Ancestral Voices: A Novel of America

By John Mears

Ancestral Voices is multi-generational epic that traces the histories of several families from the earliest settlement of America to contemporary times. The main conflict of the story develops from a dispute between two brothers in the wake of the War of Independence that has disastrous, as well as joyous consequences almost two centuries later for some of their descendants when the family is reconnected. The novel begins in 1969, the height of the Vietnam War. The central character, Katharine Carter Harrison--about to enter Yale's first coed class--struggles with her identitiy, which is an amalgam of her Connecticut father and her Virginia mother, and with the fate of her beloved brother who enlists to fight in Vietnam. When a distant cousin, Aaron Keeler, unexpectedly enters the lives of Katharine and her brother, it seems that some perverse hand of destiny is at work, as well as a curse that has run through the family for centuries. Ancestral Voices is a compelling love story, a tale of generational revenge, and a saga where the main characters suffer from obsessions with their ancestral past and a terrifying nexus between fiction and reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 31, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450251310

John Mears

John Mears, a native of Maryland, has worked as a lawyer, farmer, and teacher of English and Classics. Educated at the Baltimore Friends School, the University of Virginia, and St. John’s College, Cambridge, Mears lives with his corgi, Lady Margaret, in Boston’s Back Bay, where he writes and is an avid player of court or “real” tennis. For more information, go to: www.johnmears.com.

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Ancestral Voices

A Novel of America

John Mears

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Ancestral Voices

A Novel of America

Copyright © 2010 John Mears.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-5130-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-5131-0 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 08/24/2016

Contents

Chapter 1. Lafayette Square June, 1969

Chapter 2. The House of Lords

Chapter 3. Women and War at Yale

Chapter 4. The Keelers of Norwalk

Chapter 5. Lieutenant Keeler

Chapter 6. Men of Monmouth

Chapter 7. Slide

Chapter 8. Suspicions

Chapter 9. Realization

Chapter 10. Resolve

Chapter 11. Showdown

Chapter 12. Loss

Chapter 13. Breakdown

Chapter 14. The Professor

Chapter 15. The Tower

Chapter 16. Picking Up Pieces

Chapter 17. Brave New World

Chapter 18. Hope

Chapter 19. Village

Chapter 20. Chumley and Cherry Lane

Chapter 21. Yale Farewells

Chapter 22. Surprise

Chapter 23. Vox Clamantis

Chapter 24. Revolutionary

Chapter 25. Missing

Chapter 26. Lash of the Whip

Chapter 27. Found

Chapter 28. Surprise

Chapter 29. Birth

Chapter 30. The King and the Church

Chapter 31. Transitions

Chapter 32. The End of an Era

Chapter 33. Memorial

Chapter 34. The Whips and Scorns of Time

Chapter 35. Catching Up

Chapter 36. Hunting Season

Chapter 37. Boston Walks

Chapter 38. Working Conditions

Chapter 39. Family Ties

Chapter 40. Promises to Keep

Chapter 41. Family Reunion

Chapter 42. The Gathering Storm

Chapter 43. Confidential

Chapter 44. The Ides of March

Chapter 45. Again, Locusts

Chapter 46. Haying Time

Chapter 47. Commodities

Chapter 48. Hay-Trussing

Chapter 49. Trysting Time

Chapter 50. Tongue Tied

Chapter 51. Blood Work

Chapter 52. Peripity

Chapter 53. Making Plans

Chapter 54. Testamentary

Chapter 55. Milling About

Chapter 56. Farewell

Chapter 57. The Recognition

Epilogue

Illustrations

Acknowledgements

FOR

HATTI KIDWELL

WHO HELPED RAISE US ALL

AND

MARY ELIZABETH KEELER MEARS

OUR MOTHER

THE LAST OF THE VERMONT KEELERS

SOME OF WHAT FOLLOWS IS TRUE

CHAPTER 1

Lafayette Square June, 1969

St. John Keeler stormed through the door of the Hay-Adams Hotel as if it were a line of battle. Henry, the veteran doorman, tried to open the door before Keeler marched outside but was too late.

