Thoreau at Devil's Perch

by B. B. Oak

  This morning I awoke eager to get back to Plumford and back in Julia’s good graces. But decided to take an afternoon train and interview one last person this morning—Pierre LaFarge. I have been most curious about him ever since Mrs. Vail informed me that he makes jewelry out of Georgia gold. I was almost certain it was the ill-gotten gold that Peck stole from Trump’s family and wanted to find out more.

  Had to inquire at a good many Washington Street jewelry establishments before I came upon anyone who knew where I could find the Frenchman. His little shop on Province Street is a good distance from the fashionable commercial district. Although alerted of my entrance into his shop by the bell above the door, the stocky, broad-shouldered fellow in the adjacent room kept his back to me as he worked at a high table. I looked at the fine engravings depicting landscapes and sentimental scenes covering the walls, then gazed into the glass case displaying lockets, bracelets, pendants, and earbobs. Even my inexperienced eye could discern that they were of unique design and superior craftsmanship.

  I cleared my throat a few times, and the fellow finally shrugged out of his blue work smock, took his time getting into a frock coat of an even brighter blue hue, and came forward to assist me. He had a high forehead, broad nose, and unwashed hair tied back in a tail.

  “Bonjour, monsieur. How may I help you?”

  The first thing that came into my head was to tell him I was in the market for a piece of gold jewelry.

  “Jewelry for a young lady?”

  “Perhaps.”

  He laughed. “Perhaps she is young? Or perhaps she is a lady?”

  “She is both,” I said most definitely as Julia’s image appeared in my mind’s eye. “And I would like to buy her a present.” Although that had not been my intention upon entering the shop, I now wished to do so very much.

  “Is this young lady your betrothed, monsieur?”

  “No, no. We have made no plans to marry.”

  He gave me a wink, opened the case, and took out an oval pendant. “No need to marry when you can encourage a woman’s most intimate embraces with a gift such as this, eh?” He placed the pendant on a piece of black velvet cloth for my delectation. It was rather small but sublimely etched with interwoven leaves surrounding two clasped hands. I imagined how it would look resting upon Julia’s bosom. “Go ahead and cup it in your hand,” he urged me.

  And so I did. The pendant warmed in my palm, and I could not stop staring at it. “Who is the craftsman of this excellent piece?”

  “C’est moi!” the jeweler said. His blunt but not unhandsome face glowed with pride. “I am Pierre LaFarge, artisan extraordinaire! ”

  “Tell me, Mr. LaFarge. Is this pendant fashioned from Georgia gold? I hear that is the best gold there is.”

  “What you hear is correct, young man. And that is indeed Georgia gold you caress in your hand. The trace of copper alloy lends it the rose tint that makes it unique in the world. I alone have a supply provided by a former officer of your Army. He obtained it directly from the miners in the mountains of that wild and uncivilized place.”

  I made an effort to keep my expression disinterested. “The man who told me about Georgia gold was also in the Army. Captain Gideon Peck served in that region during the Cherokee removal.”

  LaFarge stepped back and studied my face warily. “Is this Captain Peck you mention a friend of yours?”

  “We knew each other well enough. He recently died, you know.”

  “How would I know that, monsieur?”

  “Well, if you do not, I am sorry to be the one to tell you.”

  “You presume I was acquainted with Captain Peck?”

  “Were you not?”

  LaFarge shook his head so vehemently his tail of hair swayed.

  If he would not admit to knowing Peck, I could get no further information from him. I looked around the shop a moment, taking in the framed scenes on the wall, and recalled the far more vivid depictions of LaFarge’s work I had seen.

  “In truth, the reason I came here, Mr. LaFarge, has nothing to do with gold,” I said. “I am far more interested in the paper impressions you produced for Captain Peck.”

  He paled. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

  I could understand his obvious nervousness. Men in Boston had been imprisoned for writing about sexual behavior much milder than what LaFarge so vividly depicted in his engravings. “Have no fear,” I said. “I am an admirer, not a censor. Captain Peck showed me his collection of erotica and informed me you were the artist.”

