Canal Town

by Samuel Hopkins Adams

  “I guess that spills the beans from the nosebag,” he muttered. “Will you still see Genter Latham?”

  “Yes. First thing in the morning.”

  “I’ll go with you.” He saw only disaster ahead.

  * David Little, M.D. (1768–1832) of Cherry Valley, N. Y. A factual account of this case appeared in The New Yorker for Dec. 10, 1938.

  – 19 –

  Sarah Dorch answered the Latham knocker. She cowered when she saw the two men.

  “Oh, Dr. Amlie! You didn’t ought to come here.”

  “I want to see Mr. Latham.”

  “He won’t see you. He won’t see nobody.”

  “Is he up?”

  “He ain’t been to bed.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In Miss Wealthia’s room.” She began to snivel. “All night he’s been walkin’ the floor. If you speak to him, he don’t so much as look your way. I don’t believe he knows I’m here. Reverend Strang came back from the grave with him. Lawyer Upcraft, too; he wouldn’t even notice ’em when they spoke. Squire and Mrs. Jerrold was in after the buryin’ and …”

  “Stop chattering,” said Horace sternly. “We shall not leave this house without seeing him.”

  With a little startled cackle of dismay she scuttled off. The massive figure of Genter Latham appeared at the stairhead. Horace spoke.

  “Mr. Latham, we want a word with you.”

  The banker descended stiffly, treading step by step with the gait of a marionette. His face was fixed and expressionless. He advanced between the two men, and flung the door open with a powerful heave which sent it thudding against the wall.

  “Out!” he said.

  “Mr. Latham,” began the old physician. He got no further.

  “Out!” Murder was latent in the dull undertone.

  Horace stepped forward. “We’ll go when we’ve completed our errand,” he said solidly.

  “You have no errand with me.”

  “Your daughter.”

  In accents of mingled hate and desolation the father said, “I have no daughter, sir. She is dead and buried beyond the reach of your calumnies.”

  “They are not calumnies.”

  “Will you go—now—before I kill you!”

  In a tone at once authoritative and soothing, Dr. Vought said, “Let there be no talk of killing. We stand for the truth. Are you man enough to hear it?”

  Genter Latham passed his hand over his eyes. “Say your say,” he muttered.

  Horace spoke quietly. “Your daughter conceived a child by her affianced husband.”

  “You told me that lie before.”

  “I now offer you proof.”

  “And I substantiate it,” added his companion.

  The father rocked on his feet. He groped behind him, encountered the solid support of the wall and straightened up. His lips moved puffily. It seemed to Horace that he was repeating the words spoken to him, without comprehension.

  “Do you understand us?”

  “Proof. A child. A baby,” whispered the lips.

  “Yes.”

  A gust of rage shook him all through his bulk. “A lie! The same lie! The same God-damned lie.”

  “Will you see the proof?” said Dr. Vought.

  Again the chill quietude of the old man prevailed. Doubt flickered in the savage eyes.

  “A baby! Where is it?”

  “It was never born.”

  “Where is it?” persisted the father.

  Horace answered deliberately. “It was removed from Wealthia’s body, after the body was taken from its grave.”

  “Grave-robbery! You?”

  “You left me no other recourse.”

  The man’s laughter shocked them like a blast. “I’ll see you rot in jail for this. No, by God! I’ll do more. I’ll rouse the village and have you hanged to the first tree.”

  “And your daughter’s good name?” said Dr. Vought.

  The frantic glee of vengeance died out of the face before them. It withered into uncertainty.

  “Proof!” he gasped. “You claim proof. Where is your proof?”

  “Will you see it?” said Horace.

  The older physician intervened. “Do you think, Doctor,” said he in professional form, “that, considering the nervous strain to which Mr. Latham has been subjected, he is in condition …?”

  “I can stand anything,” brusquely interrupted Genter Latham.

  Horace moved forward into the library, followed by the others, crossed to a window, opened it, and called out an order. Unk Zeb appeared. His face was gray. He was shaking from head to foot. Reaching out, his master took from the trembling hands a misshapen bag which bulged at the bottom. Unk Zeb turned and ran. Horace lifted the burden across the sill, and set it down beside him. Genter Latham’s stare fixed upon it. His breath was fast between pouted lips.

