Читать книгу Dutch Clarke - The Early Years - Brian Ratty - Страница 12

In Seattle I changed airlines and flew a new American DC4 to Denver and then on to New York. The plane was full again, not a spare seat to be found. As when I’d traveled from Ketchikan, about half the men on the flight were in military uniforms. This made me think about the war that was raging in Europe and how this event might affect my future. I’d wired Uncle Roy from Ketchikan, telling him the date I thought I’d arrive, and I planned on telephoning him from Denver with confirmation. These last two trips via air were new to me. During all my other trips to and from Alaska, I’d taken the train and the ferryboats, which had taken almost seven days of traveling time. From my departure at Ketchikan to my arrival in New York I’d figured it would take about 16 hours of airports and flight time, barring any delays. This was indeed an improvement in this new era of modern travel.

In Denver, I called Uncle Roy to tell him that my plane would arrive at the New York Airport at 11:30 p.m. He assured me that he would be there to pick me up. When I got to New York it was past midnight due to weather delays. As I got off the plane, I scanned the faces of the arrival crowd for Uncle Roy. Not seeing him, I headed towards baggage claim. I’d only taken a few steps when I heard a voice shouting,

"Master Clarke.... Master Clarke."

Looking around I found a Negro man, who I didn't know walking towards me.

"Master Clarke, I'm Mr. Roy's chauffeur, Henry, and he asked me to pick ya up and take you to Fairview."

"Oh, where is Uncle Roy? This afternoon on the telephone he told me that he would be here."

"He had to take the evening train to Pittsburgh, some kind of problem at one of the plants. He told me to tell ya that he would be back on the morning train. This way sir, I'll get your bags."

Things hadn't changed, only now it was Uncle Roy who was busy with business.

For the first time, I sat in the back of Uncle Roy's 1939 Cadillac Town Car. It was a luxurious automobile. I remember when he bought it that Grandfather had a fit about the way he was spending his money, not that it was any of Senior’s concern. It was another two hours to Long Island and Fairview, so I made small talk with Henry for a few moments, then sat back in my seat and watched the city go by. It was a warm evening and I had one of the windows partly down as we drove towards the turnpike. The smells of the city drifted through the open window. It was a mixture of garbage, gas fumes and people. This smell symbolized why I had come to dislike New York City. It was too big, too crowded, too dirty, and the people who lived here seemed to have no faces and no personalities. Even as late as it was, I could see and smell that it had not changed. This city reminded me of how much I missed Ketchikan. My thoughts soon returned to that little fishing village and the way of life I had come to love.

We arrived at Fairview about 2 a.m. Henry hurried my bags up the grand staircase and placed them in my old room as I looked around the old musty house.

The chauffeur returned and asked, “Master Clarke, should I wake the cook to get ya something to eat or drink?”

"No thanks, all I want to do is sleep. Tell Uncle Roy I'll see him in the morning. Good night, Henry, it’s been nice meeting you." With this I climbed the stairs to my room.

The door swung shut on a creaking hinge behind me and I stared around my old room. It hadn’t changed since the day I went off to boarding school. It was stale and drab, as was the whole house, yet clean and neat. The pictures and items of my youth still filled the space. Memorabilia, mostly of baseball and movie stars, brought back a wave of memories. Some were good, but mostly my thoughts of this house and room were of indifference. As I lay down on the bed and reached to turn off the light, I noticed the fading black-and-white picture on the nightstand. It was my parents’ wedding picture—the only image I had of them together. My fingers reached over and stroked the frame. I’d held it in my hands and stared into their happy faces a thousand times before and always wondered how my life would have been different if only they had lived. Within a few moments, I was asleep, their picture clutched in my hands.

