“I know,” says Louisa, and repeats, humbly, “We’re lucky.”
Everything is polished today, or in the process of getting that way, and Babe and Louisa are no exception. They have just spent two hours at Miriam’s House of Beauty and are redolent with lotions, their curls so tight around their heads that it seems they must still be wearing the thick-webbed hairnets which are de rigueur for under-the-dryer at Miriam’s. This loving attention to their scalps has left them drowsy, and the sun flashing on the water, the smell of warm, wet wood that rises from the docks, and the cheerful anticipation all around them of the season’s opening, all this makes them feel rich and favored. They would hold hands and skip along the sidewalk, as they used to do when they were children, but for the certainty that everyone would laugh at them. The deference they are shown on the streets of Mussel Point—for being their father’s daughters—is too valuable to risk; it is the only deference they get. So they walk, demurely, in their “blue linen frock with the modified sailor collar.” Clothes, for Babe and Louisa, are always in the singular—“our blue linen sailor,” “our little green print”—as if they were both always zipped together into a single costume.
“I wrapped the bathrobe,” says Louisa.
“Oh, good,” says Babe. “How does it look?”
“All right, but I hope he doesn’t think the paper’s silly.”
“He won’t even notice it,” says Babe.
They pass the dance hall, on their left, a structure that is little more than a peaking roof on posts, built out on stilts over the water, where two boys are twisting new bulbs into long strings of lights that will illuminate its rafters and its eaves and make a heaven for moths and dancers alike. And on their right they pass the Mussel Point Inn, all white clapboard and smart black shutters, set back behind a deep half circle of gravel driveway, its wide veranda bare still of the ferns and rocking chairs that are its normal summer decoration. A woman is sweeping the steps, a man rakes the gravel.
“Company coming,” says Babe.
Louisa laughs delightedly. “That’s clever, Babe,” she says. “That’s exactly what it’s like.”
They arrive at the tea room’s path just in time to hear, from behind the locked gates of the Pleasure Dome, a sudden burst of strident, tinny music. “Listen, Babe,” says Louisa. “They’re testing the merry-go-round.”
They stand on the sidewalk, listening, and then Babe says, “Daddy’s in there, I suppose.”
“Of course he is,” says Louisa. “He was all excited this morning, just like a little boy. They’re trying out a few new tunes today, and of course he wouldn’t miss that.”
“One thing you can say for Daddy,” says Babe, “he really loves his work.”
“Yes,” says Louisa, “he really does. It’s kind of touching, don’t you think so?”
“I guess,” says Babe. “It’s funny, though. Daddy’s a funny duck. You’d think a man who got so much pleasure out of a merry-go-round would be a different kind of person. You know, kind of jolly and laughing a lot. But Daddy—well, you’d certainly never describe him as jolly.”
Louisa thinks this over, and at last she says, “He’s been happy, though, I think. Don’t you think he’s been happy?”
“He’s always had everything,” says Babe. “Why shouldn’t he be happy? Come on, let’s get our treat. I’m starved.”
And side by side they disappear into the President McKinley Tea Room.
Summer 1889
When Herbert Rowbarge was nine, an event of huge significance occurred which brought his childhood to a close and defined his future for him, though there were still another nine long years remaining before he left the Home. He had grown, and Dick had managed to remain at his side. Neither was acquired or adopted. For Herbert, at nine, had become too narrow of frame, too sharp of eye. Though it was clear that he was smart, it was also clear that he was used to his own way. Dick had seen to that. And then there was that anger in him, too, always ready to explode. These very qualities, in fact, had prompted the cook, Mrs. Daigle, to suggest the surname Rowbarge for him. And though this last had occurred some three years earlier, it is worth recording.
Mrs. Daigle had an ear for names. She knew what sounded nice with what. And she knew a great many people, in the county and elsewhere, which gave her a large store of names from which to choose. So when, one morning, Mrs. Frate gave up with a sigh and admitted to herself that Herbert was unlikely to gain a name by adoption, she took the matter into her own hands and went, as usual, to the cook for consultation.
“Hmm,” said Mrs. Daigle, brushing flour from her elbows. “A last name for Bertie? Let’s go and have a look at him. A name’s got to match a person.”
