The Major's Daughter

by J. P. Francis

  “In the past, you know,” he said, clinking her glass and sipping, “the Woodcutters’ Ball was a sort of lumberjack competition. A bunch of jacks would meet out in the woods with a barrel of questionable liquor and they would have a ball. People still tell stories about the earliest ones. They actually danced as they do right here.”

  “Sounds quaintly primitive.”

  “Oh, it was, I suppose. Lots of fighting, of course, and dares and foolhardy challenges. The Frenchmen were the worst, according to legend. One fellow had a moose he could ride and he would spend the early part of the night drinking on moose-back. Someone shot the moose later in the season for stew meat. It caused a terrific riff.”

  “You like the romance of it, don’t you?” she asked.

  He took more of the highball and nodded. He wanted to say more, to have her interest firmly fixed on him, but soon a party of young people swooped down on them. He knew them all; they were Berliners, local children from local families. He introduced Collie around the half circle they formed against the bar. There was Jack Pillton and Annie Scott, Bill Biels and Sarah Clement, and Edward Gates and Betsy Rice. The girls all wore gowns, but none fit them as well as Collie’s gown fit her. The boys spoke with the high, nervous tone in their voices that sometimes fell on men around attractive women. Henry knew Collie had been the subject of much speculation already that evening.

  “Did you find a pin?” Collie asked Betsy Rice. “You looked to be in a panic.”

  “This strap broke,” Betsy said, pointing to her left dress strap, and Henry remarked how easily Collie entered their world. “My kingdom for a safety pin.”

  “It was a madhouse in there, wasn’t it?” Sarah Clement said, her voice slightly drunk already. “They should set up more mirrors if they intend to have this kind of crowd. Henry, take a note for your momsy. Tell her the young set demands more mirrors.”

  “Demand,” Bill Biels said, “make sure you frame it as a demand.”

  “Who needs another drink?” Edward Gates asked, his voice lush with liquor. “Oh, Gunga Din, you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din. See here. Eight of your best highballs, young Tad. Though I’ve beaten you and flayed you . . . does flayed mean to remove one’s skin? Is a simple whipping a flaying as well?”

  “I don’t think whippings are ever simple,” Sarah said. “Not simple at all. But a flaying is the taking off of skin. I’m fairly certain about that.”

  “How dreadful,” Betsy said. “Who started us on this topic? It must have been Bill. Bill’s been odd all evening.”

  “Cut her off!” Jack said, then he made a moan like a steam whistle. It went on too long, Henry thought, but there was no stopping it. Afterward, Jack said, “Throw the girl a life preserver.”

  The drinks arrived. Henry caught Collie’s eye. She smiled. She was a good sport, he realized. She had entered into the fun, and he admired her comfort in diving into a new situation. Some women might have stood back, or remained superior, but not her. He suspected the others found her a good egg, too.

  She took the second highball and hoisted it when the others toasted.

  “To the jack with the biggest balls,” Bill Biels said.

  “To the biggest balls,” the others repeated.

  It was an old profane toast, one that could be said with impunity on this single night. Even his mother would raise a glass to it, Henry knew.

  He watched as Collie blushed but drank. She smiled when she lowered her glass. She was exactly, exactly the kind of woman he wanted in his life.

  • • •

  It felt wrong to be merry, but Collie couldn’t help herself. The drinks had fueled some of it, she knew, but the rest, the majority portion of it, had to do with Henry and the lively atmosphere of the Woodcutters’ Ball. If she were honest with herself, she realized, she would have admitted that she had expected to have a horrid time. The ball followed too closely on Marie’s death; and she was with Henry, not August, and that, too, should have mitigated against much merriment. It felt like a small betrayal. But all of that counted in, it was a lively evening. Part of it, she suspected, was the season. The night had turned crisp and bright, and someone had the good sense to jam the door open so that they could pass freely out onto the wide verandah overlooking the river. Stiff breezes came in throughout the early part of the evening, seeming to stir them as leaves might mix in the corner of a building. The party convened as much outdoors as inside.