The next thing I knew, it was late morning. The bedside clock showed 10:20 a.m. I’d slept all night with my clothes and shoes on. I felt dirty, as I hadn’t had a change of clothes, showered or shaved for almost three days. Thirty minutes later I emerged from the bathroom feeling like a new man. With hopes of finding Hazel and getting a bite to eat, I headed towards the kitchen. As I opened the door to the kitchen, I found a chubby older white woman working the stove. She looked up at me and said,

"You must be Master Clarke. I’ve heard all about you from your Uncle. I'm Bess, the cook. Would you like some coffee and breakfast or maybe lunch?"

"Only coffee… where is Hazel? I thought she would be here."

Bess took a cup from the shelf above the stove and poured the steaming coffee.

"She and her husband retired after Mr. Clarke passed away. They were so sorry you couldn't make it to the funeral. I know they wanted to see you before they left. I thought maybe Henry would have told you last night."

"No, he didn't say word. Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Bess. Just a little shocked with all the changes around here."

She handed me the coffee and I took a few sips; then I asked if Uncle Roy was here.

"Yes, sir, he’s waiting for you in the study,” she replied.

Thanking her, I told Bess that I’d return for some lunch in an hour or so. With that, I topped off my cup and headed to see Uncle Roy.

The large, inlaid doors of the study slid open easily. There in the dim, smoky window light, I found Uncle Roy seated behind Grandfather’s enormous, hand-carved wooden desk, with papers stacked all over it. He rose with a large smile on his face and moved around to the front of the desk to greet me. We shook hands and embraced for a moment. It was good to see him again.

Roy was in his late fifties but looked to be in his forties. His fit body and brilliant “salt and pepper” hair made him look very distinguished. His handshake was firm and his demeanor commanding, as always. I could tell that Uncle Roy was now in charge, not only of the business but the family, as well, which also meant me.

We made small talk as I drank my coffee. He asked about Captain Skip and his family, wanted to know about my flight home and apologized for not meeting me the night before. I told him that we’d been at sea and that I didn't get his telegram about Grandfather's death and the funeral until it was too late. Next I inquired if Grandfather had suffered. With a softened voice he answered,

“No, thank God. The doctor said that he died painlessly in his sleep. Hazel found him the next morning lying peacefully in bed and called me for instructions.”

I asked what had happened to Hazel and her husband, Buck. They had both worked at Fairview for as long as I could remember. Uncle Roy told me that Grandfather had made provisions in his will for $10,000 each, so they might retire in a little comfort. They moved to Illinois, where their children lived, the day after the funeral. He added that they were both disappointed at not being able to say goodbye to “Master Clarke.” I then commented that it had been nice of Grandfather to take care of them.

At that Uncle Roy glared at me, his eyes staring at me over his wire-framed glasses riding low on his nose. He replied sternly,

"You know, Dutch, you just didn't give your grandfather much of a chance. You are surprised he would take care of those people… but why? There is a hell of a lot you would be surprised to know if you would’ve just given the old guy a chance."

"Now look, Uncle Roy, I didn't come all the way from Alaska to get into some kind of family feud with you,” I answered angrily. “I know I must have been a disappointment to Grandfather, but in many ways he was a hell-a disappointment to me, too."

Uncle Roy moved behind Grandfather's desk again and sat down, still staring at me with those steel gray eyes, and said, "O.K., Dutch, let’s not fight. I can see that chip is still on your shoulder… he’s gone now and there’s nothing we can do about that."

Roy reached down through a stack of papers and pulled out a blue bound document about 20 pages thick. He looked up at me and commented, "As you know, I was in life not only your grandfather’s brother but also his closest associate, friend and confidant. In his death, I remain the same. I am the executor of his estate, and will to the best of my abilities follow his instructions to the letter.”

His words were formal, unemotional and now riveting.

“Before I read you the part of his Last Will and Testament that relates to you, I want you to know that my brother bequeathed to me 75,000 shares of Gold Coast Petroleum stock, which added to the 25,000 shares I already own, makes me a 50% owner in the company. Now let me read the part relating to you. You may love it or hate it, but it’s what your grandfather wanted.”