  He immediately relaxed. “Ah, those impressions.” Color returned to his face, and a glimmer lit his eye. “Are you a collector yourself ?”

  “I would like to be. Have you anything to show me?”

  “Mais bien sûr!”

  He led me to the adjoining room where the smell of copper, ink, and acid competed with the scent of ripe cheese. I spied a big wedge of it upon the worktable, along with a small brown mouse taking nibbles from it. The little creature regarded us without fear, but it must have had its fill of cheese, for a moment later it leapt down and scurried across the room. As my glance idly followed its movements, I noticed it had no tail. I also noticed a satchel with a large brass lock in the corner of the room. The worn leather bore the faded lettering “U. S. Army, 3rd Infantry” on its side. The sight of that snagged at my memory like a cat’s claw on silk, but soon more vivid sights captured my attention.

  After hurriedly clearing his worktable of copper sheets, engraving tools, food, and a half-empty wine bottle, LaFarge unfurled upon it a sheaf of finely drawn, graphic scenes of lovemaking. Most exceeded in sheer lubricious wantonness what I had seen at Peck’s. Naked men embraced naked women in both familiar and quite unique postures of congress, and their expressions conveyed a passionate joy free from any sense of guilt, sin, or embarrassment. The artistry was superb if absolutely pagan.

  “And I have others of a far less tender character in my private studio,” he said, his lantern chin jutting in the direction of a closed door. “Depictions that include whips and animals and such, if you are so inclined.”

  I was not. “These are quite impressive enough,” I said. “Such vivid detail.”

  “Oui. I am a masterful draftsman. But the quality comes not only from my drawing and etching. It is impossible to convey from plate to paper such exquisite details without a good printing press. I have an excellent press in there.” Again the chin wag toward the closed door. “I brought it with me from France at great expense and trouble. But heavy as it is, it has turned out to be worth its weight in gold.” He boomed out a laugh. “Indeed, it has!”

  “Yes, I suppose such . . . explicit art as this fetches a fine price here in Boston.”

  “For you, a special price, mon jeune ami,” he said. “Which prints would you care to purchase today?”

  “I must think about it.”

  His heavy face fell. “You will purchase nothing today then?”

  “Oh, yes.” I opened my palm to show him the pendant I had been clutching as we talked. “I want to buy this.”

  His small eyes lit up with a conspiratorial glint. “For that demoiselle you have no plans to marry, eh? Très bien. Such a fine gift as this is sure to open her heart and her limbs, and you will soon be enacting some of these very scenes with her.” He pointed to his lascivious depictions.

  I felt my face heat and looked down at the pendant. LaFarge’s insinuating words should have cast a taint upon it, but the purity of the gold still delighted me. And I still wanted it for Julia. I took out my wallet and asked him how much it was. When he told me, I realized I could not meet his price.

  “I am afraid I do not have that amount on my person,” I said.

  “Perhaps you do.” He peered at the gold chain on my waistcoat. “If we include your watch in the trade. Take it out, and let me have a look at it.”

  “I would prefer to come back with more money if you will only hold the pendant for me.”

  He smiled bu
t shook his head. “And I would prefer to be paid for it now. Or I shall sell it to the next person who comes in and wants it.”

  I had made up my mind to have the pendant and could not abide the thought of someone else getting it. So I let the jeweler have my timepiece, which I had almost lost to the banker anyway. I could always buy another one for myself, but never another pendant so suited for Julia.

  LaFarge examined the watch, nodded, and slipped it in his pocket. When I gave him all the notes I had in my wallet, he examined each one more carefully than he had the watch.

  Left the shop with my purchase, looking forward to giving it to Julia this afternoon. But as I strolled through the Common on my way to the station, the number three snagged at my memory again. Suddenly it struck me that three was the number the brothel girl Dora had seen imprinted on Badger’s satchel. She had also said it had a big brass lock. Surely it was the same satchel I had seen in LaFarge’s back room!