  “Just a moment, Dr. Amlie.”

  The old physician’s tone was coolly professional. He went briskly out, and spoke to Sarah Dorch, shivering in the kitchen. Returning, he set a glass of brandy on the mantel. “I will elucidate this matter for Mr. Latham.” He spoke with the authority of the pundit toward the neophyte. Horace breathed a sigh of gratitude and relief. The matter was out of his hands, for the time.

  Dr. Vought might have been back in his professorial chair, so composed was his manner. It was admirably adapted to mollifying the grisly business in hand.

  “We have here,” he began, “a phenomenon of rare and obscure occurrence. That has befallen the late Miss Latham which occurs perhaps once in a million times. A woman becomes pregnant”—Genter Latham started, twitched, but controlled himself—“and for some reason the process of gestation is checked. Science is not yet prepared to say why. The foetus dies. Again obscurely the mechanism fails to expel the burden. What occurs? Nature, ever self-preservative, sets about saving the mother’s life. The calcium in the system infiltrates the unborn child, calcifies it, by a slow, sure process, turns it to harmless stone. Thus it may be carried within the mother’s body, indiscernibly, for years, for a long lifetime. I have, myself, seen one of these monstrous and rare lithopedia in the museum at Edinburgh University, where I enjoyed the privilege of finishing my medical studies. I never expected to see another until my learned and respected young friend, Dr. Amlie, correctly diagnosed this strange and tragic case.* Did you speak, Mr. Latham?”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Genter Latham hoarsely.

  The old gentleman’s voice grew crisper. He gestured toward the bag. “Do you insist on ocular demonstration? I must advise you …”

  An imperative gesture checked him.

  “Show.”

  Dr. Vought lifted the black bag. As he grasped the object within it, Genter Latham visibly braced himself. Momentarily he closed his eyes. When he opened them a small image rested on the stand near by.

  There was nothing horrible about it. It was merely grotesque. More than anything else it suggested a small Buddha which the sculptor had roughed out but had lacked time to finish. Genter Latham regarded it intently.

  “Is that a human child?”

  “Look at the hands and feet,” said Dr. Vought.

  The autocrat leaned forward. He stretched out his arm. His finger tremulously touched the object. He shuddered profoundly throughout his great body.

  “Are you convinced, sir?” asked Vought.

  “Yes,” he answered thickly.

  The older man shot a swift glance at him and reached for the glass of brandy. “Take some of this.”

  Genter Latham swallowed slowly and with visible effort. Horace restored the weird image of unfinished humanity to its covering. The master of the house lifted his head.

  “Have you any further business with me, gentlemen?”

  Answering for both, Dr. Vought said, “No.”

  “I will ask you to leave me. I am very tired.” He spoke with pathetic gentleness and dignity. The two doctors questioned one another with their eyes. The senior asked, “Don’
t you think I’d better stay with you, Mr. Latham?”

  “I must be alone.”

  They found their hats and canes and walked slowly down the peony-bordered path, Horace carrying the stone baby.

  “He’s taking it hard,” he said.

  “Harder than he shows. He’ll break.”

  “He might. I doubt it, though. It’s tough fiber.”

  “You’ll have no further trouble from him.”

  “Not from him perhaps.”

  “There’s Murchison, to be sure.”

  Horace nodded.

  “Would he dare go against Latham’s wishes?”

  “He never has. That doesn’t prove that he mightn’t.”

  “He hates you enough for anything short of murder,” admitted the old gentleman.

  “And, as you said, this might finish Mr. Latham. Then Murchison would be free to act.”

  Horace deposited his burden in the wagon. Unk Zeb cramped the wheels for them to get in. They drove home in gloomy silence. At the gate, Horace gave the Negro low-voiced instructions and sent him to the barn. To Dr. Vought he said, “My wife mustn’t know about this.”

  The old gentleman looked dubious. “Aren’t you going to tell her anything?”