Keeler made several quick strides toward the curb, then stopped abruptly, as if he had just remembered something. He yanked one hand chest high, then jerked his sleeve back with the other, uncovering his watch. Henry, who had resumed his place beside the entrance, as immobile as the queen’s guard, noticed Keeler’s watch hand shaking slightly. One who did not know the man would be uncertain whether he was frightened or angry; Keeler was angry. In a low but forceful voice Keeler said Damn under his breath, walked another stride to the curb, then stood there impatiently with his arms folded.

The pair caught the attention of a group of tourists who had crossed over Lafayette Square after viewing the White House and who were now passing the hotel. Henry, dressed in his official garb complete with tailcoat and top hat, looked like a footman to a great lord, and Keeler looked every inch the lord. Magnificently turned out in white tie and tails, Keeler had turned fifty earlier in the year but still retained a youthful quality that defied middle age. His tall, athletic figure was evident beneath the formal dress. The tourists wondered if he was perhaps the blond, blue-eyed ambassador from some Scandinavian or Germanic country, waiting with evident impatience for his driver to take him to a gala at the White House or to some embassy event on Massachusetts Avenue.

Several minutes passed. Keeler dropped his arms and began to pace back and forth along the curb, trying to calm down. Up in the rooms there’d been a row, a nasty family squabble, and Keeler had lost his temper. He had of course taken two rooms, one for his former wife and daughter, the other for his son and himself. Although he and Anne Carter, who had resumed her maiden name Harrison, had been divorced for a decade and still thoroughly disliked each other, they had agreed that for this day they would put on a show of family unity. They were giving a grand party for their daughter Kathy. It an earlier era, the party would have been a debutante ball, but in these turbulent times when traditions were being challenged, changed, or ignored, it seemed more fitting to bill the event as a celebration of Kathy’s recent graduation from boarding school, where she had graduated at the top of her class, and her admission to Yale.

Keeler and son Aaron had flown down from New York, setting off that morning from the Keeler estate in Greenwich, Connecticut. Anne Carter and Kathy had come in that afternoon from their farm in Virginia, just over an hour away in the Hunt Country, and had, to Keeler’s surprise and infinite annoyance, brought with them Heddi Hopewell. Heddi, a black woman in her forties, had grown up with Anne Carter Harrison, her family having worked for the Harrisons for many years spanning generations; Heddi was also a second mother to Kathy. Kathy, who was usually timid around her mother and terrified around her father, had quite uncharacteristically begged, almost insisted that Heddi be included as a guest at her party. In St. John Keeler’s mind it was bad enough that Heddi had been brought to the Hay-Adams to stay in the rooms like a regular guest, but when he learned that Anne Carter and Kathy expected Heddi to attend the dinner, so she could have the pleasure of seeing Kathy, or Darlin as she always called her, at her graduation party, he wouldn’t hear of it.

There’s no way that … that.…

"Don’t you dare use that word," Anne Carter snapped, cutting St. John short. She had dressed quickly and entered the adjoining room, where St. John and Aaron were lodged, to plead her case.

"There’s no way that … that woman is going to come to Anderson House."

But she doesn’t have to be seated at the dinner, Anne Carter argued, and she can always just watch from the gallery, up above in the ballroom. As his parents started in on each other, Aaron heard every word from the adjoining bathroom, standing before the mirror and making his third attempt at an acceptable bow on his own white tie and remembering many other fights from earlier years, before the divorce, in the years before heading off to prep school, when the family still lived together in the great house in Greenwich.

And lower your voice, Anne Carter hissed. She knew that Heddi was helping Kathy with her dress in the next room, and she feared Heddi might hear through the wall. St. John and Anne Carter battled on for a while in hushed tones, only stopping when son Aaron threw open the door and took an exaggerated step into the room, as if to say: Enough of this, Mum and Dad. He stood tall, made a flourish with both arms, and asked, How do I look?

St. John and Anne Carter stopped mid-sentence and were uncharacteristically speechless. Here stood their son, like some Greek god formed of marble and brought to life in flesh and blood before their eyes. Tall, blond, and blue-eyed like his father, Aaron still retained an air of innocent beauty that St. John may have had in his youth but that had hardened into something merely handsome. The father stood, walked to his son, and straightened Aaron’s tie; he put one arm over his son’s shoulder, swung round to face Anne Carter, and exclaimed, Well, there’s at least one thing we did right. Even Anne Carter had to admit they made a grand pair.

