The Deserter

by Jane Langton

  Homer gazed at the splendid mustachios and sideburns, the top hat, the prosperous-looking coat and vest, the watch chain. “Do you suppose he’s Otis Pike?”

  “I doubt he’s my great-great-grandfather,” said Mary. She picked up the last thing in the oilcloth packet. “Oh, Homer, it’s a fan letter.”

  6. Also in packet, a letter:

  Dear Miss LeBeau,

  How often have I worshiped thine image from afar! I write now from the battlefield by moonlight amid the cannon’s roar. Should I survive the perilous action of this day, I hope soon to soften your Marble Heart.

  Enclosed, the likeness of—

  A Passionate Admirer

  “They go together,” said Homer. “The man who had his picture taken in the top hat wrote the fan letter to the woman in the fancy rompers in the middle of a battle. Only he never mailed it because he died that day. What about the inside pocket?”

  Mary picked up the little book that lay on the bedspread, turned the pages and handed it to Homer.

  7. Taken from an inside pocket a small book, a play, the top edge bloodstained—The Marble Heart, or the Sculptor’s Dream.

  “The Marble Heart?” said Homer. “It goes with the fan letter.”

  “Right! Lily LeBeau was a famous actress, I’ll bet. He must have seen her in this very play.”

  Homer took the little book and leafed through it. “It’s just an old-fashioned melodrama. But look at this”—he showed a page to Mary—“some of the lines have new versions on the side.”

  “Oh, Homer, how interesting, the stuffiness is gone. Look what he’s crossed out—The eyes which coldly view thy tears.’ It’s so much funnier in the margin—‘All you need is a couple of beers.’”

  Mary laughed, Homer laughed, and they went on to the next item.

  The next letter was not in a coat pocket. They were through with the coat and its contents.

  8. Unfinished letter, salutation in a clear hand:

  My dear wife,

  I am well, my dear, but I regret to say that many in the regiment were lost this morning. Charley Mudge and Tom—

  The last items were the two little cases of photographs.

  9. Case bought on first visit to Bart’s shop, with familiar photograph of a woman.

  10. Case stolen by Ebenezer from Gwen’s attic, with two photographs—the same woman and a man, probably her husband. Glass over photographs broken. NOTE: THIS IS NOT PART OF “THE OTIS PIKE COLLECTION.”

  That was it. They hovered over the bed, looking from one thing to another.

  One thing was clear. Homer put two of the letters side by side, then declared firmly, “The dear wife letter and the fan letter to Lily LeBeau were written by different people.”

  “Mmm,” said Mary. “You’re right.” She reached across the bed for the strange note that began “For God’s sake, Otis,” and set it down between the two letters. “What about this?”

  Homer studied them, then tapped the letter addressed to “My dear wife.”

  “It’s in the same hand. So it wasn’t Otis Pike who wrote to his wife, it was somebody else. Someone who also warned Otis about something—’For God’s sake, Otis … don’t do it again’”

  “We know another thing,” said Mary. “The fan letter to Lily LeBeau was written before the battle in which Otis was killed. The ‘dear wife’ letter was written afterward. And we know from the tablet in Mem Hall that both Otis Pike and Charles Redington Mudge died at Gettysburg. So the ‘dear wife’ letter must have been written by a survivor in the same regiment, the Second Massachusetts.”

  “Your great-great-grandfather’s regiment.” Homer picked up the case with the single photograph of a young woman. “This was in the Otis Pike collection, but she was related to you somehow, not to Pike. Could Otis have gotten it from Seth?” Homer picked up the case with the two photographs side by side. “So here she is again, and the man with her must be your great-great-grandfather Seth Morgan, who survived the battle and wrote the unfinished letter to her and also the crazy letter from the Concord Rosebud.”

  “Well, he’s certainly not Otis Pike, because Otis must be the dashing guy in the top hat.” Mary studied the sober faces of the bearded man and the young woman in the double case. “But of course they may be different people entirely. A great-great-aunt and a great-great-uncle. Maybe the man is the brother of my great-great-grandfather. Oh, God, Homer, maybe they belong to Ebenezer after all.”

