by B. B. Oak
When I went into the kitchen for the chairs I found the two recovering invalids at the table playing cards. Trump has taught Grandfather a game called poca, or something like that, and despite the old doc’s long-standing aversion to any form of gambling, he is enthralled with this game. He watches Trump shuffle and deal out the cards like a cat trying to catch a fast mouse. Nevertheless, Trump has won a great many buttons and brass pins from him, for that is all they wager. At least I hope that is all they wager. For aught I know, Trump now owns the deed to this house.
I told them about our unexpected guests and suggested they come out and watch the ball game too. Trump mumbled something about having no interest in such sport, but Grandfather thought it a splendid idea. He prevailed upon Trump to assist him out to the door yard. He has been prevailing upon Trump a good deal of late, for although he is no longer bedridden, he cannot manage walking on his own. And Trump, getting stronger himself with each passing day, appears to enjoy helping the old doc get around. Or at least he does not seem to mind it much, God bless him.
Yes, I pray God blesses Trump! And protects him, wherever he is. And keeps him from doing something rash. His behavior last evening makes me fear that he will.
At first he was reluctant to join us outdoors, for he did not want to bother putting on his boots. Knowing how little he likes wearing them, I told him that it was entirely unnecessary. In the end he kindly offered to take out all the chairs for me, enough to accommodate seven people in all, for Lyman Upson and Henry Thoreau came by too. Mr. Upson took a seat beside me, and Henry went to stand in the doorway with Trump. Capt. Peck and Mr. Vail had not yet returned from the tavern, and Mrs. Vail seemed very put out about that. She paid no attention whatsoever to Grandfather, who gave up his endeavor to engage her in polite conversation.
The ball game commenced with Lt. Finch at bat—put to the test right off by Adam’s teammates. He proved himself to be a fair striker, but after hitting the ball a good distance he got confused as to where the stakes were located. To confuse him even more, townsmen began pointing in different directions. Rather than take offence, the lieutenant continued to make himself the object of jest by running around in circles. Everyone laughed at his antics. Even Trump managed a smile. Henry asked him if the Cherokees took part in ball games.
“The men played a game called Anesta,” he replied, more forthcoming than usual. “They were plenty earnest about it and got plenty hurt sometimes. My father was one of the best players in our Nation when he was young. He would never brag on himself about it, but Ma would. She’d tell me and my sister that when our Pa caught the ball in the cup of his stick, he would swoop across the field like a hawk, and no one could catch him. And Pa would say that she had managed to catch him easy enough, hadn’t she? That would always make her laugh.”
This was the first time Trump had ever spoken of his family, and I would have enjoyed hearing more about them. But Henry, intent on collecting more information about Cherokee customs, took out the notebook and pencil he always carried in his deep pocket, and began quizzing Trump on the particulars of Anesta.
“What was the ball made of?” he asked. “How long was the field?”
Trump was through reminiscing, however. “What does it matter? All that is past.” He turned away and went inside the house.
I offered Henry a commiserating smile as he put his notebook back in his pocket. Despite his abiding interest in Indian customs and beliefs, he never gets much information out of Trump when he visits.
Peck and Vail returned, accompanied by a tavern boy who pushed a wheelbarrow filled with various vessels and glasses through the front gate. Grandfather gladly accepted a mug of beer, and Mrs. Vail had her Switchel with a good dose of rum in it. I thought best to have mine without any, as did Henry. Mr. Upson accepted no refreshment whatsoever and stared at Capt. Peck with such disapproval I feared a quarrel might ensue. But Peck did not meet his eyes. Neither spoke to the other all evening. I am sure they have little in common.
“High time you returned,” Mrs. Vail chided Peck. She did not even glance at her husband.
Peck smiled at her. “Did you miss me?”
The insinuating manner in which he asked her this made me regard the two of them more closely. Could Peck be the “dear friend” Mrs. Vail told me had commissioned her ostentatious bonnet?
Mrs. Vail did not answer his question but continued to scold him. “Whilst you were no doubt enjoying yourself at the tavern bar, I had a most unsettling encounter with a savage.”