The pause for admiration passed and Anne Carter renewed her plea. Come on, Synjun, how about Heddi? Can’t she come? You know what it means to Kathy. Anne Carter rarely called her husband Saint John, as if he were some holy apostle, and had laughed when she was first introduced to him many years ago, saying that the name reminded her of one of her least favorite characters in a novel she had been forced to read in school, whose title she could not at first remember but then recalled as Jane Eyre. She had called him Synjun because that’s the way her teacher had pronounced the name of St. John Rivers when discussing the book.

St. John had always had a terrible temper, and he now exploded: Damn you make me mad! He continued in a lower tone, I’m going out. As he left the room, slamming shut the door, he muttered, Do whatever the hell you want.

Lafayette Square lay in the opposite direction from Anderson House, but Keeler decided to take the family for a detour, a short spin around the square, if only to pass the White House, the brilliance of which was now highlighted by the abundant verdancy of late spring, a glorious season in the nation’s capital. The blossoms had passed and fallen with the push and plush of full leaf and blade; the world was soft and warm and welcoming, like a prelude to something grand. And St. John felt grand, heading off in the car with his family, all dressed to the nines. He joked, Let’s give a Hail to the Chief, before heading up to the House of Lords!

St. John’s mood had improved markedly. Heddi would not be joining the party after all; she had announced that she would be visiting a cousin who she hadn’t seen for a long time and who lived in the District and that this had been her plan all along, although Anne Carter knew this was really not true and that Heddi had fabricated the plan when she sensed that a family squabble had arisen over the issue. Kathy, who had failed to suspect what was going on, became quite upset and begged Heddi to change her mind. But no, Heddi explained that she hadn’t seen her cousin in years, as well as some children who were growing up quick, that the cousin’s husband wasn’t well, and on and on, and Kathy believed her.

No, Darlin, you go to your party, and I’ll go to mine. She opened her arms and enfolded them around Kathy, with the slightest, lightest caress lest she rumple hair or dress. Standing back and beaming, she said with the pride of a mother, My, you’ve turned into a beautiful woman.

Kathy looked down and blushed; she said softly, Thank you, Heddi.

St. John decided they’d drive themselves, rather than ride in the hotel’s limousine, and so they all took their seats in Anne Carter’s Mercedes wagon, carefully tucking in tails and dresses. How do you get this damn seat back? was St. John’s first complaint, and later, Doesn’t this thing have any power? as the diesel lugged away trailing a plume of black smoke. It’s true that they would have made a grander entrance arriving by limousine, but St. John wanted to take his time, to pass the White House and swing out to Georgetown, make a broad sweep up to the National Cathedral, then by the Observatory and down Massachusetts Avenue and all the well-known embassies, and arrive at Anderson House near Dupont Circle as if saving the best for last.

Sitting in the back with her brother, Kathy struggled to balance a conflicting mix of emotions. She had always tolerated her mother, feared her father, and adored her brother. Imagine, her very brother, right there in the seat next to her! Ever since she moved to Virginia with Anne Carter, ten years ago after her parents’ divorce, she only managed to see Aaron several times a year. Absence had made her heart grow fond to the point of breaking. Kathy wrote Aaron constantly, had several photos of him in her room, dreamed every day of when she’d be with him next. She hadn’t seen Aaron for many months, the time he had been in flight school—and here he was, and even handsomer than when she saw him last. She sighed and thought to herself, If only he’d been slightly younger, or I older, we could have been together, for at least one year. In the fall Kathy would be entering Yale, in the first class to admit women, and Aaron had graduated the year before; he would soon be heading to Vietnam as a newly commissioned lieutenant, following in the footsteps of his father, who had also graduated from Yale before serving in World War II as a fighter pilot.

St. John made his way around Lafayette Square and turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue. As the car passed the White House, St. John concentrated his attention on the columned mansion with admiration and made a sharp military salute with one hand while holding the steering wheel with the other. Anne Carter, who was sitting up front in the passenger seat, suddenly said, Watch out, Synjun, look ahead.

