by Van Reid
He had a full bottle of rum with him, tucked in a pocket. Hercules could almost smell the stuff.
“He-e-e-re, pig, pig, pig, pig, pig. Her-r-rcule-e-e-es.” The man was more cautious now. Where was the pig? What had changed? They hadn’t killed the creature, had they? One more time, he called out softly, “He-e-e-re, pig, pig, pig, pig, pig. Her-r-rcule-e-e-es.”
In the barn, Hercules grunted in his sleep and the man started at the sound. Where were the ducks? Hercules heard them, but from a distance.
“Hssst,” came a voice from above. “Hssst.”
“Ah, my love!” came the man’s voice in a stage whisper, but further endearments were cut short.
“The pig is in the barn,” came a woman’s voice. Hercules had heard them many a night before in a dull and besotted haze.
“In the barn?” said the man.
“Come back tomorrow night—”
“Of course, but—”
“I’ll have my things packed and ready.”
“Do you mean it? Do you promise?”
“Yes, yes! Not so loud! We have guests, and I’m not sure why they’re here.”
“What do you mean?
“One claims to know something about pigs, but I don’t believe it for a minute. They may be detectives or something.”
“What?”
“Hssst. Tomorrow night.”
“Oh, let me climb up for one brief kiss!”
“No, no. Tomorrow night, I’ll be packed and ready.”
There was the sound of a kiss, blown across the dark yard, and a man’s voice muttering, “Yes, my love, yes!” Then he was gone, over the hill to his carriage, and then the carriage was gone. The window was closed. Mr. Fern’s snore reoccupied the night.
Hercules grunted. The ducks muttered. Then the pig woke with a start. It was like losing the wings on his feet and plummeting to the ground with the sudden weight of a three-hundred-pound rock. The pig said something fearfully and the ducks came awake with loud squeaks and quacks. Hercules found himself on his feet, as if he had landed on them. He had to separate what was real, the darkness of the barn, from what was not, his owl-like flight, but the presence of the man in the yard crossed the borders of his dream and in the end he couldn’t parse it out.
His headache was mostly gone and his supper had settled comfortably, but these things hardly occurred to him. He was worn out from weeks of indulgence not meant for man or pig. He flopped back onto his side, shaking the barn to its rafters, and fell asleep. The owl, itself startled by this tremor, lifted from its perch in the loft and vanished against the stars.
BOOK FOUR May 29, 1897
(Morning)
28. “... Sleep in Spite of Thunder”
There was only the one Pullman car on the Dawn Express leaving Portland for Bangor at 4:12 on the morning of May 29, 1897. Mail and freight occupied the other twenty-seven cars, so that the engine and the coal car, the caboose and the single Pullman, made for a moderate train of thirty-one cars, two hundred and forty-eight wheels, and a single lonely whistle announcing the crossings along the first twenty or thirty miles of the coastal route before the sun topped the rim of the cold Atlantic.
Mr. Pottage, the conductor, indulged in a cup of coffee in the caboose, and joining him was the mailman, Mr. Pale, from the next car, as well as a retired brakeman, Mr. Clive, who was taking the trip to Bangor to see his latest grandchild. The east was just pinking when the conductor remembered he had some passengers, and he left the caboose’s little stove and convivial railroad gossip to see to tickets. He moved without difficulty through the mail car and crossed the rattling gap to the Pullman with hardly a look down; though he was known to weave a bit when treading solid ground, Mr. Pottage’s legs were as accustomed to the shimmy and vibration of these particular rails as an old salt is to the shift and sway of a ship’s deck.
It was not unusual for passengers to sleep on the Dawn Express, but, as a rule, Mr. Pottage had but to clear his throat or say “I beg your pardon” and they would rouse themselves long enough to produce their tickets for his inspection.
There were only three passengers in the Pullman this morning; in one seat there was a long, well-dressed man with blond hair and no hat, and a shorter, stockier man with a massive beard and dressed in rougher clothes and a bowler hat; opposite these two was another well-dressed fellow, again without a hat, but with black mustaches. They were sleeping, and not only were they sleeping, but they were sleeping in a most profound and impenetrable manner. They were propped in their seats, chins upon their chests, hands dangling at odd angles or resting on their laps, and the constant shiver of the rails and the occasional pull around a sharp turn seemed only to serve them as a mother’s rocking chair might her drowsing infant.