“Are you referring to me, ma’am?” Henry said, his tone facetious.
“You know full well, sir, that I am referring to that red-skinned, bare-footed fellow with his head wrapped in a bandana. I was much relieved when he went back inside for I found his presence most disturbing.”
Capt. Peck put on a face of concern. “I am sorry if you were affrighted, my dear,” he told Mrs. Vail. “I presumed the Indian you refer to had departed from Dr. Walker’s house by now.” He turned to me. “Do you not fear being under the same roof with him, Miss Bell?”
“Certainly not, Captain. I have no reason to mind his company.”
“Do you not?” Peck eyed me slyly. “I never thought a proper lady would welcome the company of an Indian night after night.”
This got Grandfather’s attention. “What are you implying, sir? My granddaughter is far more a lady than that one could ever be.” He gestured toward Mrs. Vail with his empty mug. I believe the beer it once contained had gone straight to his head.
“Now, now, Grand-dear,” said I. “Let us not disparage Mrs. Vail just because Captain Peck has disparaged me.”
“That was hardly my intention, Miss Bell,” Peck protested. “I was merely registering my surprise that you could be so trusting.Your trust, however, is most dangerously misplaced in that redskin.”
“So now you cast aspersions on a man you do not even know,” I retorted.
“I know the ways of Indians. I became very familiar with them when I was a cavalry officer posted in the south. Seminoles, Comanche, Cherokees, they are all of the same inferior race.”
I looked away from Peck in disgust and noticed that Trump had come back outside. As he stood in the open doorway, listening intently to our conversation, he appeared transformed to me. The self-possessed, handsome face I had been sketching all week was contorted and ugly, and his dark eyes blazed.
“Speak no more of this,” I told Peck in a low tone.
Unaware of Trump’s presence behind him, he ignored my directive and went on in a commanding tone. “I will speak, Miss Bell, and I hope you will listen for your own good. All Indians have ungovernable appetites and treacherous natures. And they are cruel and revengeful. They are trained since boyhood to use the tomahawk and scalping knife and use them they do, without conscience or reason.”
“Without reason?” Henry said. He too was unaware of Trump, his attention captured by Peck’s bigoted pronouncements. “Their homelands continue to be stolen by us, they continue to die from our diseases, and all the promises made to them continue to be broken. White men kill for far less reason than that, Captain Peck.”
Trump spoke out at last. “That white man killed for gold,” he said, pointing a trembling finger at Peck. The captain whirled around, and Trump locked eyes with him. “I recognized your fiendish voice even before I saw your devil face. Both have haunted me for years.”
Peck forced out a laugh. “This redskin must be drunk. When they get liquored up they hear spirits and see ghosts.”
“You are the one who sees a ghost,” Trump told him. “I have come back from the grave to kill you.” He leapt from the doorstep and was upon Peck in an instant, his hands gripping the captain’s neck.
Henry immediately intervened, grabbing Trump by the shoulders. But Trump, in a towering frenzy, seemed to have the strength of ten men, and Henry could not pull him away from Peck. Mr. Vail did not come forward to help. Nor did Mr. Upson. I suppose, as a minister, he was reluctant
to use physical force against another. As a woman, so am I, but I did so anyway. I grabbed hold of Trump’s left arm and Henry tugged at the other, and Trump suddenly let go his grip of Peck’s neck. I do not think he was even aware of Henry or me pulling at him, however. It seemed as though he had simply changed his mind about killing Peck there and then.
We released our hold on him and he stood back, breathing hard. His expression was livid, and his entire body radiated hate as he stared at Peck. “I won’t defile the home of my friends by killing you here. I will find a more suitable time and place to do it. Yours should be a slow, miserable death. And right after you die I will scalp you.Your vile spirit must perish along with your body.”
Without another word, Trump walked out the front gate and through a knot of spectators who had turned their attention from the ball game to the drama in our front yard. Neither Henry nor I went after Trump, for we both felt it best to give him time alone to calm himself. We watched him disappear in the twilight as he strode past the Green and took a path that led to the river.