  The crowd also—this was a revelation—had a sense of humor about itself. Yes, they were dressed in finery, and yes, the band played demure numbers, but behind it all rested the legacy of the true Woodcutters’ Ball. It was meant to be an outdoor festival, the demarcation of summer’s ending, and something riotous and good-humored remained in the fabric of the event. Even the toast, slightly scurrilous, worked to make everyone less stuffy. Although she had never been to it, the evening reminded her of stories about Mardi Gras, some crazed evening where the sole intent was to let loose and to bury any worries about the future. That’s how it felt, anyway.

  And Henry . . . yes, he had been a perfect gentleman and escort. He was fun and well suited to his social environment. It was obvious, she mused as she stood on the verandah waiting for him to arrive with what she had made him swear was the final drink of the evening, that he was well liked by his friends and family. What she had taken in him previously as a sign of timidity and a failing of confidence was really, she sensed now, a basic shyness mixed with the desire to cede to others the center stage. His talent, in fact, relied on his standing back and surrendering the social battles to others. It was easy to picture him as he would be in later life: diffident, patient, perhaps wise in an unusual way. In short, he had a sense of himself, a very proportionate one, and she had reassessed him throughout the evening, clarifying her image of him against the backdrop of the ball.

  How strange life could be, she thought. She turned and looked out at the river. It reflected the moonlight and seemed to be in a rush to arrive somewhere. Now and then she heard logs knocking together. They had been corralled in what Henry called a boom pier. Or an alligator pier, she wasn’t quite sure. It was fun to hear them talk about wood and logs as if they discussed the habits of acquaintances. Underneath it all, she imagined, there was significant land and wealth, although they never made much of it. She liked that about Henry and about his family and friends. They wore their riches lightly.

  “Here we are,” Henry said, reappearing with two more drinks in his hands. “I hope I wasn’t too long. Poor Tad is overrun and the two spare bartenders they’ve signed on aren’t up to the challenge, I’m afraid.”

  “No, you’re just in time. I was beginning to think you’d gone off.”

  “I wouldn’t abandon you to this pack of wolves,” he said, raising his glass and nodding over it. “They may look safe, but they’re loggers when all is said and done.”

  “They’ve been nothing but polite.”

  “Oh, it’s early still, I promise. We haven’t had the ritual fistfight out in the parking lot. That’s part of the festivities, but it requires the proper alcohol levels. It’s a delicate balance.”

  Collie looked at him closely.

  “I wanted to thank you for inviting me, Henry,” she said. “I’ve had a lovely evening. I was hesitant, as you know . . . with Marie, and all of that. But I’m glad now that I came. I’m glad I got to know you away from the usual run of things.”

  “Well, I had no choice but to try to make up for our first date.”

  “Yes, that was a spectacular something, certainly. But even without that in the balance, I’ve had a wonderful night. I needed to get away more than I realized. Camp life can be wearing.”

  “I would imagine so.”

  “So thank you. I appreciate your patience with me.”

  “I’m fond of you, Collie. I intend to marry you. I told you that.”


  She studied him. He’d had a few drinks, unquestionably, but she did not think his statement came from that. He seemed to mean what he was saying. It was the second time he promised to marry her, and she looked at him curiously, trying to gauge him.

  “You should be careful,” she said, “because someday someone will believe you.”

  “I’m hoping you will believe me.”

  “I think you’ve had too many drinks, Henry.”

  “I’m on the level about this, Collie. I picked you out as soon as I saw you. I’ve always thought you were the right woman for me and everything since then has confirmed it. I can’t be plainer about it. I’ll ask you to marry me someday. Not right now, because I know you aren’t prepared to answer. But I will ask, and then we’ll see. I think we would have a good life together. I think you think so, too.”

  She turned and looked out at the river, her mind racing. He had no right to speak this way so soon in their friendship, and yet he didn’t seem to do it for shock value or to appear daring and fascinating. He struck her as sincere, which was extraordinary. He was either hopelessly naïve, or wonderfully candid.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t mention it again. Not for a time, anyway. I’m a patient man. You don’t know that about me yet, but I am. And I usually get what I set out to get.”

