by Van Reid
A cool breath found its way among the pilings of Sturdivant’s Wharf to stir the air of the coal room, and Burne was shivering. It must have been day, for something like light sent gray feelers into the room so that he could almost see his child’s face when it hovered above him.
“Daddy.”
“Mailon.”
“No, Daddy. I’m Melanie.”
Burne fought with this notion. “How could you be?” he said. “I told you no. I told you, you’re Mailon. Boys aren’t so hard put as girls. I told you that. What if something happened to me?”
There was a silence.
“Mailon,” Burne breathed out. He shivered. “Melanie,” he breathed in. He hardly knew he had said it.
“Something did happen to you, Daddy.”
Burne could not be sure in which dark room this was said. “Who told you?” he demanded as he struggled up on one elbow. It was indeed his little daughter beside him. It was his daughter standing yards away. Her hand was on his arm, but she was small and distant. He did not know how the sun had reached the blindness of the coal room. Her face was illumined in an orange light, and then the light shifted and he could see his son standing beside him. It was a boy—in boy’s clothes.
“Daddy?”
“Who told you?” he said, and he struggled up on one elbow. He thought he had already done this and gaped down at the planks beneath him.
“You fell asleep, Daddy.”
“It’s cold,” he said, but it was not the cold that made him shiver. He had had a terrible vision, just days, or perhaps only hours ago, of having killed his only child, and it occurred to him that this was but a ghost come to take him away. And then he was sure of it, as he was aware of other phantoms.
“Mr. Ring,” said one of these specters—a dark, bearded creature, like something out of old-country ground in his grandmother’s tales. “Mr. Ring,” said this vision quietly, “you had better come with us.”
“I wish there were more light,” said a second, taller ghost.
Burne’s daughter stood beside him. Her expression was so precise that he could suddenly accept that she was in the room (though which room, he still wasn’t sure). She turned to the shorter, bearded phantom and said, “Daddy says not to strike a light in here.”
“Hmmm,” came the voice of the bearded face. That face turned away and disappeared into the shadows. In the light of a lantern, raised up by an invisible arm, a tendril of coal dust explored the room and, lifted by the incoming breeze, reached for the illumining flame.
There was another grunt.
“It’s an old coal room,” said the taller vision.
“It’s too damp,” said the bearded one. He was not worried about fire, but he caught sight of the searching spiral of coal dust and pulled the lantern away, as he might back off from the raised paw of a cat. Some current of air, drawn by the retreating lamp, tugged at the groping cloud, but it appeared to Burne (and perhaps even to the phantoms) as if the dust sought the light and flame of the lantern. “You had better come with us, Mr. Ring,” said the bearded figure again, but with the smallest sense of hurry.
“Yes,” said Burne. His reward was calling. He understood that now, though these attendants were a good deal less frightening than he had expected. He wondered that they would be worried about a little fire.
Burne struggled up on one elbow. He was used to thinking that he had done this already. “Melanie,” he said.
“We’ll have to carry him up,” said the bearded phantom. “I hope the stairs will take it.” He craned his neck and raised the lantern for a look at the ceiling.
Someone said, “Let’s go,” and the taller ghost simply lifted Burne’s emaciated form from the hard, damp planks.
“I don’t think you want to take me up,” said Burne Ring. He didn’t want to cause anyone embarrassment. He didn’t want to chance his wife’s waiting at the gate and seeing him.
“Come on, Daddy.”
“Melanie, you can’t come.”
“Yes, I’m coming, too.”
“Not where I’m going, child.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Hush,” came a soft voice, and Burne couldn’t say to whom it was speaking.
BOOK ONE WEDDING AND DEPARTURE
June 4–5, 1897
I. The Members Were Early (June 4, 1897)
Who knew whence Spruce Street had sprung? Several lanes up from the waterfront, it must once have commanded a view of Portland Harbor. Perhaps in the days of King Philip’s War a cow path ran there, or even the rutted trail to a tiny cabin, from which a settler’s family would have fled the Abenaki raids that razed the seaside village with fire and ax. Almost a hundred years later, when the colonies had raised the cry of rebellion (and the vicinity was still known as Falmouth), half a dozen homes along that former cow path might have watched the approach of the British fleet that would shell the town and the landing of the troops that would burn it once again.
And in 1866, on the very day set aside to celebrate the old rebellion, fire would once more blight the eastern view of what was then named Spruce Street, populated with handsome brick and clapboard houses. The Great Portland Blaze, purportedly the result of fireworks, would destroy half the town, but Spruce Street would be spared.
Who knew whence Spruce Street had sprung? Three times fire had visited the peninsula, and much of the perceived history had been swept away by war and the want of memory between generations, so that on the fourth of June, 1897, when the sun rose among a scatter of ambivalent clouds, when squirrels ventured the lawns and birdsong and sea breeze filled the oaks and maples and chestnuts along the old way, it might have seemed to the first solitary walker that it had always been thus, or even that this avenue had risen, persevered, and lingered solely for the purpose of hosting the day’s significant event.