  “Not until I have to.”

  “Sure you aren’t making a mistake, lad? That’s a canny child you married.”

  Horace broke out grievously, “Why burden her heart with it? Dr. Vought, I’m a coward. I just haven’t the gristle to face this thing, Oh, it isn’t for myself! I can stand state prison if I have to. But what’s to become of my Dinty?”

  “Her family,” began his friend, when Horace cut him short.

  “You don’t know Dinty’s loyalty. Her mother hates me. Dinty would never go to live under the same roof with her.”

  “There’ll be others to look after her, lad,” the old man assured him kindly. “To my mind, you’re taking too black a view. Suppose Murchison does know about your—your …”

  “Crime,” put in Horace bitterly.

  “Crime, if you will. That doesn’t prove that he’s going to take action.”

  “Do you think he and Upcraft were discussing crops at two o’clock this morning?” railed Horace.

  The other pulled a wry face. “That’s a kittle point.”

  “I’m not going to make Dinty miserable before I have to,” continued the husband with determination.

  “Now you’re showing sense. I’ll be going back tomorrow, lad, but you can get me at call.”

  Main Street was seething like a maelstrom meanwhile, with rumor and counter-rumor, when, in due time, Mrs. Horace Amlie appeared upon her morning errands of housekeeping. She was mobbed by a wave of women. Horace Amlie was a prickly customer to tackle when in the wrong mood, but nobody was afraid of friendly little Dinty. Friendly though she was, she now proved as reticent as her husband. Surges of curiosity beat upon her as against a rock, and fell back in a spume of resentful disappointment. Her own mother could get nothing out of her, and proclaimed her for an ungrateful and undutiful daughter before the attentive ears of the Hepzibah Sewing Circle. Dinty did not attend. She was as prickling with curiosity as any of her questioners, but, from her demeanor, one would have inferred that, beneath that calm appearance of information, she carried the secrets of fate.

  Both her husband and her guest had been infuriatingly uncommunicative. There remained Unk Zeb. When the menfolk were clear of the house, she put him to the question. Downtown she had heard excited commentary about a mysterious cloth bag which had figured in the still more mysterious proceedings at the Latham mansion. She began, “Did you bring the bag back with you, Unk Zeb?”

  “Do’ know nuffin’, Miss Dinty,” he mumbled. His affrighted eyes refused to meet hers.

  “Did you leave it in the barn?”

  “No’m. Po’ ol’ niggah don’ know …”

  “Don’t lie to me, Unk Zeb.”

  “I call my Jesus to say …”

  “What was in it?”

  He uttered a cry of terror and misery and began to retch. When she went to him, he slumped to the ground.

  “I wanna go home,” he wailed. “I wanna go home to No’th Cahlina. I do’ wanna stay heah no mo’.”

  “You lie quiet on your bed and I’ll fetch you a calming potion,” said Dinty. As she held it to his lips, he faltered.

  “The Doctah say he sen’ me home if I do like he tol’ me las’ night.”

  “If the Doctor promised you that, he’ll do it,” she assured him. “Now lie back and rest.”

  The “calming potion” was considerably more than that, being as strong an opiate as the amateur practitioner dared administer. The patient, still fuzzily lamenting, dropped off.

  With him disposed of, Dinty went to the barn. First she carefully explored the wagon and its box. Nothing there. A search of the stable was barren of results. She mounted to the loft. In a far corner the hay showed signs of having been disturbed. She burrowed and felt against her fingers the rough crocus of the bag.

  Steeling herself, she bore it to the light, loosed the thong which bound the neck, and peered within. Her first reaction was one of pure astonishment. A block of stone, blackish and vaguely fashioned to human likeness, met her eyes. Then she noticed the faintly modeled hands and feet. An illustration in a book rose vividly from the depths of her memory. Burns on Abortion! Now Dinty knew. She thrust bag and contents back and covered them.

  Now that she possessed the knowledge, what use could be made of it? Dared she consult Dr. Vought? She sought counsel from Tip Crego who had come in after dinner. Tip vehemently besought her to say nothing.

