairs, but even the able Goldberg couldn't repair the battle damage in two hours.
"Yes, that does make a difference," Scott said with deliberation, though his eyes twinkled.
Scott turned to the mirror to don his tie. Johnny offered his help, but Scott slapped his hand away. Johnny waited in silence until the delicate operation was completed to Scott's satisfaction. He didn't speak until Scott picked up a hairbrush to complete his grooming.
"Scott, how many people are going to be here tonight and who are they?"
Scott saw that, despite his air of confidence, Johnny was nervous about meeting a roomful of possibly hostile Garretts.
"You want a briefing about the history and fortunes of the family Garrett?" he asked playfully.
"Yes, please," Johnny replied meekly.
"Well, where should I start …" Scott pondered briefly. "My great-grandfather Wilfred Garrett came to Boston from England. He was something of a genius at trading. He died even before my mother was born and left a considerable fortune to his four sons — Frederick, Mortimer, Malcolm and Harlan. Grandfather, the youngest of the brothers was 17 or 18 at the time. Now he's the only one left, so that makes him the patriarch of the Garrett family and gives him the right to order these excruciating family dinners."
Johnny nodded to show he was paying attention and made himself comfortable on Scott's bed.
"All the brothers invested their fortunes in a was that not only left them with tidy incomes, but also increased the capital."
Scott looked at Johnny to see if he'd lost him with ten dollar words. But if Johnny didn't understand the vocabulary, he grasped the concepts. He waited attentively for his brother to continue.
"Only grandfather seemed to have inherited his father's knack for trading, but none of the Garretts were exactly poor. Though lucky in finance, grandfather was unlucky in another way. He and his wife had several children, but only one survived infancy."
"Wait!" Johnny said. "I know this part. Scott waited obediently.
"Harlan's only child was Katherine who grew up and ran away with an immigrant Scotsman named Murdoch Lancer. They had only one child …"
"And that was me," Scott finished.
"I already knew where you come in," Johnny complained. "Tell me where Caroline and Gerald and 'Gary' Desmond come in."
"Well, Caroline is a Garrett by birth as well as by marriage."
"Really?"
"Honest. She was born a Garrett. In fact, both her parents were Garretts."
Johnny looked confused. Scott kindly explained that it was common for branches of Boston families to intermarry.
"It keeps the money in the family," he said wryly. "In fact, at one time, Caroline and I were engaged to be married."
Now Johnny was really confused.
"But I thought you were engaged to Julie," he said, referring to a girl who Harlan Garrett had brought to Lancer to try to lure Scott home to Boston.
"That was later, after the war." Scott looked back on fond memories. "We all grew up together — Julie, Caroline, Gerald, Ben Fraser, and me. Caroline and I were unofficially engaged. Ever since we were children, our families had simply assumed we would marry. Caroline's parents were strongly in favor of it. Despite my rebellions against grandfather's standards, I never questioned it and neither did Caroline. We were fond of each other and near the same age, which was much nicer than a lot of the arranged marriages we'd seen. We considered ourselves lucky."
Johnny nodded understanding. Arranged marriages were still the rule in the Mexican border towns where he had grown up. The more money a family had, the earlier the marriages were arranged.
"I always felt sorry for Gerald," Scott continued. "I always knew he loved Caroline, but she never seemed to pay him any attention. She and Ben were very close, though. Funny how things work out …"
He was silent for a long time.
"How did things work out?" Johnny finally prompted.
The smile faded from Scott's face. His eyes went studiously blank.
"You know I was in a prison camp."
It wasn't a question. Scott's wartime experience had reached even to California and caused him to be kidnapped out of the Lancer ranch house. It had been a wild 24 hours before the Lancers had straightened everything out.
"But I never told you and Murdoch that the camp was Paytonville."
Scott couldn't meet Johnny's eyes. There were too many memories of Paytonville, too many sad, shameful, terrifying, nauseating memories. Johnny didn't need telling. The infamous story of Paytonville Prison Camp had spread around the world.
Johnny put a hand on Scott's shoulder.
:I guess we should have figured it out," the younger Lancer said. "We knew the camp commander found out about the escape plans and let you all get out …"
"… And then shot us down like diseased sheep," Scott said bitterly. "With me the Judas goat that led 16 men to their deaths."
"It's not your fault you survived," Johnny said gently.