That first pedestrian on the heel of dawn was of less than average height for a grown man (which he was) and if he was more than average breadth (and again, yes), he was yet not fat but stout as a yeoman (which he was not). Consummately dressed in black, complete with gloves and top hat, he wore a brown beard that had twice been termed magnificent and that covered most of his face and a good deal of his upper torso. He held one arm against his side as if he were carrying something under it; the hour was too early for the newspaper that would normally occupy that position, but well-worn custom is hard to conquer.
Of three distinct and related figures expected on Spruce Street that day, he had the furthest to come, and it was not expected that he would walk the distance across town, or so in advance; but excitement had stirred him, and a powerful breakfast had fortified him beyond even his usual energies. He marched up to the gate of a Federal-style brick house and for all those energies, he looked uncertain when he stood there. With the phantom newspaper held in the crook of one arm and his free hand beneath his voluminous beard tapping arrhythmically against his chest, he considered the quiet home and the well-tended lawn.
“Hmmm,” he said.
He wasn’t very sure what he had intended, coming here at such a small hour. He had been roused by anticipation and drawn to this street by the coming event, but he hadn’t the slightest notion of what do with himself, now that he was here. He was not even sure about the hour and was pondering this question when the answer began to toll from a nearby steeple.
The bearded man turned to face St. Dominic and the sound of the bell, whereupon he caught sight of a second pedestrian, likewise turned in that direction, who was consulting first one watch and then another and even two more that he pulled in sequence from various pockets about his person.
“Hmmm,” said the bearded man again, and if the sound could not have actually reached the second man, something of its sentiment appeared to touch the back of his ear, for he turned and gasped with pleasure and amazement to see the yeomanlike figure upon the sidewalk.
“Thump!” came the second man’s voice with more emphasis than volume. (It was, after all, still very early in the morn
ing.) “How very remarkable!” added this fellow, who was of medium height, with black hair and mustaches, who was as well attired as the first man (though in brown), and who appeared also to be carrying something under one arm.
“Ephram!” came the low-registered voice of the first man. They met and shook hands with such enthusiasm that a spectator would hardly have guessed they had parted company not seven hours before.
“What an absolute delight!” continued Matthew Ephram.
“It is good to see you, my friend,” said Joseph Thump. “High tide at 1:48.”
“It’s one minute past five,” declared the mustached fellow. “I woke an hour ago and couldn’t bear to lie in bed.”
“I was the same.”
“There seemed nothing for it but breakfast and a walk.”
“A jaunt!” agreed Thump. They were still shaking hands.
“Even so!”
“And yet,” said Ephram, “despite the excitement of the day, I have walked with a small degree of melancholy that puzzles me.”
“I was the same,” said Thump.
“Were you, really? I myself was loath to admit.”
Thump raised his hands, taking care not dislodge the newspaper that was not under his arm, and gave the slightest sort of shrug.
“It is amazing how often we are got up with the same notions,” said Ephram.
“I have often been amazed,” Thump harmonized.
Their melancholy had all but vanished, though their uncertainty was redoubled as they approached the gate to the Federal-style brick house and wondered in unison (and aloud) what they might do to occupy themselves. It was not necessary for them to wonder long, for coming from the same direction as had Thump was a third figure, tall and blond and cleanshaven, his tan suit and top hat of recent vintage and his arm cocked in a now-familiar position.
“Eagleton!” said Ephram, and “Eagleton!” agreed Thump.
“Goodness’ sakes!” declared the newcomer. “Ephram! Thump!”
The three men strode forth and met with a great deal of handshaking (some between Ephram and Thump again).
“It is extraordinary!” said Matthew Ephram.
“How very like you to anticipate me!” averred Christopher Eagleton.
“Ever in the fore!” declared Joseph Thump.
“Clouds scattering before a southwest wind,” said Eagleton, “expected sunny afternoon, though more overcast by evening and possible thundershowers, clearing once again by tomorrow morning.”
“High tide at 1:48,” announced Thump. “That is, P.M.”
“It’s twelve minutes past the hour of five,” said Ephram.
Now the full charter membership of the Moosepath League found itself before the gates of the Federal-style brick house with no better idea as to its purpose. Truth to tell, they were not, by habit, early risers and the hour was mysterious to them. Was it, perhaps, a little untoward to be up and about while so many people were yet abed? They might have gone back to their respective homes (and back to bed) themselves if they had not had one another’s company to bolster their self-possession. But movement seemed necessary, and they began to amble, almost without conscious thought, eastward on Spruce Street.
It was not long before they met with the first businessman of the day, trundling his milk wagon from the direction of Clark Street. They hailed the fellow cautiously, still not sure about the appropriate early-morning greeting, and they watched with fascination as he stopped before one of the handsome houses along Spruce Street to deliver his wares “round the back.”
Further along the way they saw a fishmonger’s cart rounding the corner. In the distance they caught sight of other pedestrians or wagons trundling the streets. It was interesting to them how many people were out, and they felt less awkward about showing themselves.
“It is really a fine sort of hour,” observed Ephram.
“It really is,” agreed Eagleton. “Don’t you think, Thump?”
