Cordelia Underwood, or the Marvelous Beginnings of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  “Well, no one will recognize you, then. I hadn’t any notion she was so nervous about the law.”

  “Mr. McQuinn,” said Mister Walton. He shook an admonitory finger. “It has been a diverting tour, but I will thank you, in future, not to involve me with your trafficking in illegitimate goods.”

  “Old Horace owes you one,” said the man with great seriousness.

  “And what about Mr. Privy? I suppose he is just a convenient dodge for your operation.”

  “Oh, no,” insisted Horace. “That’s just mixing business with pleasure. Everything I told you about him was God’s honest truth.”

  Mister Walton almost laughed again. He was thinking of himself careening down the middle of Portland with his hat crammed over his eyes, and it was just too wonderful.

  “The honest truth,” repeated Horace. “I might steal, but I’d never lie.”

  BOOK THREEINDEPENDENCE DAY, 1896

  9 What’s Good for the Soul

  “AT LEAST A DOZEN CITIZENS WERE WITNESS TO A REMARKABLE ONE-WAGON RACE down Cumberland Street on Friday afternoon at about 2 o’clock.” Mr. Eagleton read this sentence aloud from the July 4 issue of the Portland Daily Advertiser, his accentuation fitting nicely with the rhythm of the rails as he and his colleagues trundled north toward Freeport.

  “Yesterday?” said Mr. Ephram. He had lowered the Eastern Argus so that the upper half of his face could be seen above it. His eyes traced the passing landscape through the windows on the opposite side of the train.

  “One wagon?” said Mr. Thump, from behind the Portland Courier.

  “A one-wagon race,” said Eagleton.

  “Irony,” suggested Ephram.

  “Remarkable,” said Thump, lowering his paper.

  “So it says,” said Eagleton. He read from the sentence again: “ ‘a remarkable one-wagon race.’ ”

  “No race with only one participant,” said Ephram.

  “No, I don’t suppose,” agreed Eagleton.

  “Unless, of course,” said Thump, “it was a race against time.”

  This brought a pause to the conversation. Half a mile of rail went beneath them as they considered this possibility.

  “Perhaps there is more to this item,” suggested Thump. Clearly the fresh air outside of the city had done much for his perspicacity.

  Eagleton lifted the Daily Advertiser and read aloud from the article. “Calvin Drum, of the Portland Constabulary tells this reporter that he was making the rounds of his beat, when he espied a portly man of middle age perched upon the seat of a wagon at the corner of Cumberland and Smith. The back of the wagon was laden with eight or ten large barrels, the contents of which the reader will not discover in this story.

  “Officer Drum noticed a melancholy aspect to the figure on the wagon, and was convinced that the man was lost. With that desire to serve so characteristic of our Police Force, Officer Drum stepped up to the wagon and inquired if he could be of assistance. What transpired next, by all accounts, surprised the driver as much as it did the constable. The mare attached to the wagon—a creature that had given no outward appearance of ambition—suddenly bounded forth in a cloud of dust.

  “Sensing something dangerous, if not downright suspicious, in this sudden flight, the perceptive officer gave a shout for the man to stop the speeding transport, but was not given the satisfaction of seeing his orders obeyed. Indeed, the horse increased its efforts as each of the officer’s shouts reached its ears, and soon Drum was horrified to see horse, wagon, and driver careen toward the meeting of Cumberland and Franklin Streets without a hint of moderating their pace!’ ”

  “Good heavens!” interjected Thump.

  “I should very much say!” added Ephram.

  “Speeding wagon,” said Eagleton to Mister Walton, who was listening from his seat on the opposite side of the train.

  “Oh, yes,” said Mister Walton, reddening with embarrassment. “Do forgive me, please. I couldn’t help but hear.”

  “Not at all,” said Eagleton.

  “First-rate reading voice, has Eagleton,” said Thump.

  “I would certainly say,” said Mister Walton.

  “Thank you,” said Eagleton. “Thump’s own narration has a certain dramatic flair that I have often admired.”

  Thump was gratified to hear this, and said so, bringing the honors full circle by adding: “Ephram, of course, enunciates with exquisite precision.”

