The Pale Blue Eye

by Louis Bayard

  “If any of your classmates asks you,” I said, “you’ll kindly tell them this was a routine interview. We did nothing more than discuss your acquaintance with Leroy Fry.”

  “There was no acquaintance,” he said. “I never knew him.”

  “Then I was sadly misled. We had a fine laugh over it and parted on good terms.”

  “If this is not an interview, what is it?”

  “An offer. Of employment.”

  He looked me square in the face. Said nothing.

  “Before I go on,” I said, “I’m to inform you—let me see—that ‘this position is contingent on the satisfactory execution of your duties as a cadet.’ Oh, and ‘should you fail or waver in these duties at any time, the position will cease to be yours.’ ” I glanced over at him before adding, “That is what Colonel Thayer and Captain Hitchcock would have you know.”

  The names had their intended effect. I would guess that most plebes—even this one, with his large claims on the world—think themselves beneath the notice of their superiors. The moment they learn otherwise is the moment they begin striving to be worthy of that notice.

  “There’s no pay,” I went on. “You’ll need to know that. You won’t be able to boast about it. None of your classmates may ever know what you’re doing until long after you’re done with it. And if they do find out, they’re likely to curse your name.”

  He gave me a lazy smile. His gray eyes glistened. “An irresistible offer, Mr. Landor. Please tell me more.”

  “Mr. Poe, when I was a constable in New York City, not so long ago, I relied more than I care to say on news. Not the kind that comes from newspapers, but the kind that comes from people. Now, the people who brought this news were almost never what you’d call well bred. You wouldn’t have them over to dinner or go to concerts with them, or indeed be seen anywhere in public with them. Out-and-out criminals, mostly—thieves, fences, scratchers. For two bits, they’d auction off their children and sell their mothers—invent mothers they didn’t have. And I don’t know of a single policeman who could have done his job without them.”

  Poe’s head was bowed over his hands as the import of this worked its way through. Then, sounding each syllable very slowly, as though he were waiting for its echo, he said:

  “You wish me to be an informer.”

  “ A n observer, Mr. Poe. In other words, I wish you to be what you already are.”

  “And what is it I am to observe?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t yet know myself,” I said.

  I jumped up then—made straight for the blackboard.

  “Would you mind, Mr. Poe, if I told you a story? When I was a boy, my father took me to a midnight camp meeting in Indiana. He was gathering some news of his own. We saw these beautiful young women sobbing and groaning, shrieking themselves blue in the face. What a noise! The preacher—fine upstanding gentleman—got them so worked up that after a while they fainted dead on their feet. One after another, like dead trees.

  I remember thinking how lucky they had people ready to catch them, because they never looked to see where they were falling. All except one: she was different. Her head . . . turned a little just before she dropped. She wanted to be sure, you see, who would catch her. And who was the lucky fellow? Why, the preacher himself! Welcoming her into the kingdom of God.”

  I passed my hand along the blackboard, felt its rasp against my palm.

  “Six months later,” I said, “the preacher ran off with her. After first taking care to kill his wife. He didn’t want to be a bigamist, you see. They were caught just a few miles south of the Canadian border. No one had any inkling they were lovers. No one but me, I suppose, and even I didn’t . . . I didn’t know it, I only saw it. Before I knew what I was seeing.”

  I turned back and found him studying me with the driest of smiles.

  “And in that moment,” said Poe, “a vocation was born.”

  It was a curious fact. Other cadets, when I spoke to them in private, would hold me in roughly the same awe as they did the commandant. Poe never did. There was, from the start of our relations, something . . . I won’t call it familiar—familial, maybe.

  “Let me ask you,” I said. “When you marched back into the ranks the other day . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “That gentleman at the very end of the column, marching alone. He’s your friend—your roommate, maybe?”

  A longish pause.

  “He is my roommate,” said Poe, guardedly.

  “I thought as much. He turned his head, you see, as you came into line. But he never flinched. I took this to mean he was expecting you. Is he a friend, Mr. Poe? Or a debtor?”

  Poe tilted his head back and gazed at the ceiling.

  “He is both,” he answered, sighing. “I write his letters for him.”

  “His letters?”

  “Jared has an inamorata, back in the wastes of North Carolina. They are engaged to be married upon his graduation. Her very existence is enough to earn him dismissal.”

  “Why do you write his letters, then?”

  “Oh, he’s half literate at best. Wouldn’t know an indirect object if it crawled up his nose. What he does have, Mr. Landor, is a neat hand. I merely hash out some billets-doux, and he transcribes them.”

  “And she thinks they’re his?”

  “I’m always careful to throw in the—the awkward phrase—the rustic misspelling. I consider it an adventure in style.”

  I sat myself down on the bench directly across from him.

