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  As his legs quaked with rage at the captain’s unthinkable words, Gordon knew he was not hiding his emotions as well as his adversary. He knew it. They both knew it. “If your Congress declares war against Great Britain, who will protect America then?”

  With his crew behind him, the schooner man boldly declared, “I will protect it.”

  “How? You live in a disorderly nation.”

  “Disorder works in my favor.”

  The canny response drew bitter laughter from the schooner’s crew and diminished Gordon’s presence, if not his authority. Gordon couldn’t help but feel foolish, whether the law came down on his side or not. He could do nothing but endure the disrespect. He swung a leg over the rail, then paused.

  “Who are you, captain, that I might anticipate your legend?”

  The American offered only the flick of an eyebrow.

  “I’m Thomas Boyle of Baltimore,” he said. “Like it or not.”

  The Road

  A LARGE SHOE WITH a lanky leg snaked out of the coach’s passenger window. The window, because the doors were bolted shut at the bottoms for the safety of the passengers.

  The extended leg jostled in rhythm with the huge nine-seat coach as it bounced and quavered on the washboard-rutted road, as if calling to the wheel it had lost a quarter-mile back.

  In front of the huge flat-bottomed coach, four matched horses thundered down the road, spooked to the marrow.

  “Ho—wah—whoa—hah!” cried a black boy from the driver’s seat. He tried to reach for the reins that had slipped out of his hands, but they were beyond reach, dancing across the rear horses’ two rumps.

  But that leg, that lanky gray-trousered leg, was almost out the window, and behind the leg, a lawyer.

  “Hold tightly!” the lawyer called to the boy.

  “I lost the reins!” the boy croaked back. His pitiful voice was torn away by the speed and the clattering of the axles. The corner with no wheel bobbed up and down, every other bob making terrific contact with the road’s stony ruts. A long twirl of leather trim that had been ripped from the axle flew along behind.

  Trees shot by. Branches clawed at the luggage strapped on top. With every bounce, the four horses panicked and galloped faster. They were used to hauling two or three tons of freight thirty miles a day on the rutted post roads that connected New York to Boston, Baltimore, and Philadelphia, but today the twelve-seat coach carried only seven passengers and the driver, four of whom were children, not enough weight to tire the horses and make them slow down. The riders had been roused by the sharp crack of a wheel hitting a boulder in the road. After that, chaos.

  Flecks of foam from the team’s flanks splattered the lawyer’s plum-colored jacket and the long maple-colored curls which fell almost to his shoulders. He had a narrow face and large thoughtful eyes with lashes like a woman’s. There was nothing adventurous about him as he climbed, not gracefully, out the window and somehow found the footboard with that long leg and foot. A shorter man could not have done it. He hadn’t believed he could do it himself, but traveling with a woman and her three children, an elderly doctor and two nuns, he was the unfortunate candidate.

  There was no sense of heroism. He knew he was no hero. Heroes were anointed by God and certainly would be launched upon their destinies by His voice. The lawyer heard no divine murmur over the rattle of the horses’ livery. Not a whisper. Not a burp.

  The lawyer’s whitened hand reached for the driver’s seat. The black boy, one arm linked with the iron structure of the seat, reached for him and caught him by the coat sleeve. This didn’t help, but the lawyer politely accepted it without protest.

  “Thank you,” he struggled.

  At a moment when the horse team slowed to go left around a bend, the lawyer flung himself to the driver’s seat and somehow twisted onto the leathered plank. For a terrible moment he pivoted on his backside, arms and legs flying upward, and was almost cast off. His stomach went for its own ride.

  The last mad seconds were offset by his mind’s antics about how God might burp.

  “Ho!” he called. How well trained were these four demons?

  Three of the horses were tiring, their heads down and gaits flagging. The horse in the left-hand rear position, clearly much younger, tossed its head and screamed in protest. It wanted to run.

  The lawyer hooked his bony hand around the iron brace of the seat and reached forward toward the reins with the other hand. The road swam below him. The horses’ undulating rumps and flashing hooves made him dizzy.