  “Oh!” said Ephram, denying the compliment with a wave of his hand.

  “True,” said Eagleton. “True.”

  “I have yet to misunderstand a single word the man has said,” insisted Thump to Mister Walton.

  “I do strive for accuracy,” admitted Ephram modestly.

  “Enunciator Emeritus,” announced Eagleton. “No less a title is deserved.” He lowered his paper now, and peered at the ceiling of the car with such intensity that the others, Mister Walton included, craned their necks to see what he was looking at. This was unfortunate since Eagleton had only lifted his gaze so that his jaw might jut more nobly as he appointed his comrade with this grand rank. With the other men staring at the ceiling, the effect was somewhat lost.

  It was Ephram who first recovered from this impasse, stating his name and extending a hand across the aisle to Mister Walton.

  “Tobias Walton,” came the reply as they shook hands, and similar ceremony was observed with Eagleton and Thump.

  “Did the wagon meet with an accident?” wondered Thump aloud.

  “No one was hurt, fortunately,” said Mister Walton, then looked as if he had been pinched when he realized what he had said.

  “Eyewitness!” said Ephram.

  “Firsthand observation!” said Eagleton.

  “Extraordinary!” said Thump.

  They each insisted on shaking his hand again.

  “Yes, well,” said Mister Walton. He was not deft at subterfuge, but managed to change the subject by inquiring of their destination.

  “We are traveling to Freeport,” informed Thump.

  “Plan to partake of the celebration there,” added Eagleton.

  “Fourth of July, you know,” finished Ephram.

  “Why, that is my own destination and purpose!” said Mister Walton.

  “Capital!” exclaimed Eagleton.

  “Fate!” said Ephram.

  “Destination derived from destiny!” insisted Thump. They each shook Mister Walton’s hand again, enthused to discover a fellow traveler who had been witness to great events. He was invited to join them, and he shifted across the aisle to sit beside Ephram.

  “Little sequel to this story,” said Eagleton, glancing down his nose at his paper. “Daily Advertiser has no clue as to the wagon driver’s identity.”

  “I hope . . . !” said Mister Walton. “I mean, it seems he disappeared somewhere after the Free Will Church.” Mister Walton’s discomfort was obvious, as he strove to speak, and the three men feared he had taken sick. He looked from one to another of them, and was so seized by the honest concern in their faces that he suddenly said: “Actually, I was the driver of the wagon.”

  “Good heavens!” said Ephram. He sat up straight beside.

  “Extraordinary!” said Thump.

  Eagleton was positively dumbfounded. “Wild horse! Runaway wagon!”

  “A man of action!” insisted Thump.

  “Slowed in the nick of time!” asserted Ephram. “Possibly saving lives!”

  Mister Walton could not say whether he was shaken more by the rhythm of the train or by the renewed pumping of his hand. He was rather confounded by the delighted reception given to his confession, and had every intention of spilling the entire tale (though leaving out Horace’s name), but was frustrated by his companions’ great excitement and a new tangent in the conversation.

  “We are beginning a club, you know,” said Thump, who turned to Eagle-ton: “And he’s just the sort of man.”

  “A club?” said Mister Walton, not understanding.

  “G
round floor,” said Ephram. “Members wanted.”

  “You have a personal invitation,” said Eagleton.

  “A club?” repeated Mister Walton.

  “Haven’t a name, yet,” said Thump. He tapped a forefinger at his temple. “Hasn’t come.”

  “What sort of club?”

  “Undecided,” answered Ephram.

  “Inspiration pending,” explained Eagleton.

  “Inspiration pending,” repeated Ephram.

  “I like that very much.”

  “Thank you, Ephram.”