Now to the son of my son, Eric Dutch Clarke, III, who has defied me with his attitude about education, the family business and life in general. In spite of this, I know in my heart of hearts he is the blood of me and the soul of his father and shall truly become a man, in every sense of the word in the Clarke family. Therefore, I bequeath to him all the remaining assets of my estate, cash, securities, 100,000 shares of my business Gold Coast Petroleum, the home known as Fairview with all its furnishings and all other personal and private property contained within. This bequeath is made with only one reservation, which is that he, under the certification of my executor, will perform his family mission, if he has not already done so, starting within one year of my death. The mission will be defined as one year of survival, totally alone, in a wilderness area of his choice, packing in only what can be carried on animals, as both his father and I did. If my executor cannot certify, for any reason, at the end of the mission that the adventure has not been completed as to the terms and conditions set forth, then this bequeath will be given to the Mormon Church of Salt Lake City, Utah. If this mission has not been completed by the time of my death and until it can be completed under these terms and conditions, my executor will have complete control of this part of my estate. I say to my Grandson again, go into the wilderness and return a man... a better man.

Uncle Roy put down the papers and added,

"The first part of the Will has to do with Hazel, Buck and myself. The last part has instructions on paying and transferring his assets through the probate courts. You can read the whole document if you wish."

He handed it to me. I sat there for a moment holding the blue bond papers, thinking about what my response would be. Placing the document back on the desk, I turned to Uncle Roy and said,

"The Mormon Church? I knew that both Grandfather and you came from a Mormon family. But neither of you have ever practiced the Mormon faith that I can remember."

Uncle Roy reached for a cigar and began to prepare it for smoking. He cut the tip, looked up and replied,

"You’re right, there. I was as surprised as you are when I read his terms regarding your bequeath. Our mother was Mormon, but our father nothing as far as I know. After Mother died and Senior and I moved east, we never talked about the Mormon faith again.”

Standing, I began walking around the room with nervous energy, holding my hands behind me. Stopping, I looked back at Roy, who was now lighting his cigar and said, "It doesn't matter. All this ‘mission’ stuff is just so much crap. I’ve always told you and Grandfather that I would never go on such an adventure. I don't want, or need, Grandfather's money, I have over $5,000 upstairs in my room. I made that money in just five months of fishing, so you can keep his damn bequeath. This is just so much shit!

Roy was surprised at my language and looked directly at me, blowing out some blue and white smoke as he replied, "I, I, I. There seems to be a lot of I’s in your life. You certainly talk like a fisherman, but can you think like a man? Anyhow, we’re talking about a lot more money than some lousy five grand. But Dutch, it's not about the money; it's what he wanted you to do for him, a way that he could be proud of you. You know, we all can't go through life just doing what we want to do. Sometimes we have to think about others and what they want."

Smugly, I cut him off, "Look, Uncle Roy, I know where you’re coming from. I wish I could, but I can't and won't."

With fire in his eyes he raised his voice a little louder, "Dutch, if you won't do it for your grandfather, then how about thinking about me?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, think this out. How might I feel about having the Mormon Church as my business partners? Do you think that thought pleases me? The last thing I need are some holier-than-thou folks running around our refineries. How about doing this for me?"

His statement caught me off guard and I shook my head as I sat back down. Panic welling up inside me.

"Uncle Roy, that's a low blow! You know how I feel about you. I would do almost anything for you. But what the hell do I know about surviving in a wilderness? I’ve never been on a horse, except for a pony ride in Central Park as a kid. Besides fishing up north, I’ve never killed an animal and I’ve never shot a gun. I don't know the first damn thing about living, let alone surviving in the backwoods."

Roy looked over at me with a slight grin, "It was the same with your father. Do you think he was born with all those outdoor skills here in the east? No way. Senior sent him out west for training. You remember us talking about the Lazy K Ranch in New Mexico? I still know Red Reed, who owns and operates the ranch that trained your dad. I'm sure he’d do for you what he did for your father. It was your dad who told Red there just might be oil on his property, and sure enough, he found oil right were your dad told him to look. He might be a little older now, but I am sure he and some of his cowboys can get you trained."