  “Ho, please!” he called.

  The horses fought their harnesses and each other, but the three older horses forced the angry young one to slow the pace by half, enough to bring them from a gallop to a fast trot. Still they gulped ground at an alarming pace.

  Dust flew into the lawyer’s eyes and mouth as he leaned farther forward. His long limbs gave him a chance of actually reaching the reins, if the dancing leather strips did not fall off the backs of the horses. Another inch or two—

  And he had one rein in his grip. Instantly he hauled back pressing his heels into the driver’s footrest. The four confused horses skidded, bumped each other and shook their halters. The right rear horse dragged the others to a trot as his young partner kicked and whistled in anger. With an exasperated snort, the young horse relented and finally stopped. The horses heaved great sighs and shook the foam off their mouths. Finally, the huge coach settled to a precarious three-wheeled park.

  Cheers and applause broke from inside. Heads popped out the bank of windows, and the lawyer noticed as he glanced back that he could identify their various occupations or social standing simply by looking at their hats. No wonder milliners were so successful.

  “Dang done it!” the black boy cried. He nodded in triumph and jumped up to check whether any mailbags had broken loose.

  “Well,” the lawyer responded, “that’s a story we can tell later, isn’t it?”

  The passengers piled out to survey the damage and settle the pounding of their hearts. The three children jumped up and down, calling, “Let’s do it again!”

  The two nuns laughed, giddy and excited.

  “Is everyone all right?” the lawyer asked as he climbed down to the road. “William?”

  “No broken bones,” the doctor told him while adjusting his spectacles. He turned to the axle where the wheel had fallen off. “Sheared off at the pins. It’s the ruddy road.”

  “The rutty road,” the children’s mother corrected dryly.

  The elder of the two nuns said, “Since the winter melt it’s been like this. Look—the entire wheel is missing!”

  “Perhaps we should retrieve it,” the younger nun suggested. “I’ll be happy to go, Mother.”

  “We have no tools to repair this damage,” Dr. William Beanes said as he fingered the dust from his whiskers and studied the axle.

  “Nor the skill, I’m afraid,” the lawyer admitted. “Too bad there’s not a man around.”

  The doctor honored him with a charitable laugh.

  “Sir, we are in your debt for such a valiant rescue,” the children’s mother said. Somehow she had one of her widely set eyes on the lawyer and the other on her children, who were running zigzag between trees.

  The lawyer nodded, but in a way that dismissed his part. “I merely provided the length of reach. My hand was the Lord’s for the moment.” His enunciation was paced and perfect. He made only one gesture, putting out a graceful hand to illustrate his point. Troubled, he paused. “I hope that did not sound as if I were complimenting myself …”

  “Each man of pious soul is God’s instrument at some time in his life,” the elder nun assured.

  “Mother?” the young nun called from a bit down the road, where she had wandered to watch the children.

  Both the elder nun and the children’s mother turned and responded, “Yes?”

  Everyone laughed, and the embarrassed young nun corrected, “Mother Annunciata … will we walk now?”


  “As did the blessed savior, sister,” the Mother responded.

  The children’s mother then took charge. “Since we seem destined to walk together, I shall introduce myself. I am Mrs. Burnstock.”

  “Mother Annunciata and Sister Mary Ellen.”

  Though they had been in the coach together for an hour, the lawyer noted, they had not introduced themselves, but had simply ridden in polite silence, not expecting to have relationships.

  He bowed his head politely to the ladies and with a gesture said, “This is my friend, Dr. William Beanes of Upper Marlboro.” He pronounced the name “Banes,” as in the old Scottish manner.

  Dr. Beanes wagged his walking stick, accepting his own identity.

  “Yes, we know Dr. Beanes,” Mrs. Burnstock said. “And you, sir?”

  At this moment of destiny, the young horse at the lawyer’s side snorted, bucked once, and released a splashy stream of urine onto the shoe that had saved the day.

  The lawyer, along with everyone else, looked down at this ignoble baptism.

