Thoreau at Devil's Perch

by B. B. Oak

  “Well, I ain’t accountable for his actions.”

  “Of course you are. It is your bull. And you allowed Pilgrim to sleep in your barn.”

  “I never allowed no such a thing! Just never stopped him from doing so. Can’t stop rats comin’ in here, neither.”

  “A human being lies here, Mr. Herd. Show him some respect.”

  Instead he stomped out of the barn, leaving me alone with the bull and its victim until the younger Herd came back with Constable Beers. Soon the Coroner’s Jury assembled in the barn, led by Coroner Daggett, but controlled by Justice Phyfe. After Hiram was questioned in a cursory manner about discovering the body, he was allowed to get on with his milking. I reported the injuries I had observed on poor Pilgrim’s mauled body, and we all went over to Sultan’s pen to examine the scene of the crime. The bull paid us no mind. There was blood on his hooves and spattered all over the hay.

  Justice Phyfe pointed to a half-empty whiskey bottle lying on its side in the corner. He ventured that Pilgrim must have accidentally dropped it through the boards and then, with a drunkard’s temerity, gone into the pen to retrieve it. I remarked that it was odd the bull had not shattered the bottle along with Pilgrim’s body during his rampage.

  Coroner Daggett reminded me that my only role was to give medical testimony, not to attempt to complicate the investigation as I had with the Negro. But he took up a hay rake, gingerly poked it through the boards, and retrieved the bottle as evidence. A pocketknife was revealed in the displaced straw, and he raked that out too. It was passed from one man to another. Its ivory handle was engraved with the graceful image of a leaping trout. We all agreed it was a fine-looking piece, most likely the only thing of value the tramp owned, and it was suggested that his pocketknife should be buried with him.

  The undertaker, Mr. Jackson, then inquired as to whom was going to assume the cost of the burial. Pilgrim had no kin that anyone knew of. No one even knew his true name. I volunteered to go ask Farmer Herd if he would pay for it, being of the strong opinion that he should.

  Walked over to the little farmhouse beyond the big barn. The kitchen door was open. I knocked on the jamb, and Mrs. Herd looked up from the mound of dough she was kneading on the table and invited me in. She asked if my grandfather was still keeled up with his broken leg, and I told her he was much improved and moving about now. She said she was glad to hear it and offered to heat up some coffee for me. Refused her kind offer and asked to speak to her husband. Didn’t tell her why. Her prosy manner made me wonder if she knew a dead man lay in the barn. Mr. Herd and his son might well have kept the sorry news from her. Else how could she be carrying on with her bread-making as though nothing were amiss?

  “Albion, young Doc Walker wants yer!” she called out. She then wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron and gave me a teary-eyed look. “How Pilgrim did relish my bread. Wish I could have given him one last piece, God rest his soul.” So she did know.

  Herd came in from the back room, and as I was telling him he should pay for the burial he rolled his eyes just as he’d described Sultan’s doing when riled.

  “Why should I?” he bellowed. “Weren’t my fault the old drunkard got hisself kilt.”

  “Albion means no disrespect to the dead,” Mrs. Herd told me, dabbing her eyes with her apron string. “Pain is what causes his meanness. He has been in great discomfort for near two weeks.”

  “What is the trouble?” I asked Herd.

  He stuffed his left hand into the pocket of his overalls and winced. “Never you mind,” he replied. “It will take care of itself by and by.”

  I did not pursue the matter, for at that moment Coroner Daggett came to the kitchen door. “Our verdict is Death by Bovine Assault,” he announced. “And we strongly recommend execution of the bull.”

  “And I strongly refuse to do it,” Herd replied. “Sultan is too fine a breeder.”

  “I’d like to pickle that prodigious pizzle of his,” Mrs. Herd muttered, punching her fists into the dough. Her husband gave her a wary look. “You heard me right,” she told him. “And here’s another thing I have to say, Albion.You must do the decent thing and give Pilgrim a proper burial. Go tell Mr. Jackson you will pay whatever it costs.”