  10 Freeport

  THE WINDOWS OF THE TRAIN THAT PULLED INTO THE FREEPORT STATION at 11:10 on the Fourth of July, 1896, were decked in red, white, and blue; streamers fluttered from the engine, and even the cow-catcher was festooned with the colors of the day. From near and far, the noise of firecrackers and rockets rose above the ruckus of the crowd and the chuff of the engine. A band greeted the train with a stirring, if vaguely sharp, rendition of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

  The engineer, as instructed, blew his whistle a good mile from the station, and the band leader, decked out as colorfully as any worthy contemporary of John Philip Sousa, scurried about like a mother hen, gathering his horn players and flutists and drummers, who drank lemonade in the shade and did their best to flirt with the local girls. Soon they were fashioned into a presentable formation and playing with all their might to be heard over the wheels and steam and final whistles of the approaching locomotive. A sort of auditory battle ensued, with cheers and shouts adding to the confusion. The engineer, carried away by the sheer abundance of noise and revelry, blew superfluous hoots of his steam whistle; and young boys passed out small flags, courtesy of the Harraseeket Hotel, to passengers as they stepped down.

  After the conductor helped her onto the station platform, Cordelia received one of these tokens with a bright “Thank you” to the smudge-faced lad who held it out to her, then looked for her great-aunt Delia while her parents stepped down.

  White was the predominant color of dress among the throng, though the men might sport stripes; the women brightened the station’s prospect like white lilies. Flowered hats and colored sashes and ribbons accented the sunny aspect of their dress. Parasols bloomed in the sun, and laughter and shouts filled the air once the engineer’s steam whistle and the band had called a truce. Peddlers hawked fireworks among the crowd.

  Aunt Delia Frost was waving from the seat of her carriage, which was drawn up alongside one end of the station. Cordelia saw her first and looked half her age as she beamed at her aunt and waved emphatically. Aunt Delia looked pleased, somehow, through her usual wry expression, as they approached.

  Delia was short for Cordelia and her great-niece was her namesake. Aunt Delia was seventy-eight years old and drove her own carriage, even if a man was aboard, which in 1896 explained quite a lot about her—including, some said, why the husband of her youth had left her for the Gold Rush of ’49. Cordelia thought this bit of gossip unfair, and once had said so to her great-aunt, when Cordelia was no more than six or seven. “Run away?!” Aunt Delia had exclaimed. “Good heavens, child, I threw him out!”

  Aunt Delia did not dislike men—on the contrary, she was ready to like anyone. She had loved unwisely, however, and simply tired of it. She never mentioned her husband of two years without some touch of affection softening the contours of her disregard. She had heard from Abner Frost twice in forty-seven years—once after the War Between the States, to let her know he had survived. The last she knew of him, he was living in Wyoming, and she secretly suspected him of having an Indian wife.

  “Don’t try to kiss me till you get into the carriage,’ she said as they came to the end of the station platform. “I’m too old and I can’t bend over . . . though, James, you’re tall enough—come over here while the others are getting in and it will save time.” During moments such as this, Cordelia’s great-aunt could make her almost giddy with suppressed laughter. “I told you that I would have everything we needed,” Aunt Delia was saying as they piled several blankets and a hamper of food among her already abundant provisions.

  “We did invite someone to join us,” Cordelia’s mother replied, “and if he is able to come, we wanted to be sure to have enough.”

  “Well, I hope he is either good-looking or clever,” said the older woman, and James had barely gotten himself seated beside his wife before Aunt Delia whipped up the horses and wheeled into the gathering traffic.

  Cordelia righted her hat after the first lurch and smiled happily into the sunlight. They followed the general flow of carriages, riders, and pedestrians to the fairgrounds. Cordelia’s gaze swept the people that milled about the storefronts, and suddenly she was looking into the face of the handsome young man who had saved her from going overboard two days before. He was leaning against a porch post, and his own face turned as they moved past. He smiled appreciatively at her, and she, struck by the frankness of his admiration, only stared back in return. Cordelia turned to keep him in sight, but soon they had descended the hill and he was gone.

  “No, I came alone,” Aunt Delia was saying, in answer to a question from Mercia. “Certainly your sister wouldn’t make the trip.”

  “How is she?” asked Mercia.

  “As pale as ever. Grace is so prone to the vapors that she is in danger of turning into a cloud and blowing away on the next stiff breeze. She needs a husband, I think.”

  “Well, it hasn’t been very long, Aunty,” said Mercia, over the clop and trundle of the carriage.