He was smiling a bit now, but he still looked determined and his eyes were burning my soul.

"All right... O.K." I replied, trying to find a new excuse. "Maybe I can be trained, but we are overlooking one little problem. From what I read in the newspapers, the government will soon be requiring all men from 17 to 35 years old to register for the draft. Seems there just might be a little war in Europe."

Roy turned serious again.

"Look, any war in Europe will be Mr. Roosevelt's war, not ours. Both your Grandfather and I have listened to Charles Lindbergh on this subject and he thinks the Germans and English will soon come to peace terms, making all this war talk just so much bunk. In any event, all men will have a maximum of one year before they have to sign up. If Congress, and that's a big if, passes the law before you leave, you can sign up. And if it's passed after you leave, you can sign up when you return. That is, if you feel you must sign up for Mr. Roosevelt's war."

I knew how both Grandfather and Uncle Roy felt about President Roosevelt and his administration and Uncle Roy wasn’t going to let me use that as a way out.

Now I was in a bind. I didn’t want to give in and was furious that even in death, Grandfather could still dictate my future. I didn’t know what else to say or do. Standing up, I started walking around the room again, my mind racing. Who in their right mind would do such a mission? Was I to find more gold… more oil? No… no. If only life was so neat and simple. Uncle Roy had always been there for me, and like he said, maybe it was time I thought about someone other than myself. Just maybe there were too many “I’s” in my excuse.

As I sat back down across the desk from Roy, my mind was still reeling. I started to talk, but he cut me off.

“I have something for you, Dutch.” Reaching into a side desk drawer, Roy pulled out a gold pocket watch on a gold chain and slid it across to me. “When I was going through Senior’s personal effects, I found this old watch. It’s the one he gave to your father when he went on his mission.”

Picking it up, I clicked the cover open. Inside I found a clear crystal protecting the face of a very old moment with Roman numerals. Above it, inside the cover, was an etched lighthouse, with the engraving of my dad’s name and date of birth. Turning it over I found two more words etched on the back. The first word was Rimor and just below it, Votum. The words looked to be Latin.

Closing the cool golden cover, I looked up and across to Roy. “My Latin is a little rusty. Do you know what the words mean?”

Soberly he replied, “Rimor is ‘explore,’ or ‘search’… something like that. And, if I remember right, Votum means ‘vow’ or ‘prayer.’ The words had great meaning to your grandfather, but the exact meaning is a little foggy to me, right now.”

Slowly slipping the watch into my pocket, I forced a smile. “Well, I guess Grandfather will have my obedience after all. If this was once my father’s, it’s mine now. I’ll use it with pride on my adventure. You better send Mr. Red Reed of New Mexico a telegram to see if he’s ready to take on another tenderfoot.”

Roy rose from behind the desk and extended his hand, which I took. Clasping my hand in both of his, he held onto me with a firm grip for a good long time. Looking right into my eyes, he finally said, "You know that Senior did this on purpose. He knew how I would feel about the Mormons and how you would feel about me. We both have been manipulated from his grave."

We both laughed. But it was a laugh of resignation, not joy.

All that night, I tossed and turned and reflected on my decision. Where would be a good area for my “mission?” How about some distant desolate island? How about somewhere up in Alaska? How about the same desert area where my father had roamed? How about that place in Canada the guys on the boat had talked about?

The next morning I sent a wire off to Captain Skip asking him to send me the charts and any maps or other information he might have on Nascall Bay in British Columbia.

Uncle Roy and I spent the next three months planning and outfitting my trip. I was to leave for New Mexico for "on the job" survival training in the middle of October 1940. I enjoyed this time with Uncle Roy, and I grew to know all the new faces around Fairview; they all turned out to be good folks.