So they went to the schoolroom and looked at Herbert while pretending to look at something else, and then, back in the kitchen, Mrs. Daigle took up her rolling pin, gestured with it, and said, “Rowbarge. That’s the name. That child is a dead ringer for a boy named Rowbarge I used to know that worked for my uncle over to Chillicothe. Skinny, light-brown hair, long nose, and that sharp way of looking at you. And it sounds good with Herbert, seems to me.”
“Rowbarge,” said Mrs. Frate slowly, trying it out. “Herbert Rowbarge. Yes, it does sound right, somehow. Very well, Rowbarge it shall be. Thank you, Mrs. Daigle.”
“Don’t mention it,” said the cook.
Mrs. Frate turned to go, and then she paused and turned back. “Mrs. Daigle, you don’t suppose … that is, if Herbert looks so much like this young man you used to know, do you think it’s possible he might be …”
Mrs. Daigle shook her head. “No,” she said, “Bob Rowbarge got hisself shot at Gettysburg in ’63. Never had time to get married, even, let alone get some girl in trouble on the side. Anyways, that was long before Bertie was born.”
“Yes—well—I just wondered,” said Mrs. Frate. “Do you think the family will mind if Herbert borrows their name?”
“Not them!” said Mrs. Daigle. “Bunch of thieves and lowlifes, most of ‘em. Lived up near Wheeling, as I recall, or somewhere off. They hanged two or three of ’em and the rest run off out West. Bob was the only one with any sense. No, they won’t mind. Go ahead. Herbert Rowbarge—it’s got a real nice ring to it.”
Getting a name was important, but it was not so significant by half as what happened in the summer of ‘89. In the late summer of every year, the waters of the Ohio River dwindled and stayed low till well into the autumn. A system of dams had been planned to correct this problem and that of the annual flooding; in fact, a flood in’84 had carried away large parts of Gaitsburg, including not only Mink’s Saloon but Mr. and Mrs. Mink themselves and the barrel of beer they were gallantly trying to salvage. So the dams had seemed like a good idea, and the first of the series had been finished up near Pittsburgh in ‘85. But then the money grew scarcer and scarcer, with railway construction gobbling up so much of it, and anyway, in’89 a lot of people changed their minds about the virtues of dams. Over in Pennsylvania, at the end of May, a dam outside Johnstown had collapsed, and the waters of the Conemaugh had lunged out and drowned two thousand people. A toll like that was impressive, and Johnstown was not that far away. So the summer in question saw the great Ohio as shallow as ever, and as difficult for shipping. Shipping, nevertheless, continued. And once in a while a boat would go aground, or get hung up on a snag. This, then, is how there came to be a merry-go-round set up in a field outside Gaitsburg one bright, hot morning in July.
Herbert heard the music when he went out that morning to lead the Home’s three cows to pasture. He had heard little enough music of any kind in his life, but even to the local connoisseurs, such as they were, this music was special: shrill as a whistle, even at a distance, and altogether merry and devil-may-care. It came to Herbert’s ears imperiously, demanding his attention. He hurried the cows on their way and ran back to see if he could find where it was coming from.
In the driveway he met Mr. Buzzey, just arriving for his day’s work, and M
r. Buzzey, too, was wide of eye and openmouthed. “Y’hear that?” he wheezed excitedly, seizing on a very willing Herbert to bless with the news. “That’s what they call a merry-go-round, that is. Barge went aground last night. They’re workin’ now to get’er loose. But it was bringin’ this here merry-go-round down, made all the way up to Buffalo, can ya beat that?—fella got a factory up there makes ’em—and they’re takin’ ‘er clear out to St. Louie! So they figured they better get’er off the barge, case she turned over, and they got’er set up and runnin’ sweet as you please right down in the yard back of the stables.”
“Where? Where?” cried Herbert, straining uselessly on tiptoe to peer between the trees on the plain below.
“Can’t see’er from here,” said Mr. Buzzey cruelly. “Say, she’s a beauty! Got all these here big animals goes round and round and up and down, horses and tigers and everything, painted up bright and shiny, and a big red canvas top on’er, and a steam organ, and she’s smokin’ and blowin’ like nobody’s business. They’re gonna run’er all day and take in a pile of money. Costs a nickel to ride’er, but even so, half the people in town is down there lined up, waitin’ for a turn. I ain’t got a nickel, just at the moment, or I swear I’da had me a ride myself.”