Scott forced himself to relax. "No, not my fault," he agreed. "Besides shooting escaping prisoners, there were other things the camp commander didn't want to get out, so he didn't allow any letters home and he never reported the names of the prisoners he had. All of us were officially listed as dead. It was more than a year before I escaped. When I got back to Boston, I found out that Caroline had married Gerald. She was almost hysterical. Her mother, too." Years later, Scott was still surprised to remember it. "Caroline kept apologizing for not waiting for me. I told her it was all right, and it was. Breaking the engagement was another kind of freedom and I badly needed freedom just then. I was just glad Gerald wasn't there to hear her and her mother carrying on. It would have been a slap in his face. As it is, he can't help but feel he was second choice. I don't think he blames me, though. He blames himself for not being me."
"I'm still confused," Johnny said, to change the subject away from the painful war years. "How are Caroline and Gerald related and how are they related to you?"
"OK, here goes …" Scott took a deep breath and counted on his fingers. "Caroline is the … great-granddaughter of grandfather's oldest brother, Frederick. Both her parents — they died in a train wreck last year — were Frederick's grandchildren, children of his two sons. You'll meet one of those sons tonight. Marcus Garrett, Caroline's maternal grandfather, is still alive, poor soul."
"What's the matter with Cousin Marcus?" Johnny asked.
"Mad as a hatter," Scott said succinctly. ""Poor man. His family always meant everything to him. Then most of them were killed in a milk fever epidemic — his sons and their families, his brother and most of his family. His daughter was the only one left, his pride and joy. And then she was killed, too. All this in the space of three or four years. It left his mind unbalanced. All he has left is Caroline, who he adores, and a niece Winifred. And Winifred is no price, as you'll see."
Slouched on the bed, furrows of concentration on his face, Johnny asked, "And what's the matter with Cousin Winifred?"
"Winifred Garrett Masters is a holy terror. Her husband drank himself to death — on purpose, I think. Her son joined the merchant marine and never comes home. He sends letters from places like Amsterdam. Her daughter married the son of the British ambassador and now lives in Prussia, since he's assigned to the diplomatic corps there. After her family got as far away from her as possible, Cousin Winnie moved in with Marcus, unasked. She now "takes care of him.' Read that as 'bullies him unmercifully.' She won't like you, but then, she doesn't like anyone. No one ever lives up to her standards."
"OK, I think I have it straight, so far," Johnny said.
He had been getting dizzy trying to sort out the Family Frederick, but when it boiled down to three people — Marcus, his niece Winifred and his granddaughter Caroline — it didn't seem so difficult.
With a return of confidence, he asked, "Who's next."
"Gerald's easy," Scott said. "He is Malcolm's grandson. Malcolm was the third Garrett brother, just a few years older than grandfather. Malcolm married late in life and had one son, Frederick, named after his brother. Cousin Fred will be here tonight. Talk to him about guns and you'll get along fine, I hope. He loves guns and hunting. Fred had two sons, Gerald and Richard. Richard was killed at Gettysburg, but his widow, Mary, will be here. She remarried shortly after Richard's death, too shortly, according to most of the Garretts. It's even worse that her husband, Hans Schoenwald, is the son of German and Dutch immigrants. She is badly treated by most of the family, but she comes to the family gatherings for the sake of her sons Jim and Hal. Frederick dotes on his grandsons."
"Does Schoenwald come, too?"
"No, he's got better sense," Scott said. "He and Mary know his presence would only fan the fire. It's not as though Mary hadn't loved Richard. They married despite his family's disapproval and were a happy couple, as far as I could tell. But when he died, she was left with two small children. She was dependent on the oh, so, kindly charity of Richard's family, who never really liked her and made that clear. Then Hans, a good, kind man, asked her to marry him. I think she made the right choice."
"Do you like her?"
"We get along," Scott said. "I admire her. She's always done the best she could with what she had, never asking for anyone's charity, except to keep her boys from starving. She's a survivor."
Johnny nodded. A talent for survival was a Lancer trait, too. It was a quality that Johnny Madrid could appreciate.
"OK, that makes Fred, his son Gerald, his former daughter-in-law Mary and her two kids," Johnny summed up, earning a nod from Scott. "And now we come to the infamous Cousin Garrett Desmond," Johnny added with an exaggerated grimace of distaste. ""He must be descended from Wilfred's second son, Mortimer, right? What would he be …" Johnny juggled ages and guessed, "…Mortimer's great-grandson?"
"No, grandson," Scott answered. "Though you're right, he's young enough to be his great-grandson. Mortimer had the biggest family, even though he married late. Three of his children survived to adulthood. His two daughters are still alive and will be here tonight. His son, Mortimer Junior, had two sons, Mortimer the third and William, who was killed at Petersburg.
