“Don’t make me go up there. Don’t make me go,” the girl frantically whispered.
“You’re not going,” said Horace. “Got her, Silverhorn?”
“Strong liquor,” said the implacable voice from the pulpit. “In the house of God. Pray, ye people! Pray that the destruction of Nineveh and Tyre fall not upon us.”
Silverhorn turned his impudent, mirthful face over his shoulder and delivered what was known in canal parlance as a gardaloo.* A murmur of horror ran through the assemblage. The trio gained the door.
“There pass three lost souls,” declared the revivalist with the terrible impressiveness of utter conviction. “Leave them to their doom.”
There was a moan from the Levering pew. Agatha had toppled forward in a swoon.
“Your gal’s flummoxed out,” Silverhorn informed Horace. “Want to go back?”
“No,” said Horace between set teeth.
“What’ll we do with this one?”
“Get her home.”
Between them they got her to her room. Silverhorn sat by while his companion brought the patient through recurring hysterical onsets. When it was over and they were back on Main Street, Silverhorn said,
“What about the other one?”
“What other one?” asked Horace absently.
“Your fair lady-love. Have you forgotten her?”
“You mind your own business,” snapped Horace.
The canaller laughed. “Good night, young Æsculapius,” said be and swung away, weaving a strain of tenor melody as he went.
She bade me to her leafy bower.
Hey, nonny! No! No! No!
The eglantine was full in flower.
Never believe a woman’s No.
Agatha must be faced. The sooner, the better. Late though the hour was, Horace was sure that the Leverings would be in council over his behavior. They were. The Rev. Philo Sickel was also there.
The family greeted him after the manner usually reserved for funerals. The Exhorter’s welcome was even chillier. He immediately led in prayer, an invocation which presently passed from general terms to a specific consideration of the misdeeds of one described as “our erring brother.” It was painfully evident to the subject that some agency, presumably the Palmyra Society for the Suppression of Vice & Immorality had been doing some intensive research into his brief past. Nothing was omitted from the Scythe’s review. He touched upon Horace’s alleged addiction to strong drink, his visits to the Soiled Sisterhood of the Settlement (the Exhorter was incurably alliterative) upon which the worst construction was put, his association with the profligates of the smithy, his solicitude for the erring sister, Sarah Dorch, with a strong intimation that it had its roots in an earlier relationship into whose nature the petitioner would not too particularly inquire (“You’d better not!” muttered the accused) and such minor offenses as betting and cards.
At the close, Horace, whose neck was bristling, controlled himself to a desperate calmness as he said to Mr. Levering,
“I should like five minutes alone with my affianced.”
“No!” cried Mrs. Levering, evincing, by her horrified accents, a maternal conviction that the least Agatha might expect if left to this dreadful creature would be rape.
“Very well,” said Horace. “What am I expected to do about it?”
The Exhorter took upon himself to reply. “Present yourself at tomorrow’s meeting and humbly beseech the pardon of God and man.”
Horace said, “I’ll see you in hell first.”
Agatha sobbed. Mrs. Levering shrieked. Mr. Levering chattered,
“L-l-l-leave this Christian abode, sir, and come back only upon your knees.”
Horace took up his hat, his cane and his gloves. He addressed the Rev. Philo Sickel.
“Would you step out with me for a moment?”
The Scythe regarded him mistrustfully. “I have said all that is needful, sir,” he replied.
Horace sighed and made his respects to the others, being answered by a stony silence. He felt that he needed a drink.
Nearing the Eagle taproom, he recognized a richly accented voice, upraised in song. He entered. Kumoolah was holding forth to an admiring circle. It was evident that he and the Demon Rum had come to a composition. As he sang, he danced, but the evocations of his performance, though unmistakably Southern, were not of the South Seas. The Converted Cannibal was, in fact, rendering a good, old Alabama hoedown. He was subsequently returned to that state and to slavery, leaving behind him a considerable deficit in the Sickel-Kumoolah treasury. The Exhorter had been not an accomplice, but an innocent dupe.