  “Well, there you are, Mr. Poe. I’ve learned something very interesting today. And all because I happened to catch a fellow turning his head. Just as you caught Cadet Loughborough missing his steps in parade.”

  He snorted, stared at his boots. Said, half to himself, “Set a cadet to catch a cadet.”

  “Well, now, we don’t yet know it is a cadet. But it would be a great help to have someone on the inside. And I can’t just now think of anyone better than you. Or anyone who would more enjoy the challenge of it.”

  “And that would be the extent of my mission? Observing?”

  “Well, as we go on, we’ll know better what we’re looking for, and you can train your eyes accordingly. In the meantime, I’ve got something for you to look at. It’s a fragment of a larger note. I’d like you to try your hand at deciphering it. Naturally,” I added, “you’ll have to work as secretly as you can. And be as precise as you can. You can never be too precise.”

  “I see.”

  “Precision is all.”

  “I see.”

  “And now, Mr. Poe. This is the part of our talk where you say yes or no.”

  He rose, for the first time since our conversation began. Went to the window and stood looking out. I won’t presume to say what feelings vied inside him, but I will say this: he knew that the longer he stayed there, the more intense the effect would be.

  “It will be yes,” he said finally.

  There was a lopsided smile on his face when he turned back to me.

  “I would be perversely honored, Mr. Landor, to be your spy.”

  “And being your spymaster,” I said. “No less an honor, I’m sure.”

  By mutual consent, we shook hands. It was as formal as we would ever again be with each other. We jerked our hands away as though we had already breached some code.

  “Well,” I said, “I suppose you’ll be off to dinner now. Why don’t we plan on meeting Sunday after chapel? Do you think you could find your way to Mr. Cozzens’ hotel without anyone seeing you?”

  He nodded, twice, and then, without another word, made ready to go. Shook the starch back into his coatee. Put the leather pot on his head. Marched toward the door.

  “May I ask you something, Mr. Poe?”

  He took a step back. “Of course.”

  “Is it true you’re a murderer?”

  His face erupted then into the gaudiest smile I think I ha
ve ever seen. Imagine, Reader, a chorus line of lovely jewel-teeth, all dancing in their sockets.

  “You’ll have to be much more precise than that, Mr. Landor.”

  Letter from Gus Landor to Henry Kirke Reid

  October 30th, 1830

  c/o Reid Inquiries, Ltd. 712 Gracie Street New York, New York

  Dear Henry,

  It’s been forever since you’ve heard from me. I am sorry. Ever since we came to Buttermilk Falls, I’ve been meaning to get back for a visit, but days pass, boats come and go, Landor stays. Some other time, maybe.

  In the meantime, I have a job for you. Don’t worry, I mean to pay you well, and as time is of the essence, I mean to pay you a little better than well.

  Should you be willing, your task is to learn all you can about one Edgar A. Poe. Late of Richmond. He is at present a fourth classman at the U.S. Military Academy. Prior to that, he served in the Army. He has also published two volumes of poetry, not that anyone knew. Beyond that, I have only the sketchiest notions of him. I wish you to find out—everything— family history, upbringing, past employments, present entanglements. If he’s made a dent anywhere in the world, I’d have you find it.

  I need also to know if he has ever been charged with a crime. Murder, for example.

  As I said, this is pressing business. If you can forward me all your findings by the close of four weeks, I will be your eternal servant and will vouch for you at the gates of Heaven. (No use vouching for me.)

  As always, bill me for any expenses.

  And remember me to Rachel! Also, when you write back, tell me all about this omnibus creature that is now menacing the city streets. I have heard only bits and pieces, but I understand it is the end of cabs and civilization. Please reassure me. I could do without civilization but never cabs.

  Yours,

  Gus Landor

  Letter to Gus Landor

  October 30th, 1830

  Dear Mr. Landor,

  I am leaving this letter for you at your hotel in advance of our next meeting.

  Your insistence on precision—in all things!—has inspired me to resurrect a sonnet of mine which you may find to the point. (Never forgetting, of course, that you do not “get round” to poetry—yes, I do remember.)

  Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!

  Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,

  Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise?

  Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jeweled skies,

  Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?

  And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star?

  Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

  I often have recourse to recall these lines when I am being suffocated by spherical geometry and La Croix’ algebra. (Had I it to do over again, I might substitute a past participial adjective for the green of the penultimate line. Gor’d? Gull’d?)

  A word of warning, Mr. Landor: I have a new composition to show you—as yet unfinished. I think you will “get round” it and will deem it of no small relevance to our investigations.

  Your faithful servant, E.P.