  Sat down on a bench by the Frog Pond and puzzled out the rest of it. I had learned during my visit to Vail’s office yesterday that he has easy access to the plates his bank uses to print notes. Saw for myself that his clerk brought some back to him direct from the printer’s. Later that day Vail’s wife informed me that her husband and Peck had formed a business venture together. Could that venture be a counterfeiting operation? It was surely a possibility. Vail had access to bank plates, LaFarge had access to a printing press, and Peck had an acquaintance with both men. So he had brought them together. And used his minion Badger as a courier to transport the plates. But one evening Badger got so drunk that he forgot the old military satchel he carried them in at Mrs. Scudder’s brothel. When Caleb came to Plumford to demand money for the satchel, Badger killed him to try and cover up his mistake. But who killed Peck? Most likely it was the mysterious visitor Lt. Finch had spied talking to Peck in the belvedere the evening before he was killed. Was it LaFarge?

  Yes! True, I had not seen the Frenchman when I brought medication to Peck. But his association with the captain was a covert one, so it would make sense that LaFarge would keep out of sight. Then Vail came to Plumford and, after overhearing Trump threaten to kill Peck, cooked up a murder scheme with LaFarge to kill Peck themselves. By incriminating Trump, they would be free of all suspicion.

  But why did LaFarge and Vail want to do away with Peck, who was the mastermind of their operation? Because he was no longer needed, of course. Why continue to give him a cut of the proceeds when they were the ones carrying out the operation and taking all the risks? That Peck was fornicating with Vail’s wife would be another potent reason for the banker to want to get rid of him.

  Of course I must somehow prove what is only a series of logical deductions on my part. Without such proof the police will never arrest a respectable banker like Vail. And if he or LaFarge is alerted that they are now under suspicion, they will be sure to conceal all evidence of the counterfeit scheme. Consequently, it is up to me to return to Province Street in the hope that I can find such evidence myself, be it actual plates or false banknotes printed from them in the back room of LaFarge’s shop.

  JULIA’S NOTEBOOK

  Thursday, 20 August

  A letter from Adam was waiting for me at Daggett’s store this afternoon. It was dated Tuesday, and although I have read it at least twenty times, it perplexes me more with each reading. Dear Kindred Spirit, he begins. This salutation alone puzzles me. Is he simply referring to our relationship as kin, or does he mean we have like natures? He goes on to write that he is most appreciative of a recovered intimacy with his dearest friend. I shall assume that I am the friend he alludes to, but what means he by intimacy? Our long-standing friendship? Or the intimacy we shared when we kissed? We most certainly never kissed like that as children, so it could hardly be called a recovered intimacy. In point of fact, he does not mention the kiss even once in the entire letter. Has he forgotten about it then? Alas, I have not.

  He writes that he wants to be open and frank with me and wishes us to share a free and mutual confidence.Yet he continues to keep much from me concerning his investigation of Peck’s murder, just as he did in regard to the suspicious death of the young Negro. Indeed, Henry Thoreau is Adam’s only confidant in these matters, and if it were not for dear Henry, I would not know what Adam has been up to in Boston. All he tells me in his letter is that he is looking for evidence that would exonerate Trump.

  And then, in the very first sentence of the next paragraph, he declares me to be the most perfect and satisfying woman he has ever known! I like this sentence very much. Nevertheless, I cannot help but wonder how many women he has known well enough to compare me with. Perhaps I parse too much. But I cannot help it. Every word in Adam’s missive has become indelible in my heart. “Regard me as one with yourself,” he writes. What am I to understand that to mean? He goes on to claim that everything in life seems insipid and flat without me, and that he thinks about me wherever he goes and whatever he does (which he continues to keep to himself). After informing me he intends to return to Plumford no later than Thursday, he closes: “I long to be again united with thee.” He then signs himself “Your affectionate cousin.” By thus calling attention to our consanguinity, is he not also calling attention to our ill-fated family history and the impossibility of us ever being truly united?