"Mortimer III, who prefers Mort, and his wife Evangeline have four children: Laura, who must be quite a young lady by now; Will and Teddy, two overactive terrors; and little Lisa, who can't be much more than six. They're among my favorite relatives. They are a happy family, except for one thing. Mort's father squandered most of his inheritance, so Mort and Eve are chronically hard up.
"Mort is a school teacher, but doesn't make very much. He worries about his kids. Being a Garrett, he wants to provide a lavish dowry for Laura and he wants to send his boys to Harvard. The tight money doesn't seem to worry the kids much. Laura says she wouldn't have any man who wanted her for her money, anyway. And Will says he'll get into Harvard on his own, by earning a scholarship. He probably will, too. He studies hard enough."
Usually Johnny was interested in children, but at the moment his mind was on less pleasant topics.
"I take it Desmond's the son of one of the first Mortimer's daughters," Johnny calculated.
"Uh huh, Mort the first had two daughters, Annabell and Maybell — not Mabel, mind you, May-bell. Don't forget it, not that she'd let you. Annabell never married. Her childhood sweetheart died of consumption and she stayed faithful to his memory. Her sister Maybell married Arthur Desmond. They had five daughters, all married now and moved away, before they finally had a son. His whole family spoiled Gary rotten. His mother buys him out of trouble, just as she bought him out of the army. Yet, she still thinks he's absolutely perfect. It's just that everyone is jealous of him. You know the sort of thing."
Johnny grimaced in agreement.
"If Gary has told his mother about the fight — and I'll bet he didn't have any choice, as torn up as he and his suit were — then Maybell will snub you all night. Probably the nicest thing that could happen to you," Scott told his brother. "If Annabell hasn't heard the story, tell her. She'll love it. It is her public opinion that Gary received too few spankings when he was growing up and anyone who makes up for that deficit now is only doing the world a favor."
Johnny laughed aloud.
"I think I like her already," the younger Lancer said.
"You will. And she'll like you. She hates phonies. That's why, in all the years I've known her, I have never seen her and her sister agree on anything," Scott said.
"OK, I think I've got it straight," Johnny said. "Two sisters, Annabell and May-bell; Maybell's son, Gary the Spoiled; and their nephew Mort with family."
"And Maybell's husband, Arthur," Scott added.
A knock at the door interrupted any further conversation.
"Are you ready sir?" Hodges the butler asked, as he poked his head in the door. "The guests have all arrived. Dinner will be ready in half an hour, and your grandfather would like to see you first."
"Is the doctor still with him?"
"No, sir. He went down a minute ago, to say good-bye to Miss Caroline and Mr. Gerald."
Scott picked up his jacket and moved toward the door. When Johnny didn't follow, Scott turned.
"Are you coming, or do you want to go down and introduce yourself to the family?" he said grinning.
Johnny gave an exaggerated shudder.
"Better the devil I know, that the ones I don't," he decided. He followed Scott to Harlan's room.
Pedaling over the cobblestones in the red light of sunset, the Western Union messenger didn't have to wonder why his bicycle was called a boneshaker. Fortunately he only had one message to deliver before he could sign off shift and go home to dinner.
He bounced through the quiet streets and dismounted at the steps of the Garrett house. As he reached for the door chime, the door opened and a man stepped out.
"Sir!" said the boy smartly. "Telegram for Mr. Scott Lancer."
"I'll take it," said the man who wasn't Scott. He signed Scott's name to the receipt book and tipped the boy a nickel to the messenger's disgust, before he tore open the telegram. He read the ominous message from Murdoch without a blink."
"Any reply, sir?"
"No. No reply."
The man stood on the stoop, watching the boy ride away. He was glad he'd seen the messenger coming in time to intercept the telegram.
He crumpled the telegram and stuffed it into his pocket.
Morro Coyo, California
Murdoch Lancer waited for an answer to his telegram until the sun began to set in California. Finally he asked Jason Jeffers to send a query.
"They say Scott signed for the telegram, Murdoch, but there was no reply," the telegrapher told him.
"No reply!" Murdoch exclaimed. His message had specifically asked for a reply. "Something's wrong, Jason, very wrong. Scott wouldn't do that."
Murdoch paced worriedly.
"I don't know what to do. I'm afraid my boys are in trouble, and they don't even know it."
"There's an eastbound train going through the Crossing about sunup," Jeffers suggested.
"I think you're right," Murdoch said.
A/N: Sorry, I haven't figured out how to make a genealogy chart that works in ff dot net. Hope you can keep the family members straight. This is a mystery. Gotta have suspects.