The Roswell Legacy by Frances Statham (parable of the sower read online .TXT) 📗

a beer-drinking, cigar-smoking man, fond of outdoor sports. But Charles was more interested in the man’s spirit, in his determination. He knew that it was the strong desire to overcome adversity that sometimes decided whether a man would live or die.

Grover Cleveland had more than his share of determination. Charles hadn’t been in Washington more than a week before he’d heard people calling him “His Obstinacy” behind his back.

Charles listened to the man’s heart through his stethoscope. The steady, strong, pulsing beat was a good sign. Then, using the blood pressure cusp, he took Cleveland’s blood pressure. It was slightly elevated, but of course that was to be expected because of his excess weight.

“What did you eat for dinner, Mr. President?”

“Mighty little, Forsyte. A small fowl, potatoes, beans, and bread.”

“Any alcoholic beverages?”

“No. A glass of buttermilk instead.”

Charles nodded. “You may have water to drink until midnight. After that, nothing by mouth.”

“I understand.”

“I’m sure Dr. Bryant has explained the general procedure to you. Tomorrow morning at seven, the nurse will come in to shave off your mustache. Then you’ll be given a slight sedative and taken to the operating area by eight o’clock.”

“How long will the operation last?”

Charles hesitated. “Several hours. Longer, if needed. But you’re in relatively good health, so I don’t foresee any complications. Do you have any other questions?”

“How soon can I get back to work?”

Charles smiled. “If there’re no complications, as soon as your mustache grows back to its former glory.”

The president’s hearty laugh filled the stateroom. But then he became more serious. “There’s so much to do, with the upcoming special session. I’ve already been castigated by some of my detractors about taking a pleasure cruise at this time.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you, Mr. President. Your main concern now is to get a good night’s sleep. Affairs of state can wait.”

After bidding the president good night, Charles left the stateroom with Jamison. “Are you up to a stroll on deck before turning in?” Charles inquired.

“Yes. I’d like some fresh air.”

The two stood at the railing and gazed into the distance toward the flickering lights. Their voices were deliberately muted to avoid the amplification of sound over the water.

“I hate to think what would happen to this country if Grover Cleveland didn’t make it, Forsyte,” Jamison commented. “You might not be aware of it, coming from England, but he’s one of the few totally honest men in government today. We can’t afford to lose him, especially now when we’re on the very edge of bankruptcy.”

Charles nodded. “I was aware of some of the problems before I sailed. A political cartoon in one of the London magazines portrayed Cleveland as an angry man driving the money changers out of the temple of government.”

“Well, his action lost him the election to Harrison, but the people finally came to their senses once the treasury door was left ajar.”

“Whatever the eventual outcome of the cancer, he’ll probably be in the White House for most of his second term. That should give him time to set a lot of things straight.”

“Unfortunately, the Senate is still a closed club of special interests. But I hear he’s got a good man in Meadors from Kentucky.”

At the mention of the name, Charles became abrupt. “I’d better turn in, Jamison. Today’s been a strenuous day. Are you coming?”

“I think I’ll stay out a little longer. See you in the morning.”

“Good night.”

Charles turned from the railing and rushed belowdecks, as if some hound were nipping at his heels. The scheduled operation had managed to push Allison out of his mind for a brief time. But with the mention of her husband’s name, Bennett had spilled ancient blood and revived his nightmare.

That night, as the Benedict yacht rode at anchor, with the accompanying sounds of boards and halyards, Charles dreamed that he was adrift with no sight of land. From the time he’d first seen Allison with the other man, he had roamed a mythical sea, constantly searching for a faithful woman yet never finding her, and never reaching land.

During the past years, he had put the nightmare to rest with only an occasional recurrence. But with Jamison’s unwitting words, he once again became the restless wanderer, doomed to a troubled night.

The odor of cigar smoke drifted through the air as the president and his friend, Commodore Benedict, stayed on deck well past midnight. Then they, too, went to bed.

Early the next morning, the steward’s knock on Charles’s door came far too early. But through the porthole, Charles could see the glittering sun. It was time to get up.

He went to the door, opened it, and, after seeing his breakfast tray, stepped aside while the steward entered. The man put the tray on the table and then was gone.

Charles had never considered himself a prima donna. Yet from the moment he’d set foot on this particular yacht, he had been treated as one, with his every physical wish fulfilled. And this morning was no different.

His appreciative eyes took note of the eggs, done to a turn, the bread warm and sweet, two kippers in cream, orange marmalade, and a pot of steaming hot tea. With Araminta as mistress of his house, he had never really enjoyed his breakfasts, for they had been prepared by an indifferent cook and served to him by an indifferent servant—until Ginna had taken over.

As he stared at the breakfast tray, he felt a sense of puritanical guilt. Here he was, getting ready to enjoy a bountiful breakfast while the president went hungry. But then he dismissed the guilt. The morning would be a wearing one and he needed all the sustenance he could get, whereas it was imperative for his patient to have no food at all in his stomach lest he aspirate during the operation.

One hour later, Charles was ready. As he walked toward the operating room, the Oneida crew hoisted anchor and set sail for Buzzards Bay. And along the shoreline, the citizens, eating their own breakfasts,