He had been told in the beginning, and was inclined to believe for a time, that he was fighting for some noble spirit in his country, or else in nature itself, and some inalienable right of that spirit. Now he saw he had fought only so the colonists might better control their own wealth. As for liberty and the rest, he thought, they were freer all before. What liberty could be claimed here in the market but the freedom of traders to collect profit no matter who ruled? Or, better still, the liberty for them to rule themselves, according to their needs alone, and collect as vast a profit as could be gotten from nature? He turned and walked back up Wall toward the North River.

When he reached Broadway, the street began to slope downward and he grew tired before he knew it, being unused to navigating different types of terrain with his crutches. He changed his intended route and turned south instead, until he was on a narrow street with many pubs lining its sides and thought to go into one in order to relax and take a proper meal.

All along that way a stream of men from every walk of the city flowed, and each broke off like a little tributary through that doorway best suited to men such as himself — either because of religious affiliation, station, mother language, or trade. Caleum stood watching awhile until he discovered a doorway that seemed less a cohesive whole than a collection of those who did not belong to the other tributaries. Into this he himself went, following with the general current and certain that even if he was not as comfortable as he could possibly be, neither would he be uncomfortable.

He was proved correct when he crossed the threshold, as the clientele of that place could be described as neither rich nor poor, nor was it old or young, or even British or American, but just what it had seemed from outside.

Behind the counter a tall dark man served beer and conversed with his customers. It was not refined as the inn where he was sojourning, but it was far more convivial for that sea of company, where no man could claim to be lost. He took a table by the window, so he might look out onto the street, and waited to be attended.

After a short while the serving girl came round and asked what he wished for.

“What do you have today?”

“Same as every day,” she answered. “But if I was you I’d take the shepherd’s pie.”

The only time he had ever eaten that before was in the army, when they would cover horse’s meat with a layer of thin dough. He entrusted himself to her suggestion, though, and nodded. “Then shepherd’s pie it will be.”

He was surprised when she returned from the kitchen with a plate piled high with a thick dish that gave off steam as she carried it through the room to his table. When he cut into the shell it was flaky, and filled with succulent meat and vegetables that had not yet lost their bite. The food warmed him as he stared out on the street or else took in his immediate surroundings. The room was loud with conversation by then, but not so loud so as to intrude on his own thoughts, and Caleum took pleasure in hearing pieces of these conversations from time to time without having to listen until they became wearisome, as he would in company. There were also quite a few others who sat by themselves, either reading or daydreaming or else still engaged in their work.

He was glad he had chosen that establishment over the others, and when he finished his meal, took out a pipe and pouch of tobacco he had acquired on his walk. As he smoked and thought about the events of the last months, the crowd slowly disappeared, until he found he was the only person left in the room. When he realized this he grew slightly embarrassed, thinking he might give the impression of being an idler, which he had never been. It was only that his particular business at the moment was only to wait.

When he saw the girl pass, he caught her attention and asked her to bring his check.

“Leaving so soon?” she asked.

He only nodded and smiled at her.

To his surprise she smiled back, and he allowed himself to notice how beautiful she was. He wondered whether it was only a courtesy of her profession or whether her attention was meant for him, or if it was the habit of all young women in the city to always be so friendly.

“You should come back tomorrow,” she said. “Mother always makes something special at the end of the week.”

Again he could not read her intention, but to have an invitation at all made him feel thankful and welcome. He could grow accustomed to such. At least it might give him the comfort of having a routine.

“If my business allows it,” he said, “I will.”

With that he pulled himself up and balanced to put on his coat. When he reached for his crutches, though, he found them missing. He looked around until he saw the serving girl standing on his other side, thoughtfully holding them for him.

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the kindness of her gesture without protest.

As he walked back to his inn he wondered again what her interest in him was. Perhaps it was exactly as it appeared, he told himself. He had not known such affection in a long time and was heartened, thinking for the first time that perhaps his new condition was not so disastrous as he had thought in the beginning.

He was glad then for his respite in the city, but he knew there was only one place for him and he must get back to Stonehouses soon. As the sun disappeared, casting the island in shadow, he pulled his coat up at the throat to keep out the cold air and carried himself just a bit faster, wondering if perhaps the carpenter had called while he was out.

three

Nothing. When he returned to the inn there was no message for him from Mr. Miles, and none the following day either. As he sat in his room the third day, waiting for the man to contact him, he began to grow angry at the time it was taking. Whenever he heard someone on the stairs his breath would catch for a small expectant moment, until the footsteps inevitably passed by his door, like good fortune. No one came at all, and, as he knew no one in town other than casual acquaintances, the days seemed to stretch on with an endless bleakness.

The city beyond his windows was nothing but shadows when he looked out that evening near the close of shop hours, and the room itself was reflected back at him in the leaded glass. He could hear now and again the sound of travelers making their way home, but little else that had immediate meaning for him. He let his mind drift toward his own family, whom he was increasingly anxious to see. In this mood of longing he went to his closet, where he took his coat from its hanger to look once more at the scene on its inner lining that he had gazed at so often. To his surprise he found it had faded even further and looked crude to him. He had not noticed this wear before and peered at certain places where the stitching was frayed, attempting to make out already-lost details. What would they think when they saw him again? Had he faded as much from their memory’s care? he wondered, until the thought became suffocating.

He did not remember falling asleep, but when he awoke it was already well into night. He roused himself from bed to go for his evening meal, if one could still be had, but instead of leaving immediately he wanted first to put on a clean shirt, as had always been his custom before the war. He was surprised when he looked in the trunk to see he had none left, and was aware for the first time that all his clothing was in great disrepair. He was not a vain man, but he did not wish to give the wrong impression about himself either, such as might lead someone to mistake him for other than who he was and what his station was. He decided then to have his dinner that night in the hotel, and went down to the dining room tentatively on his crutches. Once there, he was pleased to find they were serving rack of lamb, his favorite dish, though he had never had it on any day outside of the Sabbath. It seemed a great decadence to him, but one he was happy to indulge.