“Maybe we’ll get to go down!” Herbert exclaimed, trying to picture the machine in his imagination and finding it far too exotic.
“You crazy or somethin’?” Mr. Buzzey demanded. “You got about as much chance a’ seein’ that merry-go-round as you got seein’ Jack the Ripper. Boy, it’s a wonder, durned if it ain’t!” And he wandered off, still gesturing, and marveling under his breath.
There was a plaque in the schoolroom which read: “The consciousness of duty performed gives us music at midnight.” But Herbert had no intention of waiting till midnight for his music. He wanted it now. Early that afternoon, weeding in the garden side by side with Dick, he said in a low voice, “Let’s sneak out and go take a look at that merry-go-round.”
“Gosh, Bertie, how we gonna do that?” Dick said, astonished. “Somebody’d see us, sure, and you know what’d happen then.” Dick, at seventeen, was large and slow-moving, with a great sheaf of straight yellow hair that hung over his eyebrows; but the gray eyes below were gentle and serious and, when they gazed at Herbert, full of tenderness. They were, now, full of apprehension, too, for he knew how determined his adopted little brother could be.
“Look here,” said Herbert. “Pretty soon we got to go pick berries out back of the barn. We can sneak off then. Nobody’ll notice, not if we’re careful.”
“We-ell, maybe, but what if they did? I don’t care for me so much, but gee whiz, Bertie, you’re too little to—”
“I am not!” Herbert interrupted with heat. “I got to see that merry-go-round, no matter what. You can come if you want, or you can stay. I don’t care. But I’m goin’.”
“Gee whiz, Bertie,” Dick said helplessly. He paused, looking at the stern young face that stared back at him so impatiently. “Well … gee whiz, I can’t let you go alone.”
“You can, too!” Herbert exclaimed. The anger that was always just beneath the surface turned his thin cheeks red, and he scowled. “You got to quit callin.’ me a baby.”
“I didn’t call you a baby, Bertie,” Dick protested. “I know you’re not a—”
“Well, that’s right,” said Herbert. “So do what you want. I’m goin’ down.”
They went together.
It was easy enough to do, at that. Easy to slip away down the hill behind the barn, to circle around and come in to Gaitsburg from behind, drawn by the music like the Magi by the Star of Bethlehem. Herbert knew as well as Dick what would happen if someone caught them. But the music drove all apprehension from his mind. It called him and he had to go.
And oh, how wonderful it was! The field behind the stables was jammed with people, but the bright canvas top of the merry-go-round thrust up far over their heads, and the richly tinny music, loud as a brass band, drowned out their babble, even drowned out, almost, the clanking of the machinery. Black smoke billowed up into the sky, swirling when a breeze caught it, and dropping soot on everyone below, but nobody seemed to mind.
Herbert made his way determinedly through the crowd, with Dick close behind him, and then—it stood revealed to him in all its magnificence, and it was, he saw at once, a glorious, enormous Noah’s Ark. There were many pairs of horses, four at least, but there was, as well, a pair of camels. And two stags, even two tigers. There were chariots, their sides carved to look like dragons with handsome, scaly tails. But best of all, there was a pair of lions—yes, a pair—their fierce wooden jaws snarling open to reveal great lolling tongues and gleaming fangs within. And, oh, the paint glistened so, like oilcloth, dazzling in every color known to man, and studded with great glass jewels that winked as they circled by.
In the middle was a thing with a forest of brass pipes sticking up, built into a sort of little cupola rich with cupids, wreathed with wooden garlands, and set with mirrors that flashed reflections of the turning beasts that ringed it. Here a man in a gay striped jacket sat at a keyboard and struck out the notes of a rollicking waltz. He nodded and smiled and worked his eyebrows up and down as he played, and with each striking of a key, a little burst of steam shot with a piercing whistle out of one of the brass pipes. It was a steam calliope, the heart of the merry-go-round.
