Vanderslice felt differently. He liked the pleasures that money brought. When Marcus encouraged him to pursue his own business interests, Vanderslice fell in with the wrong business partners, a pair of vampires newly arrived from Amsterdam with money to burn and no scruples. The Dutch vampires destroyed their rivals without a second thought or a pang of guilt, convinced that survival was the only evidence of valor. Vanderslice was soon spending more time with them than he was with Marcus, and the distance between them grew.
Marcus, who knew nothing about how to raise a child and even less about how to raise a man, failed to stem Vanderslice’s rush toward inevitable disaster. Marcus’s approach to fatherhood had none of Obadiah’s violence, or Philippe’s watchfulness, but was composed instead of Tom Buckland’s unquestioning support, Dr. Otto’s cheerfulness, and Matthew’s benign neglect. This gentle concoction gave Vanderslice enough freedom to indulge in serious mischief with drunken whores and endless high-stakes card games without having to face any serious consequences.
One March morning in 1797, just days after John Adams was inaugurated as president, Marcus found Vanderslice at the foot of the stairs that led to their rented rooms, his throat cut from ear to ear, lying in a pool of his own blood, a victim of a risky gamble or a business deal that turned sour. Marcus used his own blood to seal the wound and tried to force more of it down Vanderslice’s throat to revive him, but it was too late. His son—his family—was gone. No amount of vampire blood could bring back a lifeless corpse.
Marcus held Vanderslice and wept. It was the first time he had cried since he was a child, and what fell from his eyes this time was not salt water but blood. Gallowglass was proved right: Marcus did regret making Claes a vampire. Marcus erected a stone marker over Vanderslice’s grave and swore he would abide by his promise to Philippe. He would never make another child without his grandfather’s permission.
After Vanderslice’s death, Marcus devoted himself entirely to medicine, working in the hospitals at Belle Vue and on Second Avenue. The practice of medicine seemed to change daily, with inoculation giving way to vaccination and physicians abandoning bloodletting in favor of other treatments. Marcus’s Edinburgh education served him well, providing a solid foundation on which to build his skills. With a scalpel in one hand and his medical chest nearby, Marcus focused on his profession instead of his personal life.
Marcus was in New York, alone, when George Washington died in December 1799. A few weeks later, the century in which Marcus was born drew to a close. The events of the Revolutionary War were fading into memory for most Americans. Marcus wondered where Veronique was, and if Patience had had more children, and if his mother was still alive. He thought of Gallowglass, and wished his cousin were in New York to celebrate with him. Marcus wrote a letter to Lafayette, but did not know where to send it and so burned the paper in the fireplace so the wind might carry his good wishes to his absent friend. Marcus remembered his only child, Vanderslice, and felt regret for the ways he had failed him.
Revelers outside his house in the village of Greenwich, just on the outskirts of the city, welcomed the new century with enthusiastic shouts and dancing. Inside, Marcus poured himself a glass of wine, opened the worn covers of his copy of Common Sense, and remembered his youth.
The birthday of a new world is at hand. Marcus read the familiar words over and over, like a prayer, and hoped that Paine’s prognostication would be proven true.
31
The True Father
4 JULY
We didn’t usually celebrate Independence Day. But we had a Revolutionary War veteran in the house this year—two, actually, if one counted Matthew’s service. I asked Sarah what she thought we should do in honor of the occasion.
“Are you sure Marcus would want to remember the war, and everything that came before and after?” Sarah looked doubtful. “He can’t even eat flag cake. What’s the point?”
The Bishop contribution to every Madison bake sale had been a vanilla sheet cake, with white frosting and rows of strawberries for stripes and blueberries for the blue field of stars.
“He’s had a difficult few days, it’s true,” I said. Marcus’s account of Philadelphia and what had happened there was on everyone’s mind. No matter where our conversations started this summer, they always seemed to end with a tale of rebirth and the complications that followed.
Phoebe seemed both with us all the time and very far away as a result. I couldn’t imagine how difficult the strange push and pull between past, present, and future felt to Marcus.