St. John now directed his attention from the White House to the street and saw that there was a mass of people there blocking the road. Unsure of what was going on or what to do, St. John turned the car at the corner of Lafayette Square toward Connecticut Avenue; still fumbling to get the hang of the diesel and find the right gears in the manual transmission, he looked down at the gear shift as he made the turn.

Anne Carter quickly said, Watch out! Stop!

St. John looked up, saw that there were more people blocking this route, and slammed on the brakes. He growled, What the hell’s this all about?

The street was filled with a crowd, a motley group, holding signs and chanting. Through the car’s open windows they hear words, snippets, phrases: genocide, napalm, out of Vietnam, Nixon’s a war criminal, end the draft…. A loud, boisterous demonstration ranged from the barricades in front of Blair House and was blocking the traffic on nearby streets. For the time being, the Mercedes was stuck, unable to move forward due to the demonstrators who were there on the street; all St. John could do was wait a minute and see if the people would move on or make way for the car.

After a minute St. John became impatient, but he didn’t know what to do. He turned around to see if they could back out, but some demonstrators had already moved behind the car. The closest St. John had ever come to an anti-war demonstration was watching the evening news. He began to look closely at the protestors, who in truth varied widely, including many respectable-looking people in conservative dress, although he focused on the ostensible radicals. How he hated them. These filthy protestors were no better than the vile race of Communists who were infecting the globe.

I’m getting out, St. John announced, throwing the shift into neutral and jerking up the parking brake. Anne Carter, you take the wheel.

As St. John opened the door and stepped out, Kathy asked in alarm, Dad, what are you going to do?

I’m off to mix with the plebs, he quipped.

Anne Carter slid into the driver’s seat. A faint but distinct smile came over her face, and she mused, Now this is going to be interesting. There was nothing on earth she loved so much as a fine fox chase, astride one of her horses. She sensed the scent was good, and the blood rising.

Aaron, although not particularly concerned, was as puzzled as his sister. What was his father going to do? Talk to the demonstrators, or plebs as St. John derisively called them? Engage in a little political discussion about the evils of Communism or the justification of the current war? Aaron had done his share of political debating in his final year at Yale, particularly when having to explain to his more liberal friends his ROTC participation, but that his father would do so was absurd. And then Aaron saw something that did alarm him. St. John had walked to the rear of the car and opened the back, where Anne Carter stored her riding gear: saddle, bridle, boots … Dad, please don’t take that whip, Aaron pleaded.

But it was too late. St. John slapped the whip smartly against his hand, as if testing its sting, and now walked past the front of the car, toward the protestors who were blocking the way. Although acting more on instinct than plan, his vague idea was to push his way through the crowd, having the car follow in his wake. Kathy couldn’t believe what was happening and fell into a sort of trance, watching in horror as her father strutted forward like General Patton before a tank division.

No one was more surprised than the demonstrators. Who on earth was this man walking toward them and gesturing with his hands, one of which held a riding whip, and barking that they should make way, move aside? One of the joint chiefs of staff? Some cabinet secretary, perhaps a crony of the bastard himself, General Westmoreland? Most of the crowd did as they were bid and moved out of the way. For a minute, it looked as if the plan would work and that they’d get right through … until one of the protestors, a bearded, unkempt man who seemed something like a cross between Charles Manson and Rasputin, stood square in the path of Keeler and asked angrily, "Who the fuck are you? He stared at Keeler, as if inspecting some freak of nature, and swayed slightly as he stood; he was clearly stoned, or on something."

Keeler moved to the side and tried to walk past, saying nothing, but the protestor moved also. The man stared at Keeler’s chest, where something had caught his fascination. He pointed a wavy finger just inches from Keeler and asked accusingly, but also with a sense of curiosity, Man, what’s that?

What had caught the protestor’s attention was an object that hung just below Keeler’s white bowtie. On a blue and white ribbon surrounding Keeler’s neck hung a small metal object, an eagle.