Mr. Pottage cleared his throat and they never quivered, though the man with the great beard let out a sawlike snore.
Mr. Pottage said, “I beg your pardon,” and they did not stir. This time, however, the blond man gave a heartfelt sigh.
Mr. Pottage cleared his throat and said, “I beg your pardon,” with considerable more volume, the result of which was that the man with the black mustaches produced a high-pitched whinny.
While Mr. Pottage contemplated this trio, the blond man let out another snore and the bearded man gave another sigh and the man with the black mustaches whinnied again. It was then that the conductor saw that they were holding their tickets, and without taking any great care he lifted one hand at a time, located the proper spot on the ticket gripped thereby, and applied his punch.
The three men snored, sighed, and whinnied—each very politely waiting his turn—and Mr. Pottage didn’t know when he’d seen three individuals so thoroughly insensate. It was heroic, really, and he observed their slumber as one might some natural phenomenon, like an eclipse of the moon or a rainbow that will evaporate in the next minute.
The spectacle did not evaporate, though it did alter somewhat. (Rainbows fade and brighten again sometimes.) The bearded fellow’s snore lessened in volume, or the mustached man raised the pitch of his high-noted whinny. The blond man left off sighing altogether and said something inarticulate, but eventually he recommenced his sighs with redoubled effort.
Mr. Pottage was fascinated. He wondered what extraordinary triumphs or failures had worn them out, and he suspected an indulgence in liquid spirits, though he could smell no telltale fumes. Mr. Pale raised an eyebrow when Mr. Pottage returned to the caboose. “Any problems?” asked the mailman. He and Mr. Clive, the retired brakeman, had got out the cribbage board, and Mr. Clive was just dealing out another hand.
“No, no,” said Mr. Pottage. “Sleeping like babies.” He sat in the berth opposite the game and poured himself another cup of coffee. He wasn’t a young man, and there was the slightest nip in the air this morning that had gotten into his bones. The caboose was toasty enough, but he intended to stand by the stove till it would be a relief to step out on the back platform and get some fresh air. “Sleeping like babies,” he said again absently.
“I’ve never slept aboard a train,” said Mr. Clive. “Can’t do it now.” There were few occupations in the railroad business as filled with peril and inclement conditions as that of the brakeman.
“These fellows are doing it for you,” said Mr. Pottage.
“I knew a fellow who always slept with his pillow under his feet,” said Mr. Clive.
“Did you ever know Maynard Eliot?” wondered Mr. Pale. “He’s a gandy dancer up the line. We were laid up just below Bangor two years ago come June and he happened to be coming through with the rest of the line crew and offered me a place to sleep. He had the howlingest hound I ever heard. That creature bayed at every sound, and then came all over nervous when there wasn’t anything to bay at and he bayed some more. Why, he started in howling when we showed up and ran right through bedtime. I asked Maynard if he could keep his dog quiet, and he allowed how he couldn’t sleep without it, so I went back to the station and made a bed in the storeroom.” Mr. Pal
e shook his head. “Maynard couldn’t sleep off the line without that dog howling.”
“I hope his neighbors were deaf,” said Mr. Clive.
“What’s that?” said Mr. Pale with a hand to his ear.
Mr. Clive began to repeat himself, a little louder this time, before he realized his leg was being pulled.
“Well, these fellows were all in but the buttons,” said Mr. Pottage, returning his thoughts to the men in the Pullman. He watched the game for a while, then took on the winner.
The subject of sleep continued to occupy their discourse, and Mr. Pale told of a dream he’d had some years back that concerned a summery day and small flying cows. Mr. Pottage had once read the Kickapoo Indian Dream-book, but he couldn’t recall anything about flying cows.
“You wouldn’t guess it,” said Mr. Pale, “but it was as pleasant a dream as I can recall.”
“Do you like cows?” wondered Mr. Clive.