One drink sufficed Horace. On the homeward way he spied a light in the Strang study. Conscience stirred within him. For the austere and upright Dominie he had a solid respect. He knocked and was admitted. The parson received him with sorrowful reproof.
“I am pained, Dr. Amlie,” said he in his deep tones. “Sorely pained by the levity of your conduct. You laughed aloud in church.”
(Was that all? thought Horace, relieved. Nothing about Sarah Dorch?)
“I am truly sorry, sir,” said he with sincerity. “I couldn’t help it.”
“Ah, well!” said the old gentleman. “Youth, youth!”
“There is something else,” said Horace, and gave a succinct account of the interview and of the Exhorter’s demand. At the conclusion his reverend listener’s eye gleamed with a fire which was not that of piety. He leaned forward.
“Did you kick him?” he asked.
“No, sir,” answered the startled Horace.
“Ah, well!” sighed Mr. Strang. “I am glad that you did not kick him.”
“Do you think I should resign from the fellowship?”
“Certainly not,” replied Mr. Strang with emphasis. “Let us lay it before the Lord in prayer.”
The prayer was a supplication for release from violent and wrathful thoughts about one’s fellow man. It struck Horace that the reverend gentleman had himself, the saint, quite as much as Horace, the sinner, at the core of his mind. Encouraged, he ventured to put in a word for Dinty, the other violator of the sanctity of the occasion. Mr. Strang smiled his gentle smile.
“I fear,” said he, “I gravely fear that I concur in her sentiments.”
At home Horace found the note. In terms of superior and elegant grief, Agatha informed him that All was Over between them; their engagement was dissolved; she would always be concerned for his Welfare in this World and the Next, and would pray for his Repentance and Salvation, and she was, Sorrowfully and Respectfully, Agatha Levering.
With a deep-fetched sigh, the recipient prepared for a vigil of sleepless misery and vain regrets. As he buttoned himself into his long flannel shift and settled his peaked nightcap in place, he made a horrifying discovery.
He was whistling.
* This term appears to be closely akin to the modern raspberry or Bronx cheer.
– 15 –
I do not care if I am a Wayward Soul. Nobody likes to be Prayed at.
(DINTY’S DIARY)
Banqueting was the favorite indoor sport of the day. Any occasion sufficed. Self-appointed committees acted for the community. Speakers were selected, toasts apportioned and drunk; it was a poor and meager evening when they did not run to at least a dozen. When Horace Amlie was put on the list of regular guests, it was a recognition of his status as an established Palmyrian.
Two members of the powerful Canal Board having announced their intention of inspecting the local works, it was a matter of course that they should be feted at the Eagle. With them came the famous New York City physician, David Hosack. To Horace’s mind, this was a bad sign; it meant that the commissioners were informed as to the prevalence of disease. A childbirth at Poverty’s Pinch disappointed his expectations of attending the festivities, but he reckoned on finishing up in time to meet the noted doctor before the breaking-up hour.
A worse sign for Palmyra was that both visiting commissioners kept sober at the table. To t
he outpourings of local pride and optimism over the canal they responded charily. They were not pleased with the progress of the work and made no bones of saying so with a frankness which dampened the spirit of festivity. Did the local contractors, they inquired pointedly, think that they had ten years at their disposal? Why could they not keep their men up to schedule? Where was their boasted public spirit? What steps, if any, were being taken to check the fevers? Did they not realize that contracts could be abrogated for non-performance?
By the time half a dozen lifeless toasts had been drunk, the dreary affair was over and the diners had broken up into glum groups, who stood about discussing the problem over unofficial drinks. Such was the situation when Horace got back from his delivery. He sought out Dr. Hosack.
“Amlie? Amlie?” repeated the famous man amiably. “I’ve heard my old friend John Vought speak favorably of you.”
“I owe much to Dr. Vought, sir,” said Horace modestly.