The protestor leveled his eyes to Keeler and asked, You some Nazi? Becoming animated, he gestured to some friends and shouted, Come get a load of this. This guy’s right out of the Third Reich. Look at this Nazi eagle. He asked, Man, where’s your swastika? The protestor then, unsteadily, made an effort to stand at full attention; he thrust one arm straight forward and shouted, Seig heil! The protestor laughed, as if he had made a clever joke, but the man before him didn’t laugh but looked past him with a steely gaze. And then something possessed the protestor and he seemed to snap. Suddenly he was jolted into action; he snarled, Give me that thing, and thrust his hand out toward the eagle. The protestor’s action in trying to take the eagle was not the result of any cogent thought, but a reaction, an instinct; like the magical ring in Tolkien, it was something that he had either to possess or destroy.

Anne Carter had edged the car along, following closely behind Keeler. She and Aaron could see that someone was blocking St. John’s forward motion and that rather than dispersing the crowd was now coming in. Kathy sat stunned in the back. Then everything happened incredibly quickly, in a blur. Some man lunged toward St. John, and St. John struck the man several savage blows with the whip. Another man grabbed St. John from the rear and pandemonium erupted. In a flash Aaron was out on the street, pulling the man off his father’s back. St. John’s arm was then free, and he struck his man again, ferociously, square across the face; blood was already pooling off the man’s mangled, blond beard.

Anne Carter didn’t miss a beat; she began to handle the Mercedes like a tank, or a bumper car in an arcade, lunging forward at the confused crowd, then slamming the brakes in a game of chicken. The blood was flowing now, and she loved it.

Kathy had clasped her hands over her ears and was screaming hysterically, Oh my god, oh my god….

After a half dozen feints, Anne Carter had managed to drive most of the onlookers away. St. John and Aaron continued to shove and throw punches and had pretty well licked the opposition. The man who had started it all lay in a daze on the street. Anne Carter gave a blast on the horn and shouted, Get in! A second later St. John and Aaron were both in the car, St. John in front and Aaron next to Kathy in the back. Kathy threw her arms around her brother and held him tightly.

After several more lunges to disperse the last stragglers, they were free, heading north on Connecticut Avenue like a typical American family on a Sunday drive.

CHAPTER 2

The House of Lords

The Society of the Cincinnati is nothing if not an hereditary aristocracy.

Who Killed Society? Cleveland Amory

If there is one thing certain about aristocracy, it is that Americans have always dearly loved it.

Ibid.

After their unexpected delay in the vicinity of Lafayette Square, the Keeler family thought it best to curtail the leisurely drive they had planned and proceed directly to Anderson House. In the aftermath of the confrontation with the peace demonstrators, which ironically had turned so violent, they began to collect themselves. St. John’s face was bleeding slightly where he had been gouged by a protestor’s dirty fingernails, which had raked across his cheek during the scuffle. He sat breathing heavily and trying to catch his wind, chuckling and shaking his head as if enjoying some private joke. Anne Carter wiped a bead of blood from St. John’s face with her forefinger. He and Anne Carter looked at each other, smiled, and laughed. They hadn’t had such fun, such good sport, in goodness knows how long. Although Anne Carter had grown apart from St. John and could scarcely stand to be in the same room with him, she had always admired his fighting spirit. In a way they had both been formed from the same mold, they were both killers underneath, loving nothing so much as a little sport and blood. She gave him an approving, almost affectionate nod and said, Good show, Synjun!

In contrast, the children, sitting in the back, were stunned. Aaron showed no signs of injury, although his clothes had been mussed, including his white tie, which had been pulled loose. Kathy, her hands shaking, did her best to redo her beloved brother’s tie as the family rounded Dupont Circle and approached Anderson House.

They had almost an hour before the guests would arrive at Anderson House, the enormous Beaux Arts mansion constructed in 1905 by Larz and Isabel Anderson and built with Isabel’s inherited shipping fortune, which had made her the wealthiest woman in America. When Larz Anderson died, childless, in 1937, his wife donated the grand residence to a patriotic and hereditary society beloved by her husband, the Society of the Cincinnati.

Anne Carter and St. John went off, separately, to check on the details for the evening—the caterers, the orchestra, the decorations, the staff. Meanwhile, Kathy and Aaron had the place to themselves as Aaron gave his sister a tour of the enormous mansion. Time was short, and precious.