  I cannot conceive of myself as any other man’s wife though. Most certainly not Mr. Upson’s! I know not what Lyman sees in me, for I see nothing in him. I had hoped he would come to his good senses after we parted yesterday, but apparently he has not. Although he is keeping his promise not to call on me, I believe he left me a present this morning. Henry Thoreau handed it over to me when I opened the front door to his knock.

  “Why, thank you very much, Henry,” I said, taking the package he proffered. The brown paper wrapping had my name written on it. I could not help but think Henry was giving me the box of Thoreau pencils he had once offered and I had so foolishly refused.

  He hastily disabused me of that happy notion. “The package is not from me, Julia. I found it here on your doorstep.”

  I invited him to join my grandfather and me at breakfast, and when we went into the kitchen I placed the package on the table. Grandfather hobbled in and looked rather surprised to see Henry.

  “What brings you to Plumford so early?” he inquired.

  “My own two feet brought me, sir,” Henry replied in that quietly humorous way of his. “An early-morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.”

  “So it is!” Grandfather agreed. “And I hope to be partaking in such walks soon myself. My grandson is of the opinion that I should keep off my broken limb for another week, but I am eager to test it out. Indeed, if Adam doesn’t return from Boston today, I will take off these damn splints myself and toss them aside.”

  “Adam has not come back yet?” Henry said.

  “No, and we have heard nary a word from him,” I replied in an injured tone. (This was before I received Adam’s letter.)

  A look of concern crossed Henry’s countenance. “He must be quite busy.”

  “Doing what, pray?”

  “He told me he planned to interview the banker Vail and the soldier Finch when we parted the day before yesterday.”

  Appreciating Henry’s direct response to my question, I asked him another. “And what did the two of you do whilst together in Boston?”

  “We went to a waterfront tavern and a brothel.”

  This time Henry’s directness took me aback. “Well! I suppose you had good reason to visit such places as that.”

  “Good or not, men do have their reasons,” Grandfather said, doing his best to sound the worldly old doctor. But he too looked rather astonished.

  Henry explained to us that he and Adam had been investigating the veracity of Sgt. Badger’s testimony that he was at Shark’s Tavern the night Capt. Peck was murdered. This, in turn, led them to Mrs. Scudder’s bawdy house, where Badger, they discovered, had spent most of the night. The girls who work
ed there had confirmed this, disproving Adam’s theory that Badger was back in Plumford in time to kill Peck. I was most curious to hear more about these bawdy girls, but Henry was not inclined to discuss them further.

  “I came by to inform Adam of the progress I was making on Trump’s behalf,” he said. “I am sorry to say it has been slight. My mission is to get him transferred from the Powder House to our jail in Concord, but I have found little support from my fellow townsmen, with the exception of Mr. Emerson. He too is enraged by the way the Indian is being treated and has written a letter of protest to the State’s Attorney General. Let us hope it is more influential than the last letter he wrote on behalf of Cherokees to President Van Buren. Meanwhile, Trump remains at risk in the Powder House. Has Rufus Badger made further attempts to incite the men in town to hang the poor Indian?”

  “Badger has not shown his face in town since the captain’s funeral,” I told Henry. “From what we hear, he and his army pals are having themselves a grand time at Peck’s house, drinking up his ample supply of liquor.”

  “A drinking party can easily become a lynching party,” Henry said.

  It was decided that right after breakfast he would go to the Powder House to see how Trump was faring, although it was doubtful he would be granted an interview with the prisoner. I cut him a big wedge of the apple pie Granny Tuttle had sent over, and as he and Grandfather ate, I turned my attention to the package I had left on the table.

  “What is it?” Grandfather asked.

  “We shall soon see.” Pulling back the brown wrapping paper, I gasped. “It’s a dead bird!”

  “Many dead birds,” Henry said, staring bleakly at the contents.

  Grandfather craned his neck for a better look. “Why, I see no bird carcasses at all. Merely feathers sewn onto a long strip of cloth.”

  I lifted the strip from the wrapping. “It is a pelerine. Narrow capes such as this used to be quite fashionable.”