The Pale Blue Eye

by Louis Bayard

  Thanking him profusely, I assured him that I would gladly take any risks on my own head.

  “Well, good night, then, Poe.” His hand clasped mine and then he added, “Come to my father’s house this Sunday for tea. Some of the other lads will be there, too.”

  What next transpired, I fear, pertains at best indirectly to Artemus. I have thus debated the propriety of recounting it to you, Mr. Landor. Remembering, however, my Charge—to recount all—I proceed.

  I soon found that the stairwell of North Barracks was beset by a darkness nearly impenetrable. In the act of groping my way to ground level, I managed to catch my heel on one of the risers, and might have tumbled headmost down the remaining steps had I not grabbed hold of a sconce just over my head.

  Holding fast to the banister, I made my way down the remaining steps with no further mishap until my hand touched the door, at which time I was arrested by a terrifying premonition. To my benighted faculties, it seemed that somebody was there—lurking in the ebon shadows.

  Had there been a lantern at my disposal, I might have had the means to put my fears to rest. Alas, with vision so effectually stymied, I had only the evidence of those other senses, which, by way of compensation, had been stimulated into overacuteness, so that there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. In that instant, I was seized by the distinct and ineradicable impression that I was being watched—marked—in the way prey is measured by a beast in the depths of the jungle’s penumbrae.

  He will kill me. That was the naked thought which seized me at that moment. And yet I could not have said before whom I trembled, nor why he might have wished me ill. Stranded there in the pitch blackness, I could but await my Fate—with the despair of heart that characterizes the Doomed Man.

  There was a long and obstinate silence; and I was once again applying my weight against the door when I felt a hand close round the front of my throat—another hand clutch the back of my neck—in a perfect chain of constriction.

  I should add that it was not so much the force as the surprise of this assault which left me helpless to embark on any positive course of defense. In vain, yes, in vain did I struggle—until the hands, as suddenly as they had materialized, were withdrawn, and I fell to the ground with a sharp cry.

  Supine, I gazed upon a pair of bare feet shining with an unearthly pallor in the Plutonian darkness. From above me came the softly insinuating snarl:

  “Why, what a woman it is.”

  That voice! The odious Ballinger—lording it over me!

  For a few seconds longer he stood, breathing heavily. He thereupon made his way back up the stairs, leaving me in a state of near-perfect agitation and—I will confess it—consuming rage. Such injuries, such insults, are not to be borne, Mr. Landor, even in the pursuit of higher Justice. Mark me! There will come a day when the lion shall be devoured by the lamb—when the Hunter shall himself be hunted !

  My Aristotelian unities must now be compromised, Mr. Landor, for I see I have forgot to mention the last remark Artemus made to me. As I was standing in the hall, I heard him say that he desired me to meet his sister.

  Narrative of Gus Landor

  16

  November 11th to 15th

  Well, that’s Poe’s version. Of course, you never can be sure about what someone tells you, can you? That encounter of his with Lieutenant Locke, for instance: I’m willing to bet he didn’t pull it off with quite the coolness he’d like us to believe. And that business of letting Artemus win at écarté—well, it’s my experience that young men don’t play cards but are played by them. I’m willing to be proven wrong.

  I should say that of all the things in Poe’s account, the part that seemed least clouded by the narrator—the part, at any rate, I kept returning to— was that cryptic exchange between Artemus and Ballinger:

  You were closer to Fry than anybody. . . .

  I don’t believe I was as near to him as you. . . .

  Those words: closer, near. I had to ask myself, what if those two jovial fellows were talking about actual distance? Jesting, in their coded way, about how near they’d been to Leroy Fry’s dead body?

  It was a straw, yes, but I was in a mood to grasp. And so, before dinner, I made a point of stopping in the cadet mess.

  Reader, have you ever seen Ourang-Outangs set loose from their chains? Such is the picture I’d have you keep in mind as we enter the mess. Imagine hundreds of famished young men marched in silence to their tables. Imagine them standing at attention behind their seats, waiting for just two little words: “Take seats!” Listen to the buzzing roar that follows as they fling themselves on pewter plates and dive for viands. Tea is gargled still hot, bread is swallowed whole, boiled potatoes are torn like carrion, slabs of bull beef vanish in the blink of an eye. For the next twenty minutes, the raging of the Ourang-Outangs fills the air, and it is no surprise to learn that here, as nowhere else, fights break out—over nothing more than pork and molasses. The only wonder is the beasts don’t eat the tables, the very chairs on which they sit, and then hunt down the stewards and the mess-hall captain.

  All of which is to say that I was virtually ignored when I stepped into the room. Which gave me leave to talk up one of the stewards, a highly intelligent Negro who had seen and learned a great deal in his ten years here. He could tell you which cadets pinched bread and which ones pinched beef, which were the best carvers and which had the worst manners, which ones took their meals at Mammy Thompson’s and which ones dined on cookies and pickles from the soda shop. His insights went beyond food, for he also had a deep sense of which cadets would actually graduate (not many) and which of these would remain brevet second lieutenants for half their lives.