And so, little Sis, you’re really off to Yale in the fall?

Kathy smiled. Right in the footsteps of my big brother. She held his arm with both hands and brushed her head on his shoulder. I only wish you were still there, she sighed.

Aaron laughed. To tell the truth, we’re all pretty jealous. I wish there’d been women when I was there. He laughed again. Dad doesn’t know what to think. He’s proud, of course, that you’ll be in the first coed class, but he’s still pretty upset about it all. You should have heard him back at the hotel. Aaron spoke in a deeper voice, imitating their father: Women at Yale? Christ Almighty, why don’t they just let ‘em go to Harvard with all the niggers and Jews?

Kathy bristled. God, he’s such a bigot.

Aaron chided, Don’t call him that. I have to admit, he’s pretty old fashioned and says some things I wouldn’t. Yet it’s good to have someone so—Aaron paused, searching for the right word—"so clear about things. It seems as if you can’t talk to anyone today, or even pick up the paper, without them running down everything this country stands for. They’re so many liberals and radicals and hippies and…."

Communists, Kathy broke in, lowering her voice and doing her own, mocking imitation of their father. Kathy gave Aaron a comical smile and teased, You know, commies everywhere. I think Dad has nightmares about seeing Chairman Mao on the dollar bill, or the hammer and sickle on Old Glory. She turned suddenly serious. Aaron, what are we fighting for in Vietnam? She looked him straight in the eyes: I’m so worried about you going over there. She lowered her gaze and quietly said, Couldn’t you just not go, maybe go to graduate school, or work with Dad on Wall Street?

They walked on, in silence, each with separate thoughts and with a sense of the moment, that here was a slice in time where their lives wavered on some brink or at some corner, beyond which they could not see and only the future would reveal. They had entered one of the main reception rooms in the great house; the room had been turned into a small museum with displays and artifacts from the American Revolution. Mounted on the walls were an array of muskets and swords and other period arms, like suits of armor in a European castle.

Kathy gave a quick glance over the room and said, I have to admit, this is a pretty cool place—not just this room, but the whole house. She gestured back toward the other rooms.

That’s right, you’ve never been here before. I keep forgetting. Kind of odd, since you and Mom live so close. I’m surprised you haven’t come for a party. Goodness knows, I’ve been to quite a few. Aaron asked, You know, of course, it’s where they met, Mom and Dad? It was just after World War II, and he had just returned from fighting in Europe. It was a big party—he smiled at Kathy and gave her a playful nudge—just like the one we’re having tonight for my little sister.

Kathy shook her head slightly, then said, What a joke. You know as well as I do this party’s not really for me. It’s not about me at all; it’s all for you, for you and Dad. Even Mom says so. I don’t even know any of the people who are coming. None of my friends are.

Kathy, I wouldn’t say that. Aaron tried to sound convincing, although he knew what she said was true.

And what is this place all about? What’s this place called? The Society of something or other?

Cincinnati.

Right, Cincinnati. I thought that was some town in Ohio. Why is it called the Society of the Cincinnati?

It all started during the American Revolution, by the officers who had served under General Washington. Aaron gave Kathy a thumbnail sketch. He explained how the officers formed an hereditary society that was named after the famous Roman general Cincinnatus, how the membership passes to the eldest son in each generation.

Oh, right. Men only!

Don’t be so sarcastic.

Well, you know Mom’s family belongs also.

I know. Through the Harrisons; through her father, and now her cousin.

Why couldn’t she belong?

You know, she was an only child. If she’d had a brother, the membership would have gone to him. But when Granddad Harrison died, it went to his nephew.

Aaron could see that Kathy was not much impressed by his explanation and, in an effort to get off the subject, said, Let me show you something. He motioned for Kathy to follow him into the room, then said, Look at this.

Aaron stopped beside a large model, a glassed-in display, standing waist high and measuring about 5’ x 15’. The model was a minute and marvelously detailed representation of a landscape with hills, woods, streams, and several villages. Scattered over the terrain were placed hundreds, if not thousands of miniature soldiers, horses, cannons—an entire army, or, as one could see on closer inspection, several armies. The two opposing armies were grouped into various divisions along several hills, which were intersected by three distinct ravines. Kathy looked at the brass plate attached to the side of the display and read: Battle of Monmouth, June 28, 1778.