  “Am I something to get?”

  “I don’t mean it like that. You know I don’t.”

  “Yes, I do know that.”

  “Unless you hate me, Collie, I hope you’ll let me see you often. I won’t press, I promise. I want to see where we might go together. Will you give me permission to do that much at least?”

  Her mind flashed quickly to August. It flickered to Estelle, and to Marie, and to poor Amy sitting in her office, downcast and heartbroken.

  “You can ask, and I can answer,” she said, because she did not know what else to say at the moment.

  “That’s a small victory, then,” he said, raising his glass. “Now I hope you’ll dance with me, and we’ll check to see what fistfights are brewing.”

  “Yes, let’s,” she said, and led him back toward the ballroom.

  But there were no fistfights. Henry took her glass and set it beside his on their table. The table had long since been abandoned; the night was exploding outward, each table like the site of a detonation. People either danced or stood outside, taking the air. Some, she was certain, had already left. She had seen her father depart an hour ago.

  She danced with Henry. He was not a particularly good dancer, but neither was she, she knew. Still, he was game and he led her around the floor to the tune of “Smoke on the Water” by Russ Morgan.

  She did not feel the electricity she felt when she was in August’s presence. She could not delude herself about that. She couldn’t say what it was about August, but he thrilled her, touched her in a way that Henry, despite his good nature, could not replicate. It struck her as perverse that the feelings between men and women worked in such a way. How much easier it would have been, she reflected, if she had felt passionate about Henry. She could have a comfortable life with him. It was absurd to hold out for August; August might be sent away at any moment, and what, in the end, had they meant to each other so far? A few haphazard meetings, that was all. She had visited him in the infirmary, and she had seen him running through the rain to leave a bouquet for her, but how did that calculate against the solid warmth of Henry’s companionship? She wished, even while in Henry’s arms, that she might discuss everything with Estelle. Estelle would bring light to the subject. She always did.

  The song ended and they went back to their table. Amos had found them, she saw. He had been drinking, too, by the looks of him. He sat slouched in his chair, his tie loosened, his thick frame thrown on the chair like an old set of clothing. He raised his glass at their approach.

  “The Mayor and Mrs. of Lumbertown,” he said, toasting them. “You make a dashing couple, you know? Everyone says so. You’ve made the evening sparkle.”

  “Where have you been?” Henry asked.

  Amos waved to indicate the universe.

  “How do you like our provincial festivities, Miss Brennan? Are they up to your standards?”

  “It’s a lovely evening.”

  “But a bit rude and boorish, wouldn’t you say? A bit déclassé, isn’t it? To someone who has been to the Continent, who speaks German . . . why, we’re a bunch of hillbillies when you come down to it.”

  “Amos, don’t start,” Henry said. “Can’t you for once just have a pleasant evening?”

  “Oh, I’m having quite a pleasant evening, I promise. The sight of you two has been a highlight. Your hair and gown . . . well, they’re a triumph, Miss Brennan. But never mind that. I’ve come to get you both. Our old friend, Fox, has entered a significant wager that I thought you might like to witness. It’s really quite marvelous. He plans to shoot an apple off his dog’s head. It’s about to happen and I thought you should see. They have the dog, but they’re in search of an apple. Funny, you would think it might be harder the other way around . . . to find the apple but not the dog . . . but Fox has had his dog for a decade or longer. You know him, Henry. The old retriever that’s always with him.”

  “How did this come about?” Henry asked.

  Amos raised his glass to indicate alcohol and shrugged. Then he stood.

  “Just out here,” he said. “Out in the lot.”

  “It sounds like simple cruelty to me,” Collie said.

  “Does it? Well, Fox stands to gain a good deal if he can manage it. You see, the thing is he loves the dog. Everyone knows it. So Parker McMahon set the wager at twenty acres of prime land, which is more than fair, I daresay. They always devil each other. But Fox is a good shot, so it’s an even contest anyway you look at it.”

  “I think we’ll pass,” Henry said.

  Amos pursed his lips and left. He touched the backs of the chairs as he went, using them to steady himself.