“We all do. You’ve had opportunity of observing the local fever, I presume.”
“More of it than I like.”
“Is it the Montezuma type, think you?”
“Graver. We are having deaths.”
“Bad! Bad! The commissioners take an unfavorable view. Abandonment of the work, even temporary, would have a very damaging effect upon public opinion.”
“It may come to that, sir. It would mean ruin to the village.”
“To many villages. It would be a catastrophe, Dr. Amlie, to the prosperity and pride of our great state. In your opinion, are the miasmas hereabouts heavier than elsewhere?”
“No. Less heavy and less frequent than in the marshes.” Horace summoned up his courage. “Do you necessarily attribute the malaria to the miasmas?”
The distinguished visitor’s eyes narrowed upon his junior. “What have you in mind?”
“Fever-bearing insects.”
“It may well be so. I, myself, have pointed out a connection between filth and jail-fever. Filth can be disseminated by insects, and so disease.”
“I believe that to be the case.”
“Have you propounded your belief locally?”
“I have suggested it and been laughed at.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I am an old man, Amlie. I have seen much and thought much and believed little except upon due proof. I have observed miasmas where there was no fever and fevers where there were no miasmas.
“Have you seen fevers without flies and mosquitoes, sir?” asked Horace with intent.
“Not the canal fevers. Not the malaria. But”—he waggled a warning finger at the other—“not proven, my young friend, not proven. Our medical pundits will have none of it. Propose it at peril of your professional neck. They’ll skin you alive and hang your pelt on the fence.”
“Then you advise me to hold my tongue?”
“Nothing of the sort,” said his senior sharply. “I only say, go slow. There is for the skeptic and questioner in our profession an odium medicum harsher than the odium theologicum of the pious.” He peered searchingly at the young man. “But you are of those who must speak as they believe. I see it in your face. Good night, my young friend, and God be with you.”
As Horace thanked him, Old Bill Shea approached.
“Mr. Latham wants to see you.”
The magnate was seated at a small table in the parlor corner with a glass of rumbullion before him. One glance told Horace that he was in a black humor. His “Sit down,” was a direction, not an invitation. He did not even extend the courtesy of a drink as he bent upon the other what Dinty called “Mr. Latham’s money-look.”
“What am I paying you for?” he growled.
Horace silently enumerated the bones and nerves of the great toe, an exercise which he had found more useful in controlling a naturally lively temper than the classic practice of counting ten.
“To look after the health of your camp,” said he.
“Do you think, by God, you’re doing it?”
Trying to provoke a quarrel, was he? On the occasion of an earlier meeting with the autocrat, Dinty had warned him against the Latham bullying.
“I’m doing what I contracted to do,” he replied quietly.
“Like hell you are! Shea, here, tells me half the men are laid off.”
“Not half,” protested the overseer. “I never said half, Mr. Latham.”
“Well, plenty. Flat on their backsides with what they call fever. A passel of scrimshankers,” he declared.
“They’re not scrimshanking, Mr. Latham. They’re sick men.”
“Why don’t you cure ’em, then?”
“As soon as they’re cured, others will come down.”
“And that’s the best you and your college learning can do!” Genter Latham pounded the table-top until his unfinished drink slopped over. “How’s the work to get on? Am I to sit here and watch my profits leaking away through laziness and incompetence?”
“I’ve told you what ought to be done, sir,” said Horace passing that insult up. “Take it or leave it.”
“You mean that God-damned nonsense about moving the men where the bugs can’t bite ’em?”
“Ask Geneseo Martin whether it’s God-damned nonsense.”
“He’s gettin’ two to our one of work, with half as many men,” put in Old Bill.
Mr. Latham consigned Geneseo Martin to the lowest depths. “A labor-coddler,” he snorted.
Horace took another tack. “When you pay for medicines, you take them, don’t you?”
“What if I do?”
“You’re paying me for advice,” Horace pointed out.
“Wasted money.”
“Wasted, indeed, if you won’t take what you’ve paid for.”