Peck, hand at throat, crumpled in the nearest chair. Mr. Vail suggested sending for the constable. But there was no need to do that, for Mr. Beers was standing right there on the opposite side of the picket fence along with the rest of the gawkers.
“Want I should go after him?” he asked Peck in a reluctant tone.
“No,” Peck said hoarsely. “A crazed redskin is not worth the trouble.” He glared at me. “Did I not warn you about him, Miss Bell? Take care to lock your doors tonight.”
I am sure Peck locked his when he went home with his guests. They and Mr. Upson, looking appalled by what had transpired, all took their leave straightaway, but Henry insisted on staying with Grandfather and me till Adam returns. I am grateful for that. It is not likely that Trump will do any of us harm should he come back to the house, yet his countenance was so fierce when he looked at Peck that I believe he is capable of almost anything.
ADAM’S JOURNAL
Sunday, August 16th
Firstly, the good news. The Fenns’ two-year-old daughter Abby survived her long ordeal. This alone, of all the day’s events, gives me comfort. And I hope my presence gave Abby’s poor mother comfort throughout the long night. We took turns bathing the child in cool water to lower her raging fever, stroking her arms and legs to try and calm her intestinal convulsions. As the hours passed, I began to fear that her life would ebb away from sheer exhaustion. Willed myself to stay calm and composed for the mother’s sake. She was hanging on my every word and expression, watching my countenance for signs of new hope or final despair. At last Abby’s fever gradually eased, and she was relieved of her torment. We dried her off and put her back to bed and when she opened her eyes she looked at us both as if wondering what all the fuss was about and whispered for her doll. Mrs. Fenn collapsed in relief and sobbed in my arms. I nearly shed tears myself.
I left the Fenn farm in darkness and awoke to see the sun’s first rays hitting the Meetinghouse tower. I had slept most of the way home, leaving it to Napoleon to get the gig back to town. As we came to a stop in front of the house, Henry came out and bid me good morning. I nodded back, not especially pleased to see him so early. Indeed, the only person I would have been pleased to see at that moment was Julia.
“You look mighty weary, Adam,” he said. “Let me see to your horse.”
“You look none too chipper yourself,” I replied rather gruffly, despite his kind offer. “What brings you here at the crack of dawn, Henry?”
“I spent the night here.”
Upon hearing this I felt a spurt of jealousy, immediately replaced by a rush of anxiety. “Is Julia all right?”
“Yes, and so is your grandfather. But we do not know how Trump is faring.”
Before I could ask another question Julia came rushing out of the house. She looked so wan and troubled that I leapt from the gig and took her into my arms. “Pray what is wrong, dear?”
She pulled away, and we both glanced at Henry. He was studying the sky rather than us. “The kestrels are beginning to migrate,” he said mildly.
And then he and Julia told me all that had transpired whilst I was away. Early last evening Peck and his guests came to watch the ball game from our door yard. When Trump espied the captain he became so enraged he tried to throttle him. His reasons for doing so remain unclear, for he did not stay around to explain himself. Concerned that he might come back to the house even more distraught than when he left, Henry did not want to leave Julia and Grandfather alone to face him and spent the night keeping watch by the front window. After thanking him I suggested we go search for Trump. I feared he might have done himself harm by wandering all night with an open head wound.
Before we could go looking for Trump, however, Constable Beers hurried toward us as fast as his excessive poundage would allow. Crossing the Green had made him so breathless I could barely understand him, but I managed to comprehend that my presence was required at Capt. Peck’s immediately.
My first thought was that he had overdosed on the laudanum I had given him. “What state is Peck in?” I asked Beers.
“A most dire one,” he gasped and looked askance at Julia. “Don’t want to say more in front of the young lady.”
“Best you go inside, Julia,” I said.
Of course she did not budge. “If I faint you will not be held responsible, Mr. Beers,” she assured him. “Please continue.”
“Very well. Captain Peck has been murdered.”