  “Not a fistfight after all,” Henry said, picking up his drink again. “Something straight out of William Tell instead.”

  “Can they be serious?”

  “I’m afraid they are.”

  “I want to stop it. It’s horrible.”

  “Too late, Collie. There must be a little blood sacrifice to these evenings. That’s always been the way. This is a new wrinkle, I’ll grant you, but the theme is an old one.”

  Collie put down her drink and moved to go outside. She intended to stop it, but by the time she reached the parking lot the entire crowd had beat her to it. Looking around, she saw the garish expressions of those watching the event. A few men had turned on their headlights to form a court of illumination. In the center of the ring sat a black dog with an apple on its head. The dog was aged and slightly stout. It sat the way an old dog that is no longer supple in its hips must sit; one bandy leg stuck out from under his rump. He looked like a small old man, his gray muzzle pale white in the harsh light.

  They had cleared the area behind the dog. Fox—she did not know the man, but he was evidently the owner—stood in front of the dog with a pistol raised. He was a large man with reddish hair and a bright pink complexion. He breathed with difficulty, his mouth sucking in air like a fish of some sort. He sighted down the barrel, then lowered the gun again. He pulled off his jacket and threw it aside. He stood in his shirtsleeves, obviously agitated and unhappy, but powerless to swim free of the current that had trapped him.

  “You said twelve strides,” the man, Fox, said, his eyes casting back and forth between the dog and his position. “This is fifteen at least.”

  “Shoot the apple!” someone yelled, and the crowd laughed.

  “You can move in a foot,” a man nearby said.

  Parker McMahon evidently, Collie surmised. The whole scene struck her as a primitive mass. She could not take her eyes off the poor animal. It s
at in the headlamp light oblivious to what was about to occur. She had never seen anything sadder. Now and then the dog’s tail thumped the ground as if, even amid this insanity, it sought to be a friend to its owner. The apple rested on its head, held by an elastic of some sort. The dog appeared to be wearing the equivalent of a child’s party hat.

  “Stop this!” she shouted. “This is barbaric!”

  People shushed her. They wanted to hear the interplay between Fox and Parker McMahon. Henry called out, too, but she noted he did not sound insistent. He implored Fox to think about what he was doing, but Fox—what kind of man was named Fox? she wondered—was obviously too far in his cups to think clearly.

  Fox stepped a stride closer to his dog. He raised his gun again. The crowd became silent. And then Collie heard the most horrible sound.

  Fox called the dog’s name. “Buster,” he said, getting the dog to turn to him, and then he fired.

  The dog flew sideways. It made no sound. Neither did the crowd. Collie looked away, shivering. Then she heard Fox stepping across the gravel, and she heard a second shot, this one truer than the first, and then a third one put punctuation to everything. No one moved, and the sound of the river, forgotten and then suddenly remembered, covered this small tragedy.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In a single instant Collie knew everything: she knew that she loved August. It came at the most inconvenient moment. She stood on the porch of the administration building watching three cutting teams loading for a prolonged stay in Vermont. August’s team was going, too. She knew that; she had supervised the paperwork, so that much was not a surprise. But what did catch her unawares was the slant of afternoon light, the warm autumnal sun, the patting of dry leaves on the oak that stood next to the building. She did not want to love him. She had avoided him for the past few weeks. She had avoided him after Marie’s funeral, finding his presence unbearable in her desire to walk into his arms and be comforted by him. She had set her clock by him. She had departed the dining room when he entered, entered when he departed. Yes, it was childish and obvious to anyone who cared to watch, but she stuck to the plan, containing her exposure to him as if he were radioactive or contagious. She hoped that absence would rid her of his place in her heart, and until this moment, this precise instant, she had persuaded herself that it had worked. She had even enjoyed several dates with Henry, going once to Portland to the theater, attending the movies with him, going to a family Sunday dinner. She had kissed Henry twice, forcing herself to accept his advances, writing to Estelle afterward that it was for the best after all. No, she explained, their kisses had not been passionate, but passion could grow, she hoped, if planted in the soil of respectability and mutual respect.