“I like cream in my coffee and butter on my toast,” said Mr. Pale, “but I’ve never given cows much thought.”
“Flying cows sound precarious,” said Mr. Clive.
The train roared through the first station and Mr. Pale excused himself long enough to retrieve the mail and re-arm the mail hook. “They were small things, really,” he said when he got back, as if the conversation had never been interrupted. “About the size of a big dog.” Mr. Pottage and Mr. Clive understood that he was talking about the flying cows.
“I saw an ostrich once,” said Mr. Pottage. “There’s not much flight in them, for a bird.” He shifted his hat back on his head and concentrated on his hand for a moment. When he had discarded, and they had turned over a card, he added, “They’ll lay an egg the size of your head.”
“My wife’s brother saw an ostrich at the circus,” said Mr. Clive. “He considered the creature proof that God has a keen sense of humor.”
“Do you think?” said Mr. Pale.
“Of course, there are those might consider my wife’s brother proof enough.”
Somehow they got to talking about how best to mesmerize a chicken, and it may have been this slant to the conversation, or the recurring image of those profound sleepers in the Pullman, but Mr. Pottage, who was generally known as a canny man at cribbage, mismanaged his hand more than once and so Mr. Pale took Mr. Clive on again. Mr. Pottage used this opportunity to wander back to the Pullman car, thinking the three men there would be awake by now and hoping to realize from them the cause of their deep slumber.
The conductor had a moment of sharp concern when he entered the passenger car. The three men had not moved and their snoring and sighing and whinnying had stopped. Mr. Pottage stood over them for a moment before he ascertained that they were still breathing. It was terrific how very asleep they were. He leaned down and tested the air but could detect no scent of intoxicants. The tickets were still gripped in their hands.
“Well, there!” said Mr. Pottage quietly. The Dawn Express was stopping for her connection with the ferry at Bath. The switch toward the river was not the smoothest and the Pullman rocked more than sometimes. Wheels braked against the rails and steam spewed along the length of the train, almost with a bang before the diminishing hiss. The sleepers did not stir, but the bearded fellow snored again, and almost like actors waiting for their cues the blond fellow sighed and the mustached man whinnied.
“They’re still at it,” said Mr. Pottage when the train had crossed the Kennebec and he returned to the caboose.
“Under the weather, perhaps,” said Mr. Clive. He sat back from the cribbage board and filled his pipe.
“I couldn’t smell a thing on them.” It was the conductor’s job to toss drunks from the train and his nose could be trusted, as a general thing.
The mailman and the retired brakeman followed the conductor back into the Pullman and they considered the three sleeping men with the sort of concentration one might render a hunting dog for sale or a beef critter.
“I had an uncle,” said Mr. Clive, who seemed to have quite a few relatives. “He always fell asleep in the parlor and rarely got to bed. Set himself on fire with a cigar so many times that his wife kept a bucket of sand next to his chair.”
“That one with the beard has some rattle in him,” said Mr. Pottage. Obligingly, the bearded man let out a grinding snore. The sighs and whinnies impressed Mr. Clive, and Mr. Pale as well.
“They sure are sleepers,” said Mr. Pale.
“Where are they going?” wondered Mr. Clive.
“Their tickets say Bangor,” said Mr. Pottage.
Mr. Clive, and then Mr. Pale, nodded. Mr. Pottage joined them. The whistle signaled the approach to Wiscasset Station. Across the Sheepscott River the sun shone over the saltwater farms and greening fields of Edgecomb.
The whistle blew again. The man with the beard stopped in midsnore and opened his mouth, as if ready to speak. The railroad men halted. The bearded man’s eyelids trembled. The railroad men held their breaths and leaned forward. The bearded man let out a furious sneeze and his two companions started in their sleep. (The three onlookers jumped themselves.) The whistle up ahead sounded louder among the buildings of the Wiscasset shoreline. They were charging through the station and could see the bag of mail on its post fly by on its way to the hook. Mr. Pale would have to retrieve it, but he was fascinated by the three slumbering men. They had passed through Wiscasset before the man with the beard closed his mouth again and recommenced his powerful snores. The sigher and the whinnier kept time.