  Letter to Edgar A. Poe, Cadet Fourth Classman

  October 31st, 1830

  Mr. Poe:

  I read your poem with the greatest enjoyment and—I hope you’ll excuse me—bewilderment. I’m afraid all that Naiad and Hamadryad business is far beyond my ken. How I wish my daughter were here to translate for me, as she was herself a thoroughgoing Romantic and knew Milton backwards and every which way.

  I hope my dimness will not discourage you from sending along more verse, whether or not it pertains to the matters at hand. I suspect I want improvement as much as the next fellow and don’t really bother about who is doing the improving.

  And as for Science, I pray you won’t confuse anything I do with Science.

  Yours, G.L.

  p.s. A friendly reminder: we’re to meet at my hotel on Sunday afternoon, following chapel. I am in Room 12.

  From the “Items” Column Poughkeepsie Journal

  October 31st, 1830

  School for Young Ladies.—Mrs. E. H. Putnam continues her school at 20 White Street from the 30th of August. The number of pupils in English Studies is limited to 30, who are wholly under Mrs. P.’s own instruction. Lessons in French, Music, Drawing, and Penmanship, by Teachers of first respectability.

  Horrid Affair.—A cow and a sheep belonging to Mr. Elias Humphreys, of Haverstraw, were discovered Friday in a terrible condition. The animals had been dispatched by means of a slash across the throat. Mr. Humphreys also reports that the animals had been most cruelly carved open, and from each, the heart removed. No trace of those organs remained. The villain responsible for these assaults cannot be identified. Word has reached this journal of similar reports pertaining to a cow in the possession of Mr. Joseph L. Roy, a neighbor of Mr. Humphreys. These reports could not be corroborated.

  Canal Tolls.—The tolls collected on the state canals up to the 1st of September amount to $514,000; being about $100,000 more than were collected . . .

  Narrative of Gus Landor

  9

  October 31st

  “Cattle and sheep!” cried Captain Hitchcock, brandishing the newspaper like a cutlass. “Livestock are now being sacrificed. Can we consider any of God’s creatures immune from this madman?”

  “Well,” I said. “Better cows than cadets.”

  I could see his nostrils flaring like a bull’s—I knew again what it was to be a cadet.

  “I beg you, Captain, please don’t get yourself in a stew. We don’t yet know this is the same man.”

  “It would be an extraordinary coincidence if it were not.”

  “Well, then,” I said, “we can at least take comfort knowing he’s moved his attentions away from the Point.”

  Frowning, Hitchcock ran his finger along the quill of his dress sword. “Haverstraw is not so very far from here,” he said. “A cadet might reach it in upwards of an hour—a good deal less, if he managed to wangle a horse.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “A cadet could certainly cover the distance.” And maybe I really did mean to provoke this good soldier and fine American, for why else would I have thought to add, “Or an officer?”

  All I got for my pains was a steely look and a shake of the head. Followed by a brisk interrogation. Had I inspected the icehouse? Yes, I had. What had I found there? A great deal of ice. What else? No heart, no clues of any sort.

  Very well, then, had I spoken with the Academy instructors? Yes, I had. What had they told me? They’d apprised me of Leroy Fry’s grades in mineralogy and mensuration, and they had wished me to know he was fond of hickory chips. And they could have filled caverns with all their theories. Lieutenant Kinsley had advised me to look into the position of the stars. Professor Church had wondered if I’d heard about some of the extreme Druidical practices. Captain Aeneas MacKay, the quartermaster, had assured me that heart stealing was a coming-of-age ritual in certain Seminole tribes (such as still existed).

  Hitchcock drew it all in through his hard-pursed lips, then blew it out in a slow hiss.

  “I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Landor, I am more uneasy than ever before. A young man, and a pair of dumb beasts. There must be a connection between them, and yet I can find none. I can’t, for the life of me, see what one man could want with all these—”

  “All these hearts,” I said. “You’re right, it’s a curious thing. Now, my friend Poe there, he thinks it’s the work of a poet.”

  “Then perhaps,” said Hitchcock, giving his coat sleeves a hard brush, “we should heed the counsel of Plato and banish all poets from our society. Starting with your Mr. Poe.”

  That particular Sunday w
as cool and boundless. I remember I was sitting alone in my hotel room; the sash was up, and if I tipped my head, I could see all the way up to Newburgh and, farther still, the Shawangunk Mountains. The clouds were frayed like collars, and the sun had laid down an aisle of glitter along the Hudson, and flaws of wind shuddered down from the gullies, stamping pinwheels on the water’s belly.

  And there! Right on time: the North River steamer, the Palisado, four hours out of New York City and just drawing in to the West Point landing. Round every deck the passengers crowded, more intimate than lovers, leaning over balustrades and crouching under awnings. Pink hats and robin’s-egg-blue parasols and ostrich feathers of the deepest purple—God himself couldn’t have matched it for color.