by Van Reid
“No, I’ve been retired from the sea for some years now.”
“More in your brother’s blood than yours, I think.”
“Yes, it was indeed. You’ve heard about Basil.”
“I was sorry to read that he had passed on. He was the best junior officer I ever had during the war. Brave as a bulldog.”
“It’s good of you to say so.”
“It’s not good of me at all! It’s the truth! Are you living here?”
“No, actually my wife’s family hails from Ellsworth, but it’s business concerning my brother that has brought us here. We received his sea trunk recently and found that he had bequeathed a large parcel of land to my daughter. We’ve come up to get a look at it.”
“Just now, eh?” The captain tipped the porter and opened the carriage door to climb in. “He died in South America, didn’t he? These things can take time finding their way home.”
“Yes,” said James. “A very fine fellow, Mr. Stimply, saw my brother’s things all the way from Venezuela to the Portland Custom House.”
Captain Coyle had found his seat in the carriage now, but he hesitated with the door and leaned forward to look at James seriously. “Charles Stimply?” he asked.
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“The Charles Stimply that sailed on Captain Underwood’s last ship?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“And he brought your brother’s belongings home recently?”
“I spoke to Mr. Stimply barely a week ago. Why?”
“Well,” said Captain Coyle. “I buried Charles Stimply at sea eight months past. Driver!” The carriage door slammed shut and the horses were whipped up. The rig had turned in the street and driven off before James was able to fully grasp what Captain Coyle had told him.
The noise of the riverside fell away as young Ethan Morningside shook the carriage reins and Faymar, the mare, clopped into a trot. Faintly, behind the sound of hooves and wheels, Cordelia could hear the pee-ik of a night-hawk from some nearby tree or rooftop. They crossed a bridge and climbed a side street, and as they approached the Morningside home they could see that every light in the house was burning cheerily. The glow from the windows cast crosshatched patterns upon the lawn and lit the walk like a full moon.
Priscilla Morningside was out the door before Cordelia could climb down from the carriage and with delighted squeals the two young women dropped fifteen years from their apparent age and danced around the yard together. A toy fox terrier was close at Priscilla’s heels and, sharing in the young women’s excitement, leaped about while emitting a series of piercing yelps.
“Priscilla,” came Grace’s voice from the front door. “Priscilla!” It was clear that she objected to some aspect of her daughter’s behavior, but wasn’t quite able to articulate it. Mercia wished that there were someone to welcome her as Priscilla had welcomed Cordelia, but it was pleasant to greet her sister with a simple hug when she stepped into the front hall.
“Mercia!” said Grace. “Whatever am I going to do with that girl?”
Mercia just laughed softly, saying: “Oh, Grace.”
“James!” said Grace, when her brother-in-law came up the steps, and from her tone one might believe that seeing a robust adult male was akin to sighting land. She took his hand and accepted a kiss upon the cheek.
Ethan clambered in with two large pieces of luggage, and the Morning-sides’ aging male servant came laden behind the boy. Priscilla and Cordelia brought up the rear, laughing and out of breath and still hugging one another. The terrier darted between them as they crossed the threshold and allowed Mercia to scoop him up.
“Teacup,” said Grace. “You are quite as bad as the girls.”
Cordelia’s hair had come undone, and a fall of red tresses slipped forward to obscure half of her face. Something—possibly just seeing one another—had amused her and Priscilla so greatly that they burst into renewed laughter as Grace gave them her most exasperated expression. Teacup, wiggling in Mercia’s arms, let out another of his sharp barks.
“Priscilla,” said Grace tiredly. “It is not enough that you go out without a hat, but your sleeve has come unbuttoned.”
“Aunt Grace!” declared Cordelia. “It’s so wonderful to see you!” She hugged her aunt with rather more zest than the woman was accustomed to, but Grace was more tolerant of exuberant behavior in her niece than she was in most people.
“Cordelia, you are a whirlwind!” admitted the aunt, almost with a laugh. “Good heavens! Look at your hair!” She went to work on Cordelia’s emancipated tresses, brushing them back carefully so that she could gaze for a moment at her niece and say: “Dear me. Dear me.”
It surprised most people when they discovered that Grace was five years younger than Mercia, but it is a mistake to equate gravity with age. A reader of tea leaves had once told Grace that she had an aged soul, and she took this to mean that she was in some sense older than her sister after all.
