by Darryl Brock
Downstairs a letter from Twain awaited me. It was postmarked Hartford and addressed only to Sam’l Fowler, c/o World-Beating Red Leggers. It had duly been routed to Cincinnati, delivered to Champion, and forwarded to me.
Dear Sam,
Abundant & fulsome considerations have prevented my writing sooner. To put it plainer, I’ve been in a humor to lie low. Even plainer, I’ve been scared eight points out of my wits. I jump like a cat at every sudden noise. You’ll reckon me a sap head for such carrying on. Livy’s family is at the heart of it—no, rather, her sweet unquestioning trust in me. If the slightest shadow fell now, with our engagement booming forward like it is, I’d blow my head off. Ten thousand times I’ve cursed myself for telling you that story. But then I think of our money & feel all secret & smug like a boy after stealing the pie from the window. But then I start brooding on the consequences all over again & I dive into a perfect swamp of gloom & imagine the Langdons finding out and falling on me like a thunderbolt. Oh, I am a raw specimen of desperado!
You can’t imagine the upheaval you stirred here. For days nothing could hold up one-tenth to events at the cemetery. Rumors had the Rebs coming back for vengeance, Quantrill’s Raiders or their ilk starting in with graves & next would come the banks & then homes . . . well, it went on & on. The local rag printed “clues”: dug-up earth around the grave & the splintered coffin top & horses racing down outlying roads & banshee screams & corpses lit up like lamps—oh it was a booming tide, a torrent. Then this ad appears:
Sizable cash award offered for information concerning whereabouts of missing war revenue rightfully ours.
Elmira’s Fenian Circle was given as the place to contact. Well, as you can imagine, that started everything up again at full paddle, & THEN it reached a PERFECT HOWL two days later when Costigan was found in his office with his throat slashed.
I put the letter down, stunned, picturing Costigan in the sweltering office; he’d played me cleverly, taking the money, knowing all along he would set me up. When I escaped they must have figured he’d crossed them too. Or maybe they’d just wanted to silence him. His throat cut. I shuddered. Jesus, for somebody trying not to meddle with history I was doing one hell of a job. I read on numbly.
You can’t imagine the fuss that kicked up. Folks talking the downfall of civilization, pent-up Christians looking to the imminent appearance of Satan in Elmira Township. Nor can you picture the sweat I was in, fearing every minute that Robert was witnessed bringing back the nags & that he’d be forced to spill everything. I paid Solomon’s treasure to button his mouth, but the Fenians could surely unbutton it.
Naturally you were the object of considerable speculation. (I mightily appreciated you passing yourself as a duke, by the way.) The constable got quite an itch to find you once he’d traced the livery wagon. Lately some others showed up asking about you too. From what you told me, I reckon I guessed their identity—one a large-sized hard-smiling Irish sport with red hair and washed-out eyes; the other a poison-mean breed who raises your neck-hair just to glance on him. I don’t have to tell you to watch your step with those two. They tried not to show it—I observed them from Elmira’s billiard palace, where I am wont to demonstrate my modest skills to neophytes—but I could tell they want you the worst way.
Again I lowered the letter. How had Le Caron been sprung so fast? What the hell kind of network had I gotten myself tangled in? I prayed it didn’t extend this far.
Twain finished by congratulating me on pulling the whole thing off. He swore that for security purposes he planned not to touch any of his share “for years & years.”
In August he still intended to visit California. Meanwhile he was looking for a newspaper to buy controlling interest in. The first four hundred copies of Innocents Abroad were finally off the press. It was a handsome, big volume, he said, and he was mortally sick of the whole thing.
I will follow your progress in the National Game. (How could I not? The exalted feats of your red-hosed mates are trumpeted over the continent like’ installments of Homer’s epic!) Some day, when our venture is no longer fearsome & merely the stuff of old men’s lies, we’ll drink champagne and chuckle. Meanwhile, fasten all latches & burn this to powder!
It was signed “SLC”
I didn’t burn it, of course. Wondering if he’d read about the Avitor, I tucked the letter into the drawer that held my important possessions: the note from Cait, the tiny red stocking emblem I’d received at the reception banquet, and my gun.