  “Cesar,” I said. “I wonder if you wouldn’t point out some of these fellows for me. Gently, now, I don’t want to be rude.”

  To be more sure of him, I asked him first to identify Poe. Cesar found him straight off—hunched over a plate of mutton, picking with distaste at a mound of turnips. I then threw out some meaningless names, belonging to cadets I’d heard of but never talked to. And then, taking care to keep my voice light, I said, “Oh, and Dr. Marquis’ son. Where would he be?”

  “Why, he’s one of the table commandants,” said Cesar. “Over there in the southwestern corner.”

  And that was my first glimpse of Artemus Marquis, seated at the head of the table, swallowing a forkful of boiled pudding. His posture was Prussian, his profile clean enough for a coin, his body tapered exactly where the uniform tapered. And unlike some of the other table commandants, who would jump to their feet or bark warnings, he ruled over his ravenous boys much as Poe had already noted: without in any way seeming to rule. I saw two of his cadets get into an argument over who should be pouring the tea. Far from putting his oar in, Artemus unlocked his spine, slouched back in his chair, and watched, with a look that steered just north of indolence. He gave them all the tether they wanted and then, without a sound or a sign, snapped it back—for didn’t they stop bickering as suddenly as they’d started? And didn’t they each give Artemus a quick appraising glance before returning to their business?

  The only person Artemus actually spoke to was the fellow on his immediate left. A blond warrior—a hearty, jawy sort who talked with the food still in his mouth, his cheeks puffing out like gills—with a neck so large it seemed to be feasting on his head. His name (as the great Cesar soon informed me) was Randolph Ballinger.

  You might have watched the two of them from start to finish, watched them for many dinners to come, and found nothing out of the way. They spoke in clear masculine cadences. Their smiles were candid, their manners free. No menace hid in their joints. They laughed at each other’s jokes and stood when the time came to stand and marched when it was time to march. There was nothing—nothing, I suppose, but Artemus’ good looks—to set them apart from their peers.

  And yet they were apart, I felt it in my nerves. I felt it when I turned them over in my head.<
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  Artemus, yes. Artemus, why not? Carving away Leroy Fry’s heart.

  It made such perfect sense I almost couldn’t trust it. A surgeon’s son, with a straight path to his father’s instruments and textbooks—his father’s brain. Who better to perform such a tricky business in such a trying environment?

  I forgot to mention. There came a point in that mess-hall dinner when Artemus Marquis turned his head, very slowly, and met my gaze. No trace of embarrassment. No urge to pacify me or anyone. A pair of hazel-green slates, wiped clean.

  In that moment, I felt him bracing his will against mine, daring me on.

  That, at any rate, was the idea that troubled me as I left the mess hall. The sun was bright enough to scratch tiny hairs across my retinas. In the artillery park, a bombardier was shining the brass barrel of an eighteen-ponder; another was hauling a barrow of pine logs toward the woodyard. A horse was drawing an empty cart up the steep hill from the boat landing, and the cart was rattling like a bushel basket of peas.

  In my pocket was a note for Poe: Well done! I want to hear all I can about Ballinger. Widen the web.

  I was carrying it to our hiding place in Kosciusko’s Garden. There is nothing much to this garden, Reader, at least to name. It’s only a small terrace gouged out of the Hudson’s rocky bank. You’ll find some piled rocks, a bit of greenery, a couple of hardy chrysanthemums . . . and, yes, just as Poe said, a clear spring welling up in a stone basin . . . and etched in that stone, the name of the great Polish colonel who oversaw the building of West Point’s fortifications. It was to this hidden nook that he is said to have retreated from his cares. These days, there’s not much retreat to be had—at least in the warmer months, when the place is overrun by tourists—but on a November afternoon, if you fix things right, you can make it answer in much the same way it answered for Kosciusko.

  So, at least, had been the impulse of the two people who were seated there now on a stone bench. A man and a woman. The woman was small-boned, with a girl’s waist and nearly a girl’s face, only the slightest pouching of skin showing around the jaw. She was grinning from ear to ear—fearfully grinning—and somehow managing to speak through her grin to her companion. Who was Dr. Marquis.

  I didn’t recognize him at once, but then I’d never come across him— or anyone, really—in quite that attitude before. I doubt I can convey the thing’s strangeness. He had pressed his thumbs into his ears. Not like a man shutting out a terrible din but like a man trying on a hat. His fingers lay draped along the sides of his head, like an otter’s pelt, and from time to time, he would waggle them a little, as if to find a better fit. His eyes stared into mine—big wide vein eyes that seemed to be trembling on the brink of an apology.

  “Mr. Landor,” he said, rising to his feet. “May I introduce to you my charming wife?”

  Well, Reader, you know how it is. A person can, in the space of one second, be magnified several times over by association. I looked at this grinning woman with her draining attentiveness, and suddenly she contained her husband and her son and a wardrobe of secrets—all submerged in that tiny bird-frame.

  “Why, Mr. Landor,” she said, in a softly nasal voice. “I have heard so much about you. I’m so delighted to make your acquaintance!”