  “Good heavens, Henry has been dead for five years! Your brother’s first wife had been hardly gone a year before he remarried, and he didn’t burst into flame. Now his second wife is ailing as well. You children do seem to be attracted to people of weak constitutions. James, how have you been feeling?”

  “Breathing regularly, Aunt Delia,” said James. “Thank you.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I’ve always been fond of you and don’t look forward to any more funerals before my own.”

  “I’ll do my best to oblige, certainly.”

  “I liked your brother too, though I must say, he disappointed me by passing on when he did.”

  “We just heard from Uncle Basil!” said Cordelia, sounding to her aunt more excited than sensible.

  “Are you conducting séances now?” wondered the older woman.

  James explained and Aunt Delia listened in silence as they neared the fairgrounds. They passed by the last of the houses and trees so that the harbor and waterfront were visible beyond the sloping fields. Already crowds of people were defining the boundaries of upcoming events, with great numbers milling about the hot-air balloon that bobbed on its tether in the light breeze. Nearby, speakers declaimed to the assembling throng. Clouds gathered out to sea, and the sun was only just escaping from behind them as it rose.

  11 The Political Fray

  THE BALLOON ASCENSIONIST, MRS. ROBERTO (IN HER ATTRACTIVE SUIT OF tights, as the newspapers had advertised her), was perhaps as responsible for the crowd milling about the hot-air balloon as the hot-air balloon itself. The fact that she was wearing an attractive suit of tights might have escaped many of the spectators if the word had not already gotten out, for little more than her ankles were visible beneath a skirt that, admittedly, was shorter than some (that is, some women) thought it ought to be. The only other portion of her attractive suit of tights visible was on her lovely forearms, which were gracefully evident from beneath a short-sleeved blouse.

  Mister Walton had read nothing of this personage (or her wardrobe), and could not be blamed for following his newfound acquaintances directly to the hot-air balloon as soon as they arrived by hired carriage at the fair-grounds. Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump expressed the greatest interest in balloon ascension as they walked—some might say trotted—across the field, past picnickers and children with sparklers and firecrackers, and Mister Walton quite admired the enthusiasm of his new companions.

  There was an eerie quali
ty about the enormous red, white, and blue gas bag as it swayed and shifted in the rising breeze; it seemed alive with a breath of its own, its basket whispering against the grass as it stirred. It dominated the immediate vicinity like a tethered elephant, restless and watchful, its festive colors obstructing the sky.

  It was not enough, however, simply to observe the balloon from behind the gathering crowd; nothing would do, assured Thump, but they gain an interview with the ascensionist herself. The gender of the pronoun surprised Mister Walton, as did her costume when they finally gained the front of the crowd. He was afraid she might be cold.

  Mrs. Roberto was a woman of some maturity—though young for a widow—and there was a type of wisdom in her eyes that made most men quickly forget the more nubile members of the fairer sex. Her hair was black and lustrous, falling down her back in a style usually acquainted with younger women. There was a certain exotic cast to her face—her nose prominent, her lips heavy and, by the way, more red than God had made them. She was not a small woman, but what she missed in nymph-like grace she more than made up for with a sort of languid warmth. She sat in a chair upon a low platform, legs crossed indelicately at the knees, and held court. Many of the men, once they had reached the front of the crowd, did their best to pretend they didn’t see her. Suddenly the balloon’s basket, and the great winch and cable that held the balloon to the ground, merited intense scrutiny.

  Mister Walton, having arrived with less intention than his companions, was able to look Mrs. Roberto in the eye with an honest smile and greet her. “Do you suppose the weather will hold off?” he asked.

  “That would be very kind,” she said, as if he might have something to do with it. Mrs. Roberto’s voice had the resonant tone of a cello, lending a suggestiveness to her speech. Mister Walton found his ears blushing.

  “Some opportunity for precipitation by this afternoon,” said Eagleton. “Though the chances for weather increase sharply as the day progresses.” He squared his shoulders and delivered this pronouncement with unexpected authority, but as soon as Mrs. Roberto’s attention fell upon him he appeared regretful. “Meteorographically speaking,” he mumbled and turned to inspect the knots that held the balloon to its basket.