“Well, Mercia,” said Grace once when they had reached one of their common disagreements. “I am older than you.”
“Yes, I know,” replied Mercia. “And it’s a wonderful trick since I was born first.”
“Never mind,” Grace had maintained in all seriousness. “It was just a mistake our parents made, that is all.”
Grace was a thin woman, more handsome than beautiful, with dark brown hair that she wore in a pragmatic bun. Not as tall as her sister, she stood stiffly erect (when she was not feeling faint) and gave the appearance of more height than was hers by nature. It was five years since her husband, Henry, had died; and though no longer in widow’s black, she did still dress in somber shades which, contrasted with her pale complexion, gave her an ethereal quality. Standing in the hall, she touched her forehead with the tips of three fingers and briefly closed her eyes. With a deep sigh, she said “There!” as if she had fought off an oncoming spell, then insisted that they not linger in the hall, since a late supper was waiting for them in the dining room.
It was during the meal that Mercia first noticed her husband’s preoccupation. Teacup had placed himself by James’s chair, where the dog reckoned he would receive the most generous, if surreptitious, portion from the table. This, as a rule, would have proved a worthwhile strategy, but Mercia—seated next to her husband—glanced down at the dog several times and saw that Teacup waited in vain.
There had been enough crises, large and small, in the Underwoods’ lives for James to perfect an ability to hide his emotions when something was disturbing him; and similarly enough such plights for Mercia to develop her own ability to see through his dispassionate mask. She reached for a spoon beside her plate and managed to touch her husband’s hand lightly and with meaning. James glanced at her sideways and gave her a small smile that indicated he would explain when the opportunity arose.
As he raised a glass to his lips, he wondered for the hundredth time: If Captain Coyle had indeed buried Charles Stimply at sea last November, who was the man who had come to their house, and why? Why would a person assume a false identity to perform such an honest deed? Why the elaborate lie—and what else was not what it seemed?
30 Sundry’s Change of Position
MISTER WALTON CHEERFULLY AMBULATED BACK TO THE WISCASSET House, where he readied himself for his night excursion with the sheriff and the colonel. He was greeted as he entered the foyer by Sundry Moss.
“Sundry, how are you?” said Mister Walton. “I want to thank you again for your action on my behalf this afternoon.” He shook a finger in friendly admonishment. “I am not very sure that it was necessary, but it was quite laudable of you to take my part.”
Sundry looked embarrassed as he waved the portly gentleman’s thanks away. “Lofton went to Mr. Hubbard’s office this afternoon and demanded you be thrown out of the hotel on the grounds that you’re a fraud.”
“Good heavens,” said Mister Walton.
“He had Hubbard half-convinced, I think—Lofton’s pretty well thought of here on account of h
is money—but some of the other guests insisted the whole thing was an honest mistake. Hubbard called me in and I told him you were having supper at the sheriff ’s. That brought him around.”
“It is unfortunate,” said Mister Walton, “but a comedy of errors rather than a tragedy. I don’t understand how anyone could feel that their day has been poorly spent when it includes a full-grown bear standing on her head.”
Alfred Lofton strode into the hall just then, attempting to look as if he hadn’t been listening to their conversation from the next room. He stopped in his tracks when he saw them, and with his best expression of angered dignity he said to Sundry: “I thought you were told that your services were no longer required!” He threw back his shoulders, as stiff and sour as he could make himself.
“I had business with Mister Walton,” said Sundry, who clearly did not like explaining himself.
“You may leave, then, if your business is over,” said Lofton, ignoring Mister Walton’s presence in the room. “You’re not employed here anymore, and heaven knows you’re not a guest.”
“Not employed?” said Mister Walton. “Sundry, don’t tell me . . .”
“He has been let go,” said Lofton with satisfaction.
“Only because I didn’t say ‘I quit’ fast enough.”
“The result is the same. You don’t belong here anymore, and you may leave.”
“Sundry is working for me, Mr. Lofton,” said Mister Walton without blinking. “So you won’t have to concern yourself.”
“Mister Walton,” said Sundry. “You don’t have to . . .”