Kathy, who had developed a love for literature, the written and spoken word, and even become a talented writer at school, was at a loss for words. She managed only, Neat! The reference to Monmouth, however, was lost on her; history had not been her favorite subject. She asked, with real curiosity, What’s this all about?

This is a battle that was fought during the American Revolution near the New Jersey coast. It followed the winter when the British occupied the colonial capital at Philadelphia and Washington camped at Valley Forge. After France entered the war, the British decided to evacuate Philadelphia and concentrate all their forces in New York. Washington chased the British for ten days and finally caught up with them here at Monmouth. Aaron pointed to the representation of a village on the model. This is where the English army camped the night before the battle, and here—he now pointed with his other hand—is the village of Englishtown, where Washington camped with the Continental Army.

Aaron could see that Kathy seemed genuinely interested in the battle as depicted by model, and he continued his explanation. Washington ordered General Charles Lee to begin the assault on the British here near Monmouth while he, Washington, was bringing up the main army from Englishtown. General Lee, however, who was originally a British officer and may have even been a traitor, ordered a chaotic retreat just when Washington was coming through this first ravine with the main army. When the British realized what was happening, they began their own assault and chased Lee back through this middle ravine. Washington was stunned, astounded by what was happening. He had begun the day by thinking that he was going to crush the British as they fled to New York, and in a flash he realized to his horror that his own army was about to be annihilated.

Aaron, how do you know so much about this?

Oh, how could I not know, living with Dad? He’s an expert on this battle. I think he’s even published some articles about it. He says it’s the least understood battle of the war, but really one of the most important—as important as the ones most people have heard about, like Bunker Hill, Saratoga, and Yorktown. Kathy reflected that even she had heard of those.

Aaron continued, It was an incredibly hot day. The heat killed as many as the cannons. You see this place right here. This was a hedgerow where Washington gathered and re-grouped the soldiers who were running from the British. There was not a moment to lose, and Washington immediately took charge and prevented a catastrophe. According to Lafayette and Hamilton, it was Washington’s greatest personal triumph on the field of battle.

Kathy asked, Did the Americans win?

No, it was a tie, and yet it was the first time the Americans had ever stood up to the British on a level playing field. After the long, insufferably hot battle, the longest battle of the entire war, the two armies camped near each other on these two hills, but the British slipped away in the middle of the night and escaped to New York.

Kathy looked puzzled. She asked, But why this battle? What’s so great about this battle? Kathy then noticed that at the bottom of the brass plaque naming the battle and date was inscribed, Gift of St. John Aaron Keeler. She said, Why’s Dad so interested in this?

Aaron paused, trying to think how best to explain the significance of the battle to Kathy. He asked, Do you know anything about Aaron Keeler, Captain Keeler?—the man I’m named for and who Dad represents in the hereditary organization, the Cincinnati?

I remember something, but not much. Tell me again. Who was he?

One of the early Keelers, one of our forebears. He was from Connecticut and signed up to fight in the beginning of the war. He was quite young when he joined, but he rose through the ranks gradually and ended up a captain and was a member of the Cincinnati. Aaron gestured broadly to the room and great house: What this place is all about."

Did this Captain Keeler fight in this battle?

Very much so. And according to Dad he played a key role in the dramatic turning point when Washington took command to rally the troops against the British after Lee’s disgraceful retreat. The Connecticut troops were the closest and Washington ordered them to make a stand against the British assault, which they bravely did, allowing time for rest of the Continental Army to regroup. Captain Keeler was there in the thick of it and helped save a situation that could have turned into a disaster.

Kathy seemed interested, but still not overly impressed. She said, OK. Our ancestor fought in this battle, but so did a lot of others.

Aaron corrected, We’re actually not directly descended from Captain Keeler, but from his brother Jeremiah. I prefer to refer to him as a forebear and not an ancestor.

Kathy challenged, But I thought you said membership passes in a direct line to eldest males; how can Dad represent this Captain Keeler if he’s not a direct descendant?