“That’s all for now,” said Mr. Clive philosophically.
“What do you suppose you snore for?” wondered Mr. Clive, after he and Mr. Pottage had watched Mr. Pale get the Wiscasset mail and the three of them had gone back to the caboose.
“I don’t know that I do snore,” said Mr. Pottage. He got a few drops from the coffeepot, then peered through the spout as if he might scare some more out of it.
“No, I’m saying why do you suppose anybody snores?”
“I couldn’t say.” Mr. Pottage looked up from the pot and got a tin of coffee down from the cupboard. “I haven’t put much thought to it.”
“I read once,” said Mr. Pale, “that in the old days it was a means to assure a body’s safety against wild animals while he slept.”
“While he slept?” said Mr. Clive.
“Scared them away,” averred Mr. Pale.
“The animals?”
“Lions and things. Back when people lived in caves.”
“In caves!”
“It was in a book I read.”
“People will write them.”
“We had a writer on the train the other day,” said Mr. Pottage. “Wandering up and down the cars. Sort of a nuisance, I thought.”
They weren’t sure what possessed people, but that didn’t discourage them from further conjecture. The journey to Bangor was without incident if one discounts the sleeping men in the Pullman. Mr. Pottage went back to the passenger car every once in a while to take a peek at them, and sometimes the other men would go with him.
“That bearded one may be dressed in labor, but his hands haven’t seen much work,” said Mr. Clive. It was an astute observation, and his companions were impressed. He had nothing else to add, however, but they all stared a little harder in case some other salient detail had escaped them.
The stations flew past and Mr. Pale gathered the mail. On other trains there was often another man or two sorting as they traveled, but Mr. Pale was only expected to throw the sacks in a heap on one side of the mail car. The three passengers continued to sleep undisturbed.
The sun was almost over the station house when they pulled into Bangor, and the three railroad men were in the Pullman to watch the sleepers wake. The train chugged into the shadow of the surrounding buildings and veered onto a freight siding before coming to the last stop.
The three sleepers never stirred.
“It’s colossal,” said Mr. Pale.
“It’s epic,” said Mr. Clive.
&nb
sp; Mr. Pottage felt a little responsible for the slumbering passengers, and so did not like to lade praise upon them, as it might seem like boasting. “I haven’t seen much like it,” he did admit.
The snores, the sighs, and the whinnies continued.
“Here’s a friend, perhaps,” said Mr. Clive, looking out the window beyond the blond sleeper.
A rough-looking fellow had approached the Pullman from the station house and he was craning his neck and standing on his toes to see inside. After a moment he mounted the steps and poked his head past the door. “Nobody riding?” he asked.
“They’re riding, all right,” sid Mr. Pottage, “and that’s just about the size of it.”
The man at the door made an odd gesture, shaking his forefinger in front of his face, before he entered the Pullman. He saw the three sleepers, after a moment, and seemed startled.
“Thaddeus?” he said, and then: “Goodness’ sakes. Won’t they wake?” He was a fellow of medium height but burly as a bear; his hair was a red-brown and his face had not seen the edge of a razor for several days. He wore a green cap cocked over one ear, and he squinted when he wasn’t talking. His nose looked as if it had met with accident more than once, and his large bristly knuckles bore the scars and warps of a fighter. He had a way of watching a person, as if he were sizing them up, which was not designed to put the object of his focus at ease.
“I was just going to nudge them,” said the conductor. Mr. Pottage thought the newcomer looked like mother’s own rogue.
“My word, Ephram!” declared the blond sleeper as, without warning, he sat bolt upright with wide eyes. “Where are we?”
“What? What?” said the man with the black mustaches. He produced a watch from one of his pockets and announced: “Thirty-two minutes past the hour of eight.”
“Clear and fair,” said the blond man. “Seasonable to warm temperatures expected. Wind shifting to the southwest.”
“High tide at three minutes past ten,” said the bearded man, even as he wakened. “That’s Portland, of course. I must recall the adjustment for Bangor. We are in Bangor?”