“That’s business, Mr. Latham,” said the overseer respectfully.
“Business! What does this young sprig of science know of business?”
Foreseeing that he would some time have to face that challenge, Horace had prepared for it. He took from his breast pocket a neatly penned sheet of paper and laid it before his employer. Mr. Latham glowered.
“What’s this?”
“A rough estimate of your day-to-day loss through sickness.”
Figures commanded Genter Latham’s respect where humans did not. The flushed anger of his visage was replaced by cool, shrewd contemplation. After studying the columns, he tapped the paper with his finger.
“Not ill-reckoned,” he conceded. “But you’ve left out something.”
“What?”
“The cost of moving camp.”
Horace concealed his exultation. “Shea can give you that better than I.”
“It won’t cost us so much,” said the Irishman. “We’re nearin’ the village; the work is too far from the camp now. When we move, we might as well pitch on high ground as low.”
“Give me an estimate tomorrow,” commanded Latham. He turned to the physician. “There’d better be no lay-offs in the new quarters,” said he threateningly.
“I make no such promise.”
“Then what the hell is this about?”
“My undertaking is that disease will be lessened—no more. For every man restored to work”—he tapped the paper in his turn, looking the other straightly in the eye—“you save computable money and time.”
“Well, well,” grumbled the great man. “Have it your own way. And have a drink, both of you.”
The evening was not yet done for Horace. On his way to the door, he was intercepted by Carlisle Sneed who had been allaying his resentment for the affront to local pride by quaffing his toasts double.
“Doc, me boy-hoy,” he hiccupped, “your eye is wuh-hiped.”
“How is my eye wiped?” demanded Horace.
“Wuh-hiped dry. Dry’s a bo-hone.” The humorist warbled,
Wreathe the willow and the rue,
My sweet love has proved untrue.
“Didn’cha hear Misser Levering freighting the news around?”
“I did not,” replied Horace.
“What did he say?”
“Aha! Bow yer head, me bucko. Miss Agatha, fai-hairest flower of Palmyra’s bloo-hooming maidenhood, is betrothed in ma-harriage to that canting son-of-a-bitch, the Rev. Exhorter-Snorter Sickelscythe and may their first brat be born with a wooden halo.”
“Amen!” said Horace.
He felt like a jail-delivered man.
Lacking a definitive period of mourning for a broken heart, it was expected of the lorn swain that he should exhibit a properly melancholious mien in public until time should have healed the wound. It was no more than what was owing to the lost love; to do less would be a reflection upon the lady’s charms. But a new alignment on her part released the obligation. Horace’s behavior had comported with the requirements of the case. He had gone about, clothed somberly and (except when it slipped his mind) with a creditable effect of woe. Now his penance was over.
Of deeper concern to him than any personal considerations was the new experiment. He did not expect miracles. There were still a few cases of malaria in the Martin camp, as he knew. This troubled him. It seemed to exculpate the mosquito as agent of the disease. Well, he could only give it a fair trial and hope for patience on his employer’s part.
Nobody knew better the lay of the land in the township than Tip Crego. Horace set the boy behind him on Fleetfoot and they made a tour of exploration. Out of several locations which seemed suitable to the physician, his companion advised a site a mile west of the village on one of those singular and abrupt earth-knobs, later to be known to marveling geologists as drumlins. The valley spread out some fifty yards below.
“The night mists don’t rise this high,” said Tip.
“I thought we were agreed that it isn’t the mists but the mosquitoes,” objected Horace.
“The black moskeeters come with the evening mists. They only fly after dusk. Haven’t you noticed that?”
Horace had not. He confirmed it by observation and set it down in his notebook.
The new buildings were rushed to rough completion in five days. Here young Crego further proved his usefulness by ridding the grub-shack of what flies survived the lime treatment, by a simple expedient. In door and window he hung great bunches of the tall, abounding sweet clover, the scent of which no winged insect can abide, suspending other festoons above the table.
Canal Town Page 18