  “Key,” he muttered. “Francis Scott Key.”

  Francis Key picked his way along the top of one of the huge ruts running lengthwise down the road. Around him, the former passengers of the old coach trod on ruts of their own choosing. He and Hector, the boy driver, each led two of the horses, now unharnessed and loaded with the luggage, mailbags, and the two smallest of Mrs. Burnstock’s three young sons. Exhausted, the horses were compliant.

  “America is on the cusp of explosive change. Advancements are at work, which will set all our lives afire. The very ground upon which we walk and ride will be transformed. It is before us like a great and wondrous storm. I see it before me every day, in the vision of my mind.”

  “Like what, Mr. Key?” the young carriage driver asked.

  “For one, we are linking the states with a new road. The National Road, it’s called.”

  Francis Key knew he was about to go into the mode of a lawyer before a bench or a minister at a lectern, but could not resist. There were children and nuns about. He would seize this opportunity for his own children, yes? He felt an irresistible desire to entertain everyone during their long trek, as if God himself had placed the responsibility upon his narrow shoulders.

  “The United States road will begin in Cumberland and cut through the shortest, straightest navigable route west. The land will be flattened or filled to achieve a five-degree grade in most places. America’s first interstate highway!

  “An empire cannot survive which cannot communicate,” he continued, his voice taking on a tone of wonder. “The Roman system of roads was built for the military, but it linked the farthest spindles of the Empire and made the Holy Land an international crossroads. The United States cover a vast area, bigger than all of Europe. The turnpike will link us together. The West will be accessible to thousands.”

  “If anyone wants to go there,” Dr. Beanes contributed doubtfully.

  “You are a splendid orator, Mr. Key,” Mrs. Burnstock noted. “You have a lordly voice, and most melodic.”

  “And so meticulous,” the elder nun added. “You make the English language sound like a song.”

  “My gracious—thank you,” Key said humbly. “When I was a boy, my grandmother had me read scripture from the top of the staircase for her guests. I was dressed in a nightshirt and bare feet. She all but put a wire halo on my head and sugar on my cheeks. What a sight I must’ve been.”

  Mrs. Blackstock offered a nod of admiration to Key’s grandmother. “With such a speaking voice, do you also sing?”

  “I attempt to, but the frogs complain.”

  Dr. Beanes added, “He became a lawyer instead of a minister because the choir booted him.”

  “Oh, God forbid!” from Sister Annunciata.

  “Yes, God forbade his singing anymore.”

  “It’s true,” the lawyer said. “I love music. But I can’t hold a note.”

  “That’s a polite way to say ‘tone deaf.’”

  “I’m not tone deaf,” Key protested. “I know a tune when I hear it. I just can’t carry it very far.”

  “Who will pay for the new turnpike, Mr. Key?” Hector persisted.

  “Oh, it will be the first federally funded highway, bisecting several states. Imagine building a stone-capped turnpike that drains away the rain and snow-melt, navigable in any weather, Estimates say it will cost six thousand dollars per mile.”

  “Six thousand!” all the women echoed.

  “Six thousand!” two of the children cried.

  Key smiled. He liked children. “Someday it will lead all the way to St. Louis, Illinois.”

  “Where is Illinois?” the black boy asked.

  “On the other side of Lake Michigan, speaking longitudinally.”

  By their wordless reactions he inferred they were astounded at the mysterious distance of western lands, of prairies and great rivers called the Ohio and the Mississippi, on the other side of the Allegheny Mountains, through the dark ancient forests where dangers lurked and thieves and murderers sequestered. Such a road would allow the fastest travel ever known on the continent.

  He marveled at the engineering and the promise bestowed upon the young United States and felt a nagging fear, which he managed to hide from his company. The nation had only existed a handful of years, the length of his life, and already there was talk of a new war with England. Many parties argued their reasons for conflict, but not one did he find legitimate. Factions argued in the city of Washington, sometimes in his own dining room, and the only point they had in common was the flagrant, arrogant, desire for a fight. The National Road might be destined to remain only a dream, and that crushed him. The nation had come to a turning point, just around the bend from disaster.