  Much to my astonishment, he nodded his assent and went back to the barn with us to do his wife’s bidding. The undertaker covered Pilgrim’s body with a shroud from his wagon, and we carried him out on a plank. Soon as Mr. Jackson took off with his pitiful cargo and the jury disbanded, Herd bid me a curt Good Day. I told him I would now like to accept his wife’s earlier offer of coffee. He grunted assent, and we went back to the house.

  But it wasn’t coffee that I wanted. I wished to get a look at Herd’s hand in the presence of his wife. He reluctantly took it out of hiding in his pocket and extended it toward me. The second finger was a bright purple and swollen so tight it could not be bent. “Got it caught twixt two milk cans I was unloading at the Concord depot. The train to Boston was comin’ in, and I had to work fast.”

  “In haste is error,” Mrs. Herd said.

  He ignored her. “Well, Doc? It will be all right soon enough, will it not?”

  I shook my head. “It will have to come off, Mr. Herd.” Although I felt sorry for the man, I kept my tone firm. “You have waited too long as it is, and if I don’t operate soon the infection will spread, and you’ll lose more than one finger. Your whole hand most likely. Possibly your arm. Or your life, if it comes to that.”

  Mrs. Herd gripped her husband’s shoulder. “You hear that, Albion?”

  “I ain’t deaf.” He scowled at her, but then his expression softened. I waited as they silently communicated with each other. After a moment Herd looked back at me. “Chop it off now and be done with it.”

  “I’ll take you back to the office to do it.”

  “I ain’t got time to go into town. Take the dang thing off now or not at all.”

  Knew it would be useless to argue with him. The important thing was to get the job done before the obstinate old coot changed his mind. “Let’s go outside where there is better light,” I said.

  Got my surgical kit from the rig and laid a saw and scalpel on a splitting block out in the sun. “I suggest a good dose of spirits before I start,” I said to Herd.

  “He took the Pledge,” his wife said.

  “But this would be for medicinal purposes,” I said. “To help ease the pain.”

  Herd shook his head most adamantly. “Gave my word to man, God, and the missus that I would not ever take a drink again.”

  “Then let me hypnotize you,” I said. Herd listened most impatiently as I explained my method of inducing nervous sleep.

  “I ain’t got time to sleep, doctor. Just get on with it.”

  So I did. Sat Herd on the ground and laid his hand on the block. Told his wife to hold down his arm to keep the hand steady. Tied a tight tourniquet above the first joint in the swollen finger whilst Herd stared out at his cornfields with a stony countenance.

  “I’m starting now,” I said.

  Mrs. Herd scrunched her eyes tight, gritted her teeth, and pressed down hard on her husband’s forearm. Herd only blinked.

  Used a short, curved amputation knife to cut cleanly to the bone right around the finger. Hoped Mrs. Herd still had her eyes closed as a gout of blood and fluid flowed onto the ground. Eased back skin and muscle so I would have a flap to cover and tie off the wound. Put down the knife and picked up my metacarpal saw. Glanced at Herd, pale now but still rock-steady, and brought the saw blade to the finger bone. Cut through it in three clean strokes. Let the finger drop to the ground and teased out the main artery and nerves of the stump that remained with my tenaculum. Tied them off with catgut ligatures.

  Mr. Herd never uttered a sound, although he shifted his legs a bit, but no more than he would have done under the kitchen table. He looked at his wife. “You can open your eyes now, missus,” he said.

  Squinting, she watched me finish the job. I washed out the
wound with a dipper of well water, pulled down the skin and muscle, and closed the blunt end of the finger stump with a plaster of rubber dissolved in turpentine and spread on a tightly wound bit of linen.

  “That should do it,” I said, feeling right proud, I must admit, of accomplishing a clean amputation and a good, tight dressing in just a few minutes.

  Mrs. Herd picked up the finger from the ground and tucked it in her apron pocket.

  “Feed it to the pigs,” Herd suggested.

  “I got more regard for it than that. I’ll bury it in my flower garden. Good fertilizer.”