  EBENEZER’S TRASH

  The landscape of southern Pennsylvania moved slowly past the car windows—fields and farms and forests. Mary was bored. She stretched her arms and worked her shoulders up and down. “Oh, Homer, it’s such a long way.”

  Homer kept his eyes fixed on the highway. “Is any of that junk food left?”

  “A few crumbs.” Mary found the bag of potato chips.

  Homer fumbled in it blindly. “How many more miles before the next tack?”

  She looked at the map. “A long way yet, about forty miles, I think.” She yawned, and in a fit of restlessness, reached into the backseat and picked up a bundle of the wastepaper that had been dumped on them by Ebenezer.

  As a collection of historical documents it was absurd. “What’s this?” She was staring at a sixth-grade essay written by a child named Mary Morgan: “Leanardo Davincy was born in 1452.” Angrily she tossed one piece after another over her shoulder. “Oh, Homer, that exasperating man. How could he be so gullible?”

  “Mary, dear, settle down. Why don’t you drive for a while?”

  “Oh, yes. Good idea.”

  He pulled over, stopped the car and opened his door, while trucks lumbered past on the highway. The breeze swept up the chip bag. Mary got out with relief, letting Ebenezer’s papers scatter from her lap. “Whee,” she cried, “look at ’em go!”

  “My God, woman,” said Homer, laughing and chasing the chip bag.

  “Don’t call me woman,” said Mary, but she raced after the flying rubbish, and together they rescued every worthless scrap. But when they climbed back in the car, another piece of paper fluttered up and plastered itself against the windshield.

  “Oh, let it go,” said Mary, turning the key and looking back at the racing traffic.

  “No, no, stop.” Homer stared at the scrap of paper, which was still flattened on the glass as though insisting on being read. With the engine revving, Homer opened the car door and reached for the scrap with a long arm. He brought it in and showed it to Mary, pointing to a single word.

  She whispered, “Mudge.”

  “It’s some sort of promotional handout for Hasty Pudding in the year 1860. I didn’t know that nutty Harvard dramatic club went back so far.”

  Mary was enchanted. “I suppose they were putting on their ridiculous farces and dressing up in drag just the way they do now.”

  “No longer, I’m afraid,” said Homer. “And I don’t suppose they called it drag in the 1860s.”

  “Oh, Homer, what a find.”

  PART XII

  LILY LEBEAU

  A LITTLE PIECE

  OF BAD NEWS

  Ida wrote her mother again from Baltimore. She did not mention her alarming reception in the hotel.

  Ida had never stayed in a hotel before, although she and Seth had once heard Professor Agassiz speak in the Parker House. On their wedding day they had settled down at once in the family place near Mr. Barrett’s sawmill. Ida’s father had been dead only a few months, struck down by the falling tree, but her mother had cheerfully given up her bedchamber and hung the windows with new curtains.

  This hostelry was large, ugly and run-down. The lobby was embowered in potted plants and furnished with brass spittoons and grubby tufted sofas. Ida couldn’t afford anything more luxurious. Her banknotes were still plentiful, but she had no idea how much longer they would be needed.

  She had chosen this hotel because it was near the depot, a handy lodging for a runaway soldier. Ida hoped with all her heart to find Seth quickly, but she was determi
ned to stay in Baltimore until she found him, even if it took every cent of her precious nest egg.

  The money had been intended by her father to pay for a year in a female seminary. The thought of further education had been pleasing to Ida, but she had abandoned it gladly upon her marriage to Seth. Therefore she was free to use the money any way she chose. And this way was more important than any other.

  She carried her small valise to a desk where a portly man in shirtsleeves leaned on his elbows and stared at her. If Ida had been of a more shrinking nature, she would have faltered, but she was not timid. Firmly she said, “I would like to see your guest book.”

  He stared at her figure and said, “Do you desire to register in my premises?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ida. “I’m looking for my husband. He was at Gettysburg. I’d like to see if he is staying in this hotel.”

  “He was in the late battle?” The face of the proprietor assumed a knowing smirk. “We got many paying guests from those parts.” He grinned at her. “Several hundred, I calculate.”

  Stubbornly Ida said again, “Please, sir, may I see the register?”