Because if there is no male in the direct line, because that line has died out or become lost, the membership then passes through a collateral male branch. That’s why Granddad Harrison’s membership passed not to Mom but to a nephew.

Kathy rolled her eyes. The rank male domination of this organization seemed hopelessly archaic, if not feudal to her and she indicated as much by her expression.

Aaron could see that the history lesson had ended. He’d done his best to explain to his sister why the Cincinnati and the relationship to Captain Keeler was of such great importance to his father, and also to himself.

* * *

The guests were arriving. By ones and twos they swaggered through the massive doorway under the portico, ascended the grand stairway, and were received as they entered the long gallery, a room not particularly wide or tall but that seemed, at least to Kathy, the length of a playing field. St. John stood first in the receiving line, followed by Aaron, then Anne Carter, and last was Kathy. St. John was beaming, buoyant, and even jovial, taking in stride the jokes he received from some of his old friends. One comrade, pointing to the marks on St. John’s face from the scuffle on the street, quipped, What’s this, old boy? Surely not one of your wounds from the great war?

St. John waved his hand, dismissively, and with good humor replied, A scratch, a scratch! He gave his friend a welcome slap on the shoulder and said with unabashed pride, General, let me introduce you to my son and successor, Lieutenant Aaron St. John Keeler.

And so it went: general, ambassador, senator, your honor, your excellency; Kathy would never keep it all straight. She even heard, at her post at the tail end of the line, several lord and lady so-and-sos, along with marquis this and comte that, and even a few plain Mr. and Mrs. She didn’t know a soul. Yet even she had to admit, they were a grand-looking crowd. She had noticed the eagle that her father had worn, which the imprudent protestor had tried to rip from his neck, and here it was on so many others.

After champagne and cocktails in the Long Gallery, the guests marched ceremoniously down another grand staircase, this one leading directly into the great marble ballroom. Half the room was set with tables for the dinner, the other half left open for dancing. The guests were seated, and the dinner was served.

During the dinner Anne Carter switched between talking to the guests seated next to her and reminiscing about the last twenty-five years, past scenes from her life which flashed through her mind like a montage: how, accompanied by her elderly father, she had met St. John in this very room at an event to celebrate the Allied victory in World War II; their romance and marriage; the birth of their two children; and then the years of decline and unhappiness which led to their divorce, in hindsight as inevitable as continental drift, coming as they had from two utterly different and irreconcilable worlds, the Old South and the Yankee North, like a reenactment of the Civil War, since it was that period in history that had been the turning point of both families, elevating the Keelers and devastating the Harrisons.

Toward the end of the dinner, St. John stood, greeted everyone (My lords, ladies, and fellow Cincinnati), and proceeded to say a few complimentary words about his daughter Katharine and proposed a toast to her health and future. He then quickly moved on to his main topic, to his son, how proud he was that Aaron would be serving his country, how the country needed young leaders like Aaron and especially in such times when the nation and all its traditional values were under daily assault. St. John rambled on a while, railing against world Communism and the equally reprehensible anti-war movement, that seemed to grow each day. There were some more toasts, and the dinner was over.

Then there was some dancing. Kathy and Aaron danced with each other; there was no one else their age to pair up with, and besides she wouldn’t let him go. They started off in high spirits, as if they were at a party with their peers. The orchestra blared out some lively numbers, even a rock-n-roll tune that Kathy had suggested to the band leader. And then came a slow song, and Kathy and Aaron held each other tightly and swayed side to side, like two young lovers who were about to part and who feared they might never meet again.

CHAPTER 3

Women and War at Yale

Kathy was spending the summer months at her mother’s farm in Fauquier County, Virginia. Anne Carter had inherited the lovely farm with rolling pastures in view of the Blue Ridge Mountains from her elderly father, affectionately called Granddad Harrison, who had purchased the property soon after Anne Carter’s birth; his much younger wife had died giving birth to their only child, Anne Carter. Kathy admired the stately brick mansion with white columns and rows of fragrant boxwoods where she had a spacious, comfortable room, and she was in awe of the many family portraits of earlier ancestors from the top families of Virginia, the First Families of Virginia, or FFVs, as her mother proudly referred to them. But most of all Kathy enjoyed spending time with