  She headed for the garden, and Herd and I went back inside to settle up. He took down a pewter mug from the chimney shelf and upended it on the table. Coins fell out in a jumble and rolled into the flour—American silver dollars, old English shillings and pence, and even a Spanish coin cut into pieces of eight. “Take what I owe you, doc.”

  Picked out far less than I should have charged, but money doesn’t matter as much to me as it does to him. Felt a real sense of accomplishment as I drove back to town, sure I had saved a life.

  Surprised and pleased to find a bright-eyed Molly Munger in the kitchen. She assured me she felt well enough to resume her household duties, and she did indeed look the picture of health. She seems to have put her recent troubles well behind her, and I have no intention of causing her or her family further grief. I shall take the secret of who killed Capt. Peck to my grave.

  JULIA’S NOTEBOOK

  Tuesday, 25 August

  Am I the foolish female Adam obviously thinks me? I shall enumerate the observations that have led me to the conclusion he finds so absurd, and if I am still convinced I am right, I shall have to do something about it, with or without his help.

  Arising at cockcrow this morning, I took a walk along the river path. When I glimpsed Lyman Upson fishing out in the current, I decided to attempt a conciliation with him. He was so intent on his sport that he did not notice my approach down the bank, and the closer I came, the more reluctant I became to disturb his peaceful pleasure. Instead, I leaned against an aspen and watched him fish.

  I had never seen Lyman so at ease with himself and the world around him. Moreover, I had rarely seen him without his tall black hat and never without his proper black frock coat. His blond hair gleamed in the morning light, and the full sleeves of his white linen shirt shimmered like angel wings as he raised his long bamboo rod, whisked his line into the air and over his shoulder, then reversed the direction forward with the flexing of his forearm. It amazed me how far such a simple, controlled motion made the line unfurl over the foamy current before descending into it. After a while he would lift the line off the water and go through the same movements again. As I watched I yearned for my pencil and pad in order to sketch such grace in action.

  He suddenly raised the tip of his rod and pulled in line. I surmised he had hooked a fish, and sure enough, a struggle commenced. The fish leapt out of the water in a silvery arc a few times but could not regain its freedom. Lyman reeled it away from the weedy shallows and soon had it in hand. He slipped the unfortunate creature into a wicker creel hanging from his side and smiled with satisfaction. I believe that was the first sincere smile I have ever seen upon Lyman’s visage, but when he looked up and saw me, it disappeared.

  “Are you spying on me?” he demanded.

  I forced a laugh. “Of course not, Lyman.You caught my attention as I was walking along the river path. No one else is about this early.”

  “That is why I come here every day at both sunrise and sunset,” he said. “I consider this part of the river my private sanctuary.”

  “I did not mean to intrude. I was merely observing your fishing skills.”

  His expression became more amiable. “It is true that I am a most competent angler. And I am always happy to discuss my sport with anyone who professes an interest in it. Come closer and I will show you my fine tackle.”

  I complied, reassured by his friendly attitude. Indeed, he was so amiable as he discussed the superior attributes of his nine-foot bamboo rod and brass reel that he seemed to have forgotten all about the unfortunate incident in the garden yesterday.

  “I have already caught five trout this morning,” he boasted.

  “You will eat well today,” I said.

  His countenance registered disgust. “I never consume fish.”

  “But trout are so delicious!”

  “So my late wife Urena claimed. I cannot abide the smell of fish cooking, however, so I never brought home my catch.”

  “Well, what do you do with all the fish you catch, Lyman?”

  “Throw them away, of course.”

  “What a pity to have them die for naught,” I could not help but remark.

  “Not for naught,” he said. “They die for my pleasure in catching them. Doth not the Bible state that God gave man dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth?”

  I did not argue this point with him, for my objective was to be conciliatory, not provocative. “Lyman, I am most sorry about yesterday,” I began.

  He held up his hand to halt me from speaking further. “It is over and done with, Julia Bell. You are not the virtuous young woman I thought you to be, and I am thankful God made me see it in time. My only regret is sending you that cape. I used many fine feathers from my collection to make it, and they could have been put to far better use in the making of flies.”