  He pulled a heavy ledger from a desk drawer and slapped it down. “Help yourself, missus.” But he watched as she ran her finger down the names.

  When she came to the end, he pretended to feel sympathy. “He ain’t there?”

  “I guess he must be in another hotel,” said Ida sadly. “Or perhaps he’s staying with a friend.” But why hadn’t he let them know?

  The proprietor leaned over the counter confidingly. “Sometimes, you know, missus, they change their names.”

  “I see,” said Ida, refusing in her dignity to admit that they understood each other. “Well, I’ll just look again.”

  This time she was more careful. And now, with a skip of her heart, she came upon Seth’s name, and nearly burst into tears of joy. “He’s here,” she said, looking up, exulting. “He’s here in this hotel.”

  The proprietor craned his neck. “Oh, him. Is he your husband?” He stared at her again, disbelieving. “I must say, I wouldn’t have thought it.”

  Ida looked back at Seth’s name, and felt a moment of doubt.

  “It’s strange. It doesn’t look like his writing. That’s why I missed it at first.”

  “Well, some people write different after they—” The man shrugged his shoulders and didn’t finish, but Ida knew he meant after they skedaddle.

  “You know him?” said Ida eagerly. “He’s still here?”

  “Oh, sure, he’s here.” The man behind the counter had a coarse joking way about him, and now he took pleasure in passing along a little piece of bad news to Seth Morgan’s pregnant wife. “He’s here all right, and so’s his lady friend.”

  CALM THY FEARS

  Ida had endured a number of hard blows, but this was one of the worst. She closed her eyes, feeling a lurch from the child under her skirt. After a moment she said softly, “Is he in?”

  “Oh, no, I suppose he’s at the theayter. Minute he checked in, he was off. Keeps going back.”

  Disconcerted, Ida said, “Which theater?” Surely there was some mistake.

  “Holliday Street, I guess.” Then the proprietor looked past Ida and his face broke into a huge grin. “Well, here’s the lady in person. I bet she can tell you.”

  “I can tell her what?” Seth’s lady friend was a tall, buxom woman in a towering bonnet. She leaned her bulk against the desk, reached up her gloved hand and cupped Ida’s chin. “Such a sweet face.”

  “This here’s Seth’s Morgan’s wife,” said the proprietor gleefully. “She’s come looking for her hubby. And this, missus, is our fair queen of the dramatical arts, Miss Lily LeBeau.”

  Ida did not know what to say or where to look. But Lily LeBeau cried out at once in horror, “I didn’t know the damn fool had a wife.” She put her arm around Ida. “My dear, I swear on the Bible, he didn’t tell me he was married. Oh, what a beast.”

  They were a mismatched pair. Ida was pale and demure, Lily rosy as a sunrise. Imperiously she led Ida to one of the sofas and made her sit down. Then she settled beside her, nestling close, pushing to one side the springs inside her massive skirt. “My dear child, you should be at home. When is it to be, the blessed event?”

  In spite of everything—in spite of her headlong journey to Gettysburg, in spite of the terrible things she had seen in the town and in the Bushman barn, in spite of her search among the windows of dead soldiers and her grisly glimpse of the embalming surgeon’s tent and in spite of the painful news that her dear Seth was now a deserter—Ida’s stern resolve melted before the kindly concern of the woman who had taken her place in her husband’s affections.

  To Lily she whispered, “In two months. But really, I feel just fine.” Then Ida lifted appealing hands. “Please, oh, please. I’ve got to see him.”

  “Well, of course you’ve got to see him.” Lily reached up to tuck a strand of hair back under Ida’s bonnet. “Now, my sweet thing, you just comfort yourself. Lily will take care of everything.” Her skirt boiled up as she leaned closer. “That mean old Seth of yours, he appeared at the door of the theater, Holliday Street—well, I must say as shouldn’t, it’s the best in Baltimore—and asked for Lily LeBeau. It was just only last week. Well, to me he was a perfect stranger, but, my dear, how that man of yours can talk. Of course if I’d known he was married! But he never let on.” Lily put a tragic hand on her bosom. “But there!” She brightened. “Right now we’re playing in The Marble Heart. You know it, don’t you, honey?”