We played the Buckeyes that afternoon. Allison’s mother was seriously ill, and he’d left that morning for Philadelphia. Harry asked me to catch.
With security tightened at the gates, we collected virtually a hundred percent on admissions that afternoon. The booth ran out of wares midway through the contest. Several hundred satisfied customers were introduced to our new delights: big German pretzels and ice-cream sodas. We netted over two hundred bucks—but I nearly had to take Johnny to a hospital afterward. Physically exhausted, he said he’d swallowed the smoke from three hundred frying hamburger patties.
The game was hardly artistic. Using our new bats, we hammered fifty-three hits including ten homers. I went only three for ten—fewest hits among the Stockings—but I made them count, lining a double over short, banging a homer off the top of the fence, and later clearing it with a towering shot down the left-field line. I have a wonderful sense-memory of it—the shivering impact up my arms, the recoil of the heavy bat, the deep THOCK!
In the final inning a pitch got by me and rolled back to the foot of the Grand Duchess. As I chased it down, a boy’s voice yelled, “Quick, Sam!” I threw to Brainard, covering the plate, then turned and saw Timmy looking down. I gave him the thumbs-up sign, then found myself staring beyond him into Cait’s eyes. It couldn’t have lasted long—a second, two seconds—but in that interval some kind of throbbing, eerily familiar energy pulsed between us. I forced myself to turn away, realizing afterward that I hadn’t noticed whether O’Dono-van was there.
The next pitch produced a foul tip that tore the nail halfway from my left index finger, effectively capturing my attention. At game’s end, when I finally looked again, they were gone. I felt let down.
Stockings 71, Buckeyes 15.
The Forest Citys arrived at one in the morning. Champion had let me know he didn’t want to be disturbed, so I met them at the Indianapolis & Lafayette depot. The Rockford players greeted me pleasantly, except for Spalding, who gave me a fish-eyed glance.
“Say,” said Bob Addy, “we hear Allison ain’t gonna catch agin’ us.”
“That’s how it looks.”
“You kept the score book before, so you’re the first substitute?”
“That’s right.”
He looked significantly at my bandaged finger. “Why, that’s good for us, then.” He laid a country-boy shit-eating grin on me. “Real good.”
Even with the heat wave finally breaking, we should have known better than to expect an off day between games. To Harry, if baseball was your profession, that’s what you did, six days a week, like any other job. So with juniors filling some positions, we played a long intrasquad game Friday afternoon. Allison was definitely gone till next week. Brainard and Sweasy were AWOL from practice. Harry looked more than a little pissed off.
I was starting to worry about Brainard. While it was true that everybody but Andy and Mac tried to beg off practicing occasionally—even George, to Harry’s consternation—Brainard was becoming chronic at it. His jealousy of George verged on the obsessive, and his sizzling of us, always barbed, was becoming cynical and deadly. I’d noticed too that his eyes were bloodshot a number of afternoons. Where, I wondered, did he spend his nights?
Because of my damaged finger Harry spared me from playing catcher or first. I spent the afternoon shagging flies in center, unsure whether Harry’s reminders to Andy and Mac not to leave me unguarded ultimately boosted or undercut my confidence. But I did know I was finally hitting with authority.
Getting my weight into them, I unloaded a series of shots during my turns at the plate. Too bad there weren’t pinch hitters or DHs. I’d’ve been awesome. I think Harry wished something similar after I’d belted the second homer against the Bucks. True, it had come on fat pitching, not Spalding’s, but still . . .
That night, after making sure the Forest Citys’ needs were met at the Gibson—they had skipped Champion’s city tour to work out on the Iron Slag Grounds—and stopping by Gasthaus zur Rose to see that Johnny and Helga had the next day’s concessions ready, I directed my hack driver to the West End. He looked at me questioningly as we stopped in front of Cait’s boardinghouse. Staring at the wisteria-laced veranda, I made up my mind and told him to wait.
Timmy answered my knock. “It’s Sam!”
Inside, feet shuffled and chairs scraped. Timmy dashed away, leaving me in the foyer. At length Cait appeared, her hair in a scarf. She wore a plain pleated gray dress. When she spoke she sounded tired.