  “I’d relish the challenge to build such a marvel,” he added quietly, “constructing the future—”

  “You?” Dr. Beanes scoffed. “You haven’t even decided to be an attorney, and you’re already one. Now you’re a road engineer? Make up that mind of yours.”

  Key laughed and shrugged at one of his great weaknesses of character.

  “I will be an attorney too,” Hector proclaimed. “Then I can speak longitudinally.”

  The adults laughed, and the boy was proud of himself for it.

  Mrs. Burnstock asked, “Mr. Key, how will you get home now?”

  “I’ll hire a horse from the tavern. What about you, madam?”

  “I suppose we’ll hire a buggy.”

  “Allow me to pay the fee.” To the nuns, Key added, “And for you ladies as well. And, Hector, I shall write a testimonial to your employers that the wheel was at fault and not yourself.”

  Thank-yous fluttered all around, until Dr. Beanes asked, “What about me? An old physician helpless on the highway?”

  “You’ll be put to work in a construction gang.”

  “You’re an evil sprout.”

  “Joy to you, sir.”

  “Mr. Key,” Hector asked, pulling on the lawyer’s sleeve, “where should I go to see this National Turnpike?”

  Key looked at the black boy and saw the thrill of future accomplishment in Hector’s eyes. But for the color of skin, he might as well have been looking into his own eyes. The lawyer gestured with his long hand down at the gluey mud and ruts beneath them.

  “Why, young man,” he answered, “you’re treading on it now.”

  The tavern at the crossroads butted up to the road without an inch to spare. The old farmhouse-turned-inn had an idyllic setting but was notorious for back-alley dealings. Any man of any description could find a bed, a meal, a smoke and a drink without question, if he had coins.

  Key bade farewell to his traveling companions, who quickly melted into the crowded taproom, and though hunger pulled at him he was distracted by a racket of human voices from behind the stable, on the far side of the hen house, in a gated courtyard that had seen better times.

  The wooden fence was a bloodless gray, the weatherworn gate stubborn as Fr
ancis Key put his shoulder to it. He was six feet tall and the gate a foot taller, high and long, embracing a goodly tract of land, and had for two generations enclosed a modest but infamous sports arena. Outside the gate, giving him a long serious look, more than thirty horses were tethered. Some had saddles, some were barebacked, and at least six were hitched to wagons or buggies.

  “Late in the day for a rodeo,” he mumbled. The gate wobbled open a few inches. Leading with a shoulder, he attempted to slip his long body through, only to be caught about the chin. A thick smell of human body odor and cigar smoke painted his face. All he could see was a ridge of shoulders and hats. The place was impenetrably crowded with shouting men. The force of bodies bumped the gate, trapping him with one leg and his face in.

  “Em … pardon me …” he choked. “May I … enter? Gentlemen? Hello?”

  The shouting broke into a single whoop! then a bank of cheers and boos. Suddenly the pressure on the gate dissolved and Key tumbled through into a wall of men and went down on one knee.

  Several strong hands seized him and hoisted him to his feet, which he got under him with some stumbling.

  “Oh,” he uttered, peering over the shoulders of others. “A wrestling match.”

  Lit only by several lanterns and the bright moon, between banks of shouting men of every description, two men dressed in only knee-length breeches were knotted up in a muddy, greasy bundle, so knotted that Key could not tell which arm or leg went with the other. The odor of manly sweat, filth, ale, and whiskey permeated the air. Men shouted encouragements or frantic advice to the competitors, passing money back and forth in pouches or hats.

  Key watched briefly, enjoying the quintessential humanity of the spectacle and studying the intensity of the faces around him, trying to remember the manifold expressions to be used in future poems. Then he spied someone he knew—a familiar man across the mud pit from where Key stood.

  He pushed forward through the crowd and waved.

  “Captain!” he called.

  No less than a dozen men turned at the call for a captain. Key berated himself silently for forgetting just how many Americans were sailing men.