Thump had paused when they reached the corner. From this vantage they could look down Clark Street and see the sunlit harbor over the buildings on Commercial Street. “It is quite handsome,” said Thump.
“It really is,” said Eagleton.
Thump’s stomach growled. He was surprised how little his breakfast had done against the novelty of rising so early and the anticipation of the day ahead of them. Perhaps more breakfast was in order and he said so. It was a capital thought, and his friends’ admiration was only improved because of it.
And, now that a second breakfast had been decided upon, they had but to find it.
“Expected sunny this afternoon, overcast by evening and possible thundershowers,” said Eagleton.
“High tide at 1:48,” said Thump.
“It’s early, really,” said Ephram.
“It really is,” said Eagleton.
Thump pointed them down the hill, and trusting his instincts, Ephram and Eagleton followed him.
“Eighteen minutes past the hour of five,” said Ephram.
from the Eastern Argus June 5, 1897
MAN ABOUT TOWN
Last night the Shipswood Restaurant on Commercial Street was host to a memorable dinner, celebrating today’s wedding of Mister Tobias Walton of Spruce Street and Miss Phileda McCannon of Hallowell. Mister Walton is well known among the restaurant’s patrons and, indeed, among the Portland citizenry as the chairman of the Moosepath League, which society has garnered a good deal of ink in the past months for several unusual exploits. The restaurant itself, in the person of Carlton Pliny, the proprietor, sustained the dinner with the help of the club’s charter members, Mr. Joseph Thump of India Street, Mr. Christopher Eagleton of Chestnut Street, and Mr. Matthew Ephram of Danforth Street.
The event went off without a hitch, and the fêted couple showed, in their graciousness and jollity, why they are favorites among the Shipswood’s employees as well as clientele. Once the largely invited crowd had expended a grand ovation, the happy pair visited briefly with each table before joining their fellows at the place of honor and commencing their meal. The evening was then much like any other night at the restaurant until after dessert was served, whereupon more socializing among the tables was evidenced....
2. Bride and Groom
Phileda McCannon gently rapped at the door to the Nowells’ hotel room. “Meer?” she whispered. “Meer? Are you there?” The upper hall of the City Hotel was empty and silent, the light of a promising day brightening the single window. Phileda was dressed a little haphazardly, and her hair was still mostly done up in the paper curls that Miriam had put in the night before. It was the short side of the morning, and the Nowells were not early risers. Nonetheless, when the door opened and Miriam peered into the hall, she wore an indulgent smile.
Parents look like that, thought Phileda, when they are roused from bed on Christmas morning. She smiled, too, if ruefully.
“Am I here?” said Miriam. “Did you think I had slipped off in the night?”
“Did you sleep?” asked Phileda as she was let in.
“I’m sorry, but I did.”
“I think it very contrary of you, sleeping the night before my wedding.”
“I slept the night before my own wedding.”
“I know, you’ve told me, and I think that rests my case.”
“Did you sleep?” asked Miriam.
“About that much,” said Phileda, expressing the amount between a thumb and forefinger.
Miriam dropped onto the settee with a very unladylike yawn. Her husband, Stuart, came out in his pajamas and smoking jacket, squinting like a mole as he searched for his pipe. They had been more than handsome in their youth and had, by good humor and good fortune, retained the better part of their appearance. He was blond, gracefully turning to gray; she was as dark as ever, her own journey from wasp-waisted youth to a middle age with more figure unhindered by any terrible distress. Until Phileda met Tobias Walton, they were the easiest people had ever known.
Phileda herself was almo
st forty-two, but many a woman twenty years her junior would do well to stand at a distance from her today. She had lived out her own plain youth with humor and generosity, which attributes had repaid her middle age with slender grace. Brisk activity had retained in her a youthful vigor; a fierce sort of intelligence had only brightened her clear blue eyes. In the sunlight her chestnut hair showed a few strands of gray, but whatever lines the years had drawn upon her face were lightly drawn and generally served to point up that humor and generosity. Whenever she smiled, as she would many times that day, anything like age seemed to melt away.
“Do you suppose Toby is up?” she wondered aloud.
“Do you want to go visit him?” asked Miriam. Her husband let out a grunt of discovery and stuck his pipe in his mouth.
“Good morning, Stuart,” said Phileda.
“Good morning, my dear,” he said. “How splendid to see you.” His eyes were closed.
“If I thought that getting married would make me look eighteen again, I might try it,” said Miriam.
“You are married,” said her husband when he had thought about this.
“Oh, that,” she replied, and with a negligible wave of her hand. “What makes you think that would stop me?”
“I’m not sure,” said Stuart. “Lost my head.” He sat down beside his wife, and they looked very cozy together.
Miriam was still marveling at Phileda. “Should we wire ahead and warn the groom?” she asked Stuart.
He narrowed one eye toward Phileda, who managed to sit herself down in the chair opposite for a moment or two. “She is glowing,” he said. “I thought it was the light from the window.”
In seeming contradiction to her elated state, Phileda had to blink away the tears in her eyes, which predicament would be as common to her today as her smiles. “Do you like him?” she asked her friends. It was a question she had asked of no one, and it startled them.
“Like him?” said Miriam.