  “I shall return the cape to you forthwith!” I said, glad to soon be rid of the dreadful thing. “Could you not use the feathers again?”

  “I suppose I could at that,” he said, mildly mollified. “Tying flies is a craft I excel in. Here. Allow me to show you.” He pulled a leather book from his satchel and opened it. The book was lined with shearling, and attached to its felt pages were fishing flies in a variety of sizes and shapes. “I imitate insects and amphibians by using bits of animal hair and feathers to trick the fish,” he explained, turning the pages. “See how these small ones resemble mosquitoes and gnats. And these larger ones duplicate minnows and tadpoles.”

  “Yes, the resemblance is quite remarkable,” I said, feigning interest. Lyman was being so affable that I began to believe it possible that we would shake hands at the end of this tedious conversation and part friends. I pointed to a particularly gaudy fly that was comprised of black and white hair, pink wispy feathers, and ribbon. It held center stage on a page all its own. “What creature on God’s earth is that supposed to resemble?”

  “Oh, that one is not meant to resemble any earthly creature God made. No, no, it is entirely one of my own creation, and I have an ample supply of materials to fashion many more like it,” Lyman replied. “It is called an attractor fly, and fish strike at it out of curiosity.”

  “What is it made of?”

  “The hair comes from a skunk,” Lyman said, smiling slyly. His expression then became dour. “And the feathers and ribbon come from a garish pink bonnet I found hidden deep in Urena’s wardrobe chest.”

  “Your wife owned a pink bonnet?”

  He nodded grimly “A bonnet fit for a whore. How apt to combine fragments of it with the hair of that skunk.”

  It took me but a moment to realize what I was looking at, and as the sickening realization overwhelmed me, I thought I might faint. I reached for a tree limb to regain my balance, catching my sleeve on the sharp prongs of a branch. I could not dislodge it, and panic seized me by the throat. All I wanted to do was flee.

  “Let me assist you,” Lyman calmly offered. “I’ll cut you free with my pocketknife.” He reached for his satchel and peered into it. “Where is my knife?” he said, looking alarmed.

  I most certainly did not want to wait for him to find it! I yanked hard and welcomed the sound of ripping silk. A torn sleeve was a small enough price to pay for my freedom.

  “I must go at once,” I told Lyman.

  “Well, go then,” he said without ev
en bothering to look up at me as he continued to anxiously search his satchel.

  I ran all the way back to town and burst through the back door to the kitchen just as Molly was pouring coffee for Grandfather and Adam. I managed to catch enough breath to ask Adam if I could talk with him privately. He instantly rose from the table and stepped out to the garden with me.

  “What is wrong? What has happened?” he asked, taking hold of my elbows to steady me as I near swooned from exertion and shock.

  “I know who killed Captain Peck,” I gasped.

  He nodded. “So you guessed it.”

  “Not a guess. A certainty. I saw the captain’s hair on his hook.”

  “Calm yourself,” Adam told me. “You are making no sense.”

  “Do the actions of a madman make sense? Lyman Upson scalped his wife’s lover and made a fishing fly from his hair and the pink bonnet Peck had given her!”

  Adam said nothing. He just stared at me.

  “Don’t you believe me?”

  “What you say is rather hard to believe.”

  “I saw this fly from hell with my own eyes, Adam! Just a short while ago. Lyman is probably using it for bait as we speak!”

  Adam scowled. “You had an assignation with Upson this morning?”

  “No, I came upon him fishing.”

  “You just came upon him?”

  “Yes, by happenstance.”

  “You did not arrange to meet him?”

  “No, I say! Adam, please pay heed to what I am telling you. The Reverend Mr. Upson murdered Captain Peck.”

  “No, Julia. He did not.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Never mind. Just trust me.”

  “No, it is you who must trust me, Adam. Listen closely. Peck was Mrs. Upson’s lover, and that is why Upson murdered him.”

  “How could you possibly know this?”

  “The bonnet! Peck gave a pink bonnet to each of his mistresses. He even gave one to Molly. Mrs. Upson had one too that she kept hidden from her husband. But Lyman found it.”