“It’s not a proper hour for visiting, Mr. Fowler.”
Flustered by the green-eyed gaze, feeling bulky as a moose this near her, I blanked out what I’d rehearsed.
“I wanted to talk,” I blurted.
She said nothing.
“Look, I don’t really know how to visit properly,” I said hopelessly. “What I mean is, I don’t have visiting cards to send, there’s no phone—”
“Phone?” She tilted her head.
“I’m sorry, I just mean—”
Timmy rescued me by appearing and declaring urgently, “They don’t believe it’s the real article, Sam!”
“What article? Who doesn’t?”
He held up his ball. “My pals won’t believe it’s truly from one of the Stockings.”
“Well, that’s one reason I dropped by,” I said, glancing at Cait. “Come to the game tomorrow and we’ll get it signed.”
“That’d be grand!”
“Timothy, enough for you now,” Cait said. “Go inside, please.”
“But, Mother—”
“Away with you.”
“Bye, Sam.”
“He talks of nothing else,” she said. “It’ll be the death of me.”
“Yet you brought him out yesterday.”
She sighed and said, “It’s not in me to deny all that a boy loves. Andy’s long been his hero.”
“Is that the only reason you came?”
She looked away. “I mustn’t neglect my boarders.”
“Cait—Mrs. O’Neill—I’m not sure how to express it, but since I first saw your picture I’ve had this strange—”
“Caitlin!” said a peremptory voice within.
O’Donovan. Sonofabitch!
She stiffened. “I must go.”
“Boarders?”
“He is a boarder. I’m thinking I needn’t explain myself to—”
“Cait!” boomed O’Donovan. “What’s keeping you?”
The parlor door swung open. O’Donovan’s eyes narrowed as he recognized me. Before he yanked the door shut I glimpsed three or four men sitting inside.
“What in hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
I smiled into his glare.
“Come in,” he told Cait. “I’ll handle this.”
She turned to face him. “It’s not quite finished I am.” Her tone offered no compromise.
He frowned and said, “I’ll be just inside.” He looked at me darkly. “Call if you need me.”
“Thank you, Fearghus,” she said. She swung back toward me when he had gone. “Do you see the strain you put me to?”
“That’s not my intention.”
“What is it, then?”
I hesitated, sure that O’Donovan was listening. Then again, did it really matter? “When I first saw your picture I felt this funny pull, as if I were supposed to meet you, or had known you before, or—” I stopped, aware of some quality in her eyes changing.
“Known me before?” She tucked a wisp of hair beneath her scarf. On her ring finger I saw a thin silver band bearing a heart design.
“Yes, well, not exactly. I mean, there’s this feeling of unfinished business. Yesterday I thought maybe you felt it too.” I groped for amplifying words, found none. “I guess that’s really all I wanted to ask. Whether you’ve felt the same, or if it’s just me.”
She regarded me silently.
“Look, I don’t mean to mess up your arrangement with O’Don—”
“I have no arrangements” she said hotly. “And I think it’s time you leave now, sir.”
“All right, but answer me.”
She shook her head, small quick movements.
“You felt something, didn’t you?”
She raised her face defiantly. “Mr. Fowler, what you are trying to do is not welcome.” Her voice was shaking. “You have no right to do this to me!”
I knew it would have been disastrous to try to touch her. But I also knew that I’d never wanted anything more than I wanted to take her in my arms just then.
“Whatever’s happening, it’s not just me doing something to you,” I told her. “It’s happening to both of us.”
She brushed the air with her fingers, as if to say what did it matter. I could hear her breathing in the ensuing silence.
“Please, bring Timmy tomorrow and have dinner with Andy and me afterward.”
A sound escaped her, a combination of sigh and sob. “I’ve just now said to you—”
“Just do it,” I urged. “Don’t be afraid.”
I left before she could answer. From inside the hack I looked back and saw her standing in the dim hallway, slender and rigid.