  “I wish we’d never gone to the churchyard,” he shivered.

  “I don’t,” said the more resolute Dinty. “No matter how bad it is, I’d rather know.”

  The doctors came back for early supper. At sight of her husband’s wan and weary face, Dinty’s heart swelled with pity. Whatever was harassing him, she would, as she guessed, only make matters worse by questioning. Wisdom taught her that, with Horace, it was always best to wait and let him take the initiative.

  The usually talkative Dr. Vought proved a sad disappointment to her when she got him alone. He was totally unresponsive to her broadest hints. In his aspect there was a sort of pity which worried her, as he assured her with superfluous warmth that she could always depend upon his friendship when needed. Why should she specially need support? What had occurred between Horace and Genter Latham?

  The two men were deep in talk behind the door of the inner sanctum when the Sentinel came. Dinty perused it with no special interest until she came upon a local item which was worth retailing. She waited for the consultation to come to an end, then said to Horace,

  “Here’s something about Old Murch.”

  “In the paper? What is it?”

  “He left for Albany by today’s packet.”

  “Albany!” repeated Dr. Vought. He looked across at Horace.

  “To be gone for a week or two,” pursued the reader. “What do you s’pose that means?”

  “I haven’t the faintest notion,” answered Horace steadily.

  In his heart he had no doubts. Murchison was going to lay the case before the State Medical Society and solicit their backing for the prosecution.

  * The actual lithopedion upon which this episode is based is now in the Museum of the Albany (N. Y.) Medical School.

  – 20 –

  The pattern of impending disaster worked itself out in Dinty’s mind. In his mad prepossession to prove himself in the right, Horace had confronted Genter Latham with the strange object, the lithopedion which he had taken from Wealthia’s body. Thus, self-convicted of a crime, he had delivered himself into the hands of an enemy. What form would Genter Latham’s vengeance take? She remembered miserably Dr. Vought’s angry protest when he was trying to dissuade Horace from the venture, “Do you hanker after Auburn Prison?”

  How long would they keep him there? Two years? Five years? Ten years? Di
nty’s soul quivered within her. She could wait; forever, if need be. But what would life be without her Doc? There was nothing to be done meanwhile, until he chose to speak, but guard herself against betrayal of her dire knowledge.

  The carefully constructed logic of her fears endured for barely a day before it came crashing down in bewildering ruin.

  On the morning following Dr. Vought’s departure, Horace received a summons and left his office. Having redd up her housework, Dinty, with market basket on arm, repaired to the meat-shop. In the midst of an animated chaffer with Butcher Mays who had the effrontery to ask seven cents a pound for a prime cut of beef—sheer extortion, as she pointed out in the most explicit terms at her command—she became aware of a commotion outside. People were running as to a fire, exchanging excited comments as they ran. She caught Genter Latham’s name and her husband’s. With tripping heart, she hurried to the door and stopped, stricken to immobility by the amazement of what she saw.

  Genter Latham and Horace Amlie were coming down Main Street, arm in arm.

  Quiet fell, as if a spell had bound the busy street. All heads were turned to the one focus. A span of oxen stood still in the middle of the road, their driver furling his whip and staring. A stray cur barked, shockingly loud in that hush.

  The older man was leaning heavily on the younger. Genter Latham’s face was stony and colorless. He looked straight ahead of him. Passage cleared to the front, the people edging against the buildings or stepping aside into the gutter. Some few spoke in greeting, obsequious or timid. Mr. Latham made no reply. Dinty doubted whether he even heard them. She tried to catch Horace’s eye. He was intent upon his charge and did not see her.

  The two men entered the Latham office. A messenger came hustling out and ran up Ephraim Upcraft’s stairs. At once the Honest Lawyer bustled importantly down, emerging upon the street with a tin box which he carried into the bank.

  No citizen of Palmyra would have had the effrontery to listen in upon the trio back of the locked door. But the bank’s normal traffic swelled to special proportions. Little reward did the hopeful ones reap. Only once was anything overheard from within, Genter Latham’s imperious basso.