  Miserably Ida nodded that she did.

  “I’ve just got a little part. I’m only a slave girl, but I get to sing.” Lily cocked up her face and trilled, “Love on, love on, calm thy fears! Time will bring happier hours!” She stopped and grinned at Ida as the proprietor guffawed.

  Then Lily gave Ida a squeeze. “As it certainly will bring happier hours for you, my dear. Now where was I? Oh, yes, there he was in the theater, your husband, and he said he’d made a lot of improvements in the parts. And really, it was God’s truth, they were first-rate, so comical.” Lily’s chuckle was delicious. “And he expanded my part so it was really important. Well, naturally I liked that, so I took him to Jacko, and Jacko, he liked the changes, so, oh dear me”—Laura groaned and rolled her eyes—”now there’s all these more rehearsals. Of course we don’t know what his nibs will think, but he’s way up in Boston, so who cares? Anyway, Seth’s worked himself into the company well enough, fast too, I’ll say that for him, giving credit where credit is due.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Ida, trying to take it all in.

  Lily slapped her knee, and her springy skirt bounced. “Tell you what we’ll do. I’ve got to be in the theater for a spell, but you can lay down in my room for a couple of hours—that’s all the longer I’ll be. And then, I swear, I’ll take you to the theater and you can look that naughty man straight in the face.”

  Lily stood up and led the way, billowing toward the staircase. “This way, dear. Can you still climb stairs? My off cousin, she got so big, she just laid there on the bed in the front room.”

  “Was her baby all right?”

  “Oh dear, no. The poor thing got so big, it wouldn’t come out. How she took on!”

  “But what happened?”

  “They were both taken. It was sad.”

  HER WIFELY

  DEVOTION

  Lily bustled into her hotel room ahead of Ida and thrust something under the bed. “Now, dear, just you lay down and rest yourself. Oh, the heat.” She snatched up a fan and flapped it in the heavy air. “Here, I’ll just draw the shade.”

  Then with a wild salute of her fan, she was gone.

  Ida took off her dusty boots, lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. But instead of sleeping she thought about Seth. She had found him, and in a little while she would see him, but then, dear God, what would she say to him?

  Through the open window came the rhythmical hammering of a rolling mill
and the shriek of an incoming train.

  What was a husband, after all?

  Ida turned heavily on her side and thought about this simple question—because Seth was not simply the lover who had so pleased her with his tenderness on their wedding night in the big parental bed, although that night had been astonishing to Ida, who had so far witnessed only the coupling of the hog and the sow, the bull released from the bull pen among the cows, and the fiery cock rushing at the hens.

  Nor was it only the marriage vows that had bound him to her that morning in the First Parish Church with all the town looking on.

  A husband was more than that. Seth had been her companion in all the pressing tasks of the family farm. He had taken over her father’s duties in the peach and apple orchards, cultivating the soil and pruning the water sprouts and at last, with a couple of hired hands, relieving the bowed branches of their heavy weight of fruit. He had also performed a thousand other duties in field and woodlot, house and barn, and kept the winter school in District Two.

  Ida was proud that, even so young, her husband had become a personage in the village. Already he was a deacon in the church and a trustee of the public library. He had even spoken in the Lyceum on the Odes of Horace.

  For her part, Ida kept all the farm records smartly up-to-date, noting down in her ledger the expenditures for seed and feed, for the spring pig and the new batch of chicks, and the outlay for the patent cultivator and the digging of a new well after the old one went dry.

  It was astonishing the way outgo sometimes overwhelmed income, as when the proceeds from the sale of a couple of bull calves had been transformed into a smart four-seater spring wagon—Seth had brought it home from Brighton the very same day as a surprise for the ladies. At once Ida had taken up her ledger and set both items down on the blue lines with meticulous care.

  In addition there was her calico-covered journal for the orchard, its pages sewn together by hand and ruled with pen and ink. Here Ida kept track of flowerings and ripenings, failures and successes, and the price each bushel brought on the Boston market, the sturdy northern peaches and the apples—the Sweet Winesaps, the Ben Davises, the Baldwins, the Seek No Furthers.