I ran newspaper ads touting the Forest Citys as “Crack Champions of the Northwest” and told Johnny to increase booth supplies a third in expectation of a sellout crowd. Champion, following my design, had had carpenters install the nation’s first scoreboard atop our right-field fence: a wooden billboard with a walkway on which boys waited to hang the green metal plaques bearing white numerals on the hooks for innings. No longer would spectators strain to hear the scorer’s megaphoned shouts. Dubbed the “telegraph board,” it proved to be instantaneously popular.
The trouble was that only three thousand came out. A top-level opponent should have drawn more. I concluded that the small-town Illinois squad simply couldn’t match the pull of a top eastern club. Several times during the contest I saw Champion gazing dolefully at me. I could guess his thoughts: Would we lose our shirts on all this new stuff? He looked positively funereal when Johnny ended up donating our unsold sausages and beef patties and buns to the Home for the Friendless. On the positive side, our latest innovation, a primitive version of Cracker Jack, was a budding success, though we hadn’t gotten the blend of caramel, molasses, and corn syrup quite right yet.
During the game itself I was too busy to give off-diamond developments much thought. The Forest Citys showed up in new uniforms—again I was struck by this amateur club’s affluence—with gray checked pants and ice-white shirts. From their grim demeanor it was clear they wanted to take us. And that with Allison gone, they thought they could do it.
Harry won the toss and sent them up. Barnes stepped to the plate and checked our defense. Harry had pulled a switch: he was pitching, Brainard catching, I manning center. It was risky, but it made sense. Brainard didn’t possess a particularly strong throwing arm behind the plate, but he had quick hands and was savvy—and Harry’s slow twisters wouldn’t tax him. With Andy, George, or Mac catching, we’d sacrifice a great deal in the field.
The crowd buzzed and applauded Harry in his old position in the box. Shouts came for the “Old Vet” to show his pluck. Anticipating Brainard’s speedballs, the Forest Citys overswung on Harry’s dew-drops and went one-two-three in the first.
“So much for the Sucker State!” somebody yelled.
But we started off no better against Spalding, who worked smoothly, mixing speeds and brushing the corners. He obviously had a “book” on us after being knocked around i
n Rockford. George and Gould popped up; Waterman did likewise, but his dropped safely behind second. That brought me up in Allison’s place.
There was no on-deck circle. Strikers generally took a few swings in front of their bench—as much to demonstrate stylish form as to loosen up. Our bench, painted bright red, of course, was situated in the shade of the Grand Duchess on the first-base side. I’d been swinging vigorously, trying to spot Cait and Timmy among a profusion of red parasols and handkerchiefs and hats.
“Sam!” said Harry. “Spalding’s in form. Legs!”
Which meant that since runs might be hard to come by, we’d be aggressive on the bases. I stepped in and looked for the sign. Harry touched only the white parts of his uniform: take. I watched Spalding’s first pitch blur past, scarcely able to pick up its spin. Waterman sprinted for second. The ump yelled, “Warning, striker!” Addy, fumbling in his haste to nail Waterman, dropped the ball. He swore and took his place again. I missed Spalding’s next blazer by half a foot. Addy was up and throwing as Waterman scrambled for third. The peg had him cold, but he bamboozled the third baseman with a gorgeous hook slide. Just bring him home, I thought, waving the bat and digging in. I fouled off a low inside pitch and barely held back on a shoulder-high hummer. Then Spalding laid one down the pipe. With visions of sending it into space I strode forward—and realized too late he’d taken something off it. I tried to correct, swung awkwardly, and missed badly. Strike three. Shit!
“Don’t get rattled,” Harry told me. “Bear down in the field. We’ll be fine.”
Bats warmed up in the second. Forest City pushed across a run on slashing hits to right center, which I was glad to let Mac play. Harry singled in our half, stole second, and scored on Andy’s liner to right. Andy swiped second and was doubled in by Sweasy, who scored on Mac’s sacrifice fly.
Forest City came back in the third on Spalding’s double, tallying three runs and regaining the lead. They whitewashed us again—twice in three innings they’d done it, an ominous trend. I fouled out to Addy my second time up. I wasn’t the only one having trouble solving Spalding. The Stockings popped his rising fastballs up repeatedly, and the few grounders we managed all seemed to go straight to Barnes at short.