Beers then went on to relate, between pants and much mopping of the brow, how he’d been rousted out of bed by Lt. Finch, who had ridden into town to alert him of the murder. The constable then awakened Justice Phyfe, who ordered him to bring me to examine the body whilst he and Mr. Daggett collected enough men for a Coroner’s Jury. Beers asked if he could ride to Peck’s in my gig, for his weight made mounting a horse a trial, and I agreed on the condition that Henry could also come along. At first Henry was reluctant to do so, but when I expressed my great respect for his observational skills, he agreed. Julia beseeched us to take care, her eyes upon me alone.
Thanks to the constable’s considerable bulk, we proved to be a tight threesome in the gig, and no doubt a heavy one for Napoleon to pull the short distance to Peck’s house. When we reached the drive I spotted Finch beckoning to us from the far corner of the field, so we headed there instead of the house. Finch disappeared behind a stand of trees, and I recalled that was where Peck’s belvedere was located. We found Finch standing at attention in front of it.
“I found him just as he lies inside,” he informed us. “When I came by here on a morning ride, my horse shied, no doubt from the smell of blood. I could smell it too and dismounted to investigate. What confronted me was not a pretty sight.” He did not appear over disturbed, but then he must have seen his share of bloodshed in service.
We started up the steps. Henry cautioned that we should be careful where we stepped or what we touched, but Beers disregarded him and with the authority of his office plowed ahead. What he saw caused him to immediately turn back. He did not quite make the rail before he heaved up the contents of his stomach.
Even more pungent than the smell of fresh vomit, a sweet, putrid scent drenched the close summer air. I stepped inside and saw a man’s body on the white wooden floor, face up. It seemed to be floating in a pool of thick black fluid.
“Tracks there, be careful,” Henry cautioned, and I saw footsteps in blood about the body and leading past us to the steps.
“A number of those are mine,” Finch said from behind us. “I confess I was incautious. When I saw the captain lying there, I rushed to his side, believing I might be able to assist him. But he was well past help as you see, Doctor.”
What I saw shocked me. Not only did the victim have multiple wounds to the chest. He had been brutally scalped besides. The facial features were so caked in blood and so contorted in an expression of agony and fear that I had to look closely to be sure it was really Peck
. His distinctive head of thick black hair with its bold white stripe was gone entirely, and only a sad rim of matted curls above the ears remained. The naked cranium, covered with bits of flesh and odd pieces of clinging membrane and tissue, glistened obscenely in the early morning light. From the copious amount of blood splattered all over the face and neck, I deduced that Peck had been scalped alive, his heart pumping blood out through the myriad number of severed arteries and veins feeding the scalp tissue. His arms were bound tight to his torso by a length of rope to prevent him from resisting, and his eyes bulged as if they had last looked upon the Devil himself. His mouth, smeared with his own blackening blood, was agape in a silent scream of torment.
“I fear we are dealing with a madman,” Henry said, his voice calm and his eyes, as always, observing all. He stood a step back, carefully studying the bloody footprints about the body.
For myself, I was stunned by the savagery before me. Death in itself is an occurrence every physician must accept with equanimity or he cannot long continue in the profession, but here was a crime of such macabre sickness that it was clearly an expression of the most base and demented evil. My heart went out to Peck, who, no matter what his faults, did not deserve such an ignominious end.
I crouched down close to the body, careful not to touch the pool of blood on which had formed a thickening skin akin to that on hot gravy that has cooled. Whoever had done the scalping had gone about it with skill, cutting a precise circle about the skull. In order to see if the body had been subjected to any other injuries I asked Henry to help me carefully raise and lean Peck’s upper body forward.
He did so without hesitation and pointed to the back of the coat. There we both saw the clear dirt imprint of a boot sole. “He used his right foot,” Henry said, “to press down on the center of Peck’s back for leverage.”
Leverage for what purpose I perceived in an instant. With his foot on Peck’s upper back vertebrae, the assailant had used one or both hands to rip the scalp free from the connecting tissue of the scalp.