There had never been anything so fine in all the history of the world. Of this, Herbert was at once convinced. He stood with his mouth open, scarcely breathing. It did not occur to him that he might aspire to mount one of the animals and whirl off and around, like the screaming, laughing people who passed in a blur before him—that he might reach up and out to catch the brass ring that hung at a tempting height from one of the posts supporting the canvas top. He was content just to stand and gaze at the beauty of the lions—their matching manes, their gracious tails, their smartly lifted forepaws and chins. They were side by side, complete. And suddenly tears came to his eyes. Mrs. Frate had said, not long before, that heaven was “our souls’ own country evermore.” And now, all at once, Herbert saw what the words were getting at. For this was heaven, surely, and it was his soul’s own country. He would have one of these machines someday. He would, he must, and that was all there was to it.
He felt at last Dick’s hand on his shoulder. “Bertie, we got to go back. Now.”
“Not yet,” he managed to reply. “Not yet.”
It was too late, anyway. For there beside them, suddenly, loomed that stern agent of another heaven, the Gaitsburg minister whose daughter had been first owner of the nursery’s Noah’s Ark. He had tried, to no avail, to get the merry-go-round shut down, and now he turned his wrath on Dick and Herbert, targets more within his grasp. “I know you boys,” he boomed triumphantly. “You’ve run away from the Home. No struggling, now. I’m marching you back at once.”
Herbert and Dick were led to the cellar and chained to one of the great boulders of the building’s foundations. The designated spot, equipped for this purpose when the Home was built, was gloomy and damp, with no comfort or amusement. Even the rats left them alone, for one of these had pushed a Mason jar off a shelf and the pack was occupied with feasting on the applesauce that had splattered on the hard dirt floor a few yards away.
Here the criminals must sit for three full days and nights. It was the regulation punishment, and though it grieved her, Mrs. Frate followed it conscientiously. She took them out to the privies every so often, and at mealtimes she brought them the regulation bread and water. But these events made up the whole of their diversions. It would have been a nightmare to endure alone. With two together it was, by a thin margin, bearable.
“It’s my fault,” said Dick miserably. “I shouldn’t of let you go.”
“You couldn’t of stopped me,” Herbert returned. “And I don’t care anyway. I’m glad we went.” He was thinking still of the merry-go-round, and had long since passed the point where he could speak of i
t casually. But, at the same time, his head was so full of it that he wanted to talk of nothing else and so he attempted an oblique approach. “What you gonna do when you get outa here?”
“You mean outa the cellar?”
“No, I mean outa here. The Home. Where you gonna go? You’ll be eighteen pretty soon. You’ll hafta go then—they’ll make you.”
“I know,” said Dick sorrowfully. “I’ll get me a job in Gaitsburg, I guess, so we can sorta stay together. I been thinkin’ I’ll wait around till you get out and then we can do somethin’ together. Start a farm, maybe.”
“Not me,” said Herbert. “I don’t want nothin’ to do with any dumb farm.”
“Why not?” asked Dick, surprised. “What else you gonna do? Work on the railroad or the river or somethin’?”
Herbert tried to see Dick’s face clearly in the gloom, to measure him. He paused, and then decided to risk a partial confession. “Well, I dunno,” he said, making an effort to sound offhand. “It might be pretty good to get one of those merry-go-round machines—take it around and run it in the towns, like the one down in Gaitsburg.”
Dick paused, himself, considering this proposal. Then he said, gently, “That’d take a whole lot of money, though, Bertie, seems to me.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Herbert.
The merry-go-round was not mentioned again.
After their release from the cellar, Herbert and Dick went along as usual for a time. The merry-go-round was gone, the summer was hot, and everything seemed unchanged. But at the end of August, Dick was summoned to the matron’s office and, after a brief conference, emerged and at once sought out Herbert where he wandered in the pasture with the cows.
“Bertie!” he whooped. “I got to go! Right away. Today. Mrs. Frate just found out I turned eighteen last week. But, Bertie, that ain’t all. Listen! It turns out they got my father’s farm held for me all this time! Some lawyer down in Gaitsburg’s been sittin’ on the papers—he’s my guardian or somethin’—first I knew I had a guardian—and Bertie, when I get to twenty-one, I get the farm and everything! I never even thought of it before! Gee whiz, a farm all my own!”
Herbert Rowbarge Page 4