  “All mine,” I said. “The pleasure, I mean. All—”

  “I understand from my husband that you are a widower.”

  The sally came so quickly it caught me in the throat.

  “That is so,” I managed to say.

  I looked to the doctor, waited for him to—what?—blush, maybe. Look askance. But his eyes were shiny with interest, and his big ruined lips were already rehearsing the words to come.

  “All due sympathies,” he said. “All due . . . goes without—without . . . May I ask, Mr. Landor, was it recent?”

  “Was what?”

  “Your wife going to her reward. Was it—”

  “It was three years ago,” I said. “Only a few months after we came to the Highlands.”

  “A sudden illness, then.”

  “Not sudden enough.”

  He had to blink away his surprise. “Oh, I’m—I’m—”

  “She was in great pain toward the end, Doctor. I could have wished her a faster reward than she got.”

  This was deeper, I think, than he wished to go. He turned his face to the river, muttered his consolations to the water.

  “Must be . . . almighty lonely and all that, where you . . . if you should ever . . .”

  “What my husband means to say,” said Mrs. Marquis, smiling like the sun, “is that we should be honored to have you in our house. As our esteemed guest.”

  “And I’d be delighted to accept,” I said. “In fact, I was going to propose the same thing myself.”

  How I expected her to react, I can’t say, but I never expected this: her face—every part of her face—sprang open, as if it were held together by trip wires. And then she squealed—yes, I think squealed is the right word—and even as the sound came out, she was slapping it back into her mouth.

  “Propose? Why, you sly devil. Oh, what a devil you are.”

  Then, lowering her voice, she added:

  “I believe you are the gentleman charged with inquiring into Mr. Fry’s death, is that so?”

  “It is.”

  “How fascinating. My husband and I have just been discussing the matter. Indeed, he now informs me that despite his own”—she squeezed his bicep—“heroic efforts, the body of that unfortunate Mr. Fry has been judged too far along for public display and has at last been shut away, in accordance with all decent sensibilities.”

  This I knew already. Word of Fry’s death had been late getting to his parents, and the decision had been made to shut him up for good in his six-sided pine box. Before sealing the lid, Captain Hitchcock had asked me if I wanted one last look.

  I did. Though, for the life of me, I can’t say why.

  No longer bloated, Leroy Fry’s body had shrunk back on itself. He floated in a swamp of his own fluid, his arms and legs were black cream, and even the maggots had taken their fill of him, they came scurrying out of every cavity, leaving the rest to the newly hatched beetles that stirred beneath his skin like new muscle.

  One thing else I noticed before they sealed the box: the final reservoirs of fluid had swelled into Leroy Fry’s eyelids. His yellow eyes had, after eighteen days, closed.

  And now I stood in Kosciusko’s Garden and stared into the bright brown irises of Mrs. Marquis’ eyes, which were open as wide as they could be.

  “Oh, Mr. Landor,” she said. “This whole affair has left my husband quite shaken. It’s been many years since he has had to witness such carnage. Not since the war, I think. Isn’t that so, Daniel?”

  He nodded in grave assent and slowly curled his arm round her tiny waist, as though to reassert his claim over this—this trophy, this wren of a woman, with her crinkling, overawed brown eyes and her calico pockets.

  I mumbled something about needing to get back, but my two companions declared themselves ready to walk me as far as my hotel. And so, having failed to leave my message for Poe, I found myself carted back to Mr. Cozzens’, the good doctor following behind and his wife alongside me, her hand coiled round my arm.

  “You won’t mind, I hope, if I lean on you just a little, Mr. Landor? These slippers have given my poor feet such a pinching. How the female sex tortures itself in the name of fashion.”

  Spoken like a post belle at her first hop. And if I were a young cadet at such a hop, I would say . . . I would say . . .

  “You may be sure your sacrifices aren’t lost on me.”

  She looked at me then as if I had uttered the most original sentence ever conceived. Which, I seem to recall, is how young women look at you when you’re a young man. And then out of her mouth came the strangest laugh I have ever heard, high and echoing and broken into even segments, like stalactites dripping in a vast cavern.

  “Why, Mr. Landor, if I weren’t. And that�
��s all I will say, if I weren’t!”

  Saturday night, I went back to my cottage, where Patsy was waiting for me. Of all the pleasures she promised, the one I think I looked forward to the most was the chance she would give me to sleep. I figured, you see, that a stretch of lovemaking might ease me out of that half-waking state of mine. What I’d forgotten was how much she awakened me, even as she spent herself. Once she was done with me, she just . . . glided off to dreamland, didn’t she? . . . with her head resting on my breastbone. And me? I lay there, still aflame with her, marveling at the thickness of her black hair, the strength of it, like nautical roping.

  And when I could draw my thoughts from Patsy, I found them returning of their own accord to the Point. The evening tattoo would already have sounded, I thought, and the moon would have left its tracks everywhere. And from my hotel window, I would have been able to see the year’s last steamers bearing south, leaving a train of glitter. Mottlings of shadow on the mountain slopes . . . the ruins of old Fort Clinton smoldering like the end of a cigar. . . .