“He’s been given the boot!” Lofton insisted, directing his anger now at Mister Walton. “And I think it wise not to interfere!”
“I don’t like to benefit from another’s misfortune,” said Mister Walton with a straight face and never losing his peaceful demeanor. “But the hotel’s loss, in this case, is my gain, I fear.”
“Mr. Hubbard will be gravely offended!” said Lofton darkly.
“I can’t imagine it,” quipped the bespectacled fellow. “Only small people are easily offended.”
Lofton, who until now had done his best to appear offended, found himself at a loss for a response.
Respecting Mister Walton’s quiet way of dealing with the unpleasant Alfred Lofton, Sundry covered the lower part of his face with a long hand to hide an involuntary grin.
“This hotel, sir,” said Lofton “is not big enough for the two of us.”
“If you can suffer the crowding another night, Mr. Lofton, I assure you that I will be leaving in the morning.” When Lofton had stiffly exited, Mister Walton said, “What do you think, Sundry?”
“That was more than nice of you, Mister Walton, but I’ll be on my way, now.”
“On your way? I thought you might not mind working for me.”
“Well, of course not. But what would you want me to do?”
Here the bespectacled fellow was at a bit of an impasse. “I’ve always thought that traveling with another was a great improvement over traveling alone,” he said finally. “Perhaps you would provide me with some company.”
“I would have to do more than that, Mister Walton, if I was in your employ. But I’ll tell you what: I think you are just the sort of gentleman who could find worth in a valet. A gentleman’s gentleman, so to speak.”
“Capital!” said Mister Walton. He held out his hand to seal the deal.
Sundry shook his new employer’s hand thoughtfully. “I think I’m going to enjoy working for you, Mister Walton.”
31 Night Watch at Fort Edgecomb
FORT EDGECOMB WAS A VISIBLE DARKNESS AGAINST THE CLOUDED NIGHT sky as Colonel Taverner’s party approached by foot from the road. The night was unseasonably cool, and a suggestion of rain was in the air. They walked, when they could, in the grass for the sake of quiet, and dew collected on the toes of their boots. Somewhere, in a pond or marshy place behind them, frogs and peepers spoke. Ahead of them was the presence of the Sheepscott River—the smell of salt and sea grass, the sound of current against the rough shoreline, and the perception of open sky above the moving water.
They were prepared for certain eventualities, for three of the party were armed—the sheriff, Seth the jail-keeper, and the colonel; carrying a rifle, a shotgun, and a brace of revolvers, respectively.
They numbered five, which was the originally conceived force plus Sundry Moss, who insisted on accompanying Mister Walton and whom Sheriff Piper did not mind having along. Gazing up at the blockhouse from the side of the road, they numbered six if you counted Ducky Planke, who watched unseen from the confines of a small stand of trees behind them. Ducky did not follow them, however, when the small group crossed the parade ground and melted into the fort’s encircling shadows.
Mister Walton felt like a medieval pilgrim before the gates of a sleeping castle, his imagination stretching the small blockhouse into parapets and bastions. He half expected Colonel Taverner to pound upon the heavy oak door to arouse sleeping watchmen, but the Scot instead produced his ring of keys, which clinked in the darkness as he fitted the proper one into its lock.
The door shuddered slightly on its hinges—a short chuffing noise, like the cough of some great animal; Taverner did not open it all the way, but produced a small can of oil from a satchel he had brought with him. “Now, Mr. Moss,” he said in something below a whisper. “You look the most narrow amongst us. Perhaps you’d be good enough to pry yourself inside and pacify these hinges.” He gave Sundry the can of oil, and the young man disappeared like a cat (if a very long cat) inside.
The door was not entirely silent as it swung open, and Seth Patterson took on the job of easing it back and forth several times till the oil had worked its way between the hinges. A cold atmosphere greeted them as they entered, and the colonel allowed a sliver of light from a storm lantern so that they could see their way to the second floor.
The great door was closed behind them and Taverner politely invited Sheriff Piper to go before him. “I’m not sure, Roddy,” said Piper quietly, “if the ghosts in this place will favor the presence of a British colonel, however retired he may be.”
“I don’t think I believe in ghosts, Charles,” said Taverner.
Piper’s soft chuckle faded as he turned away and snuck up the stairs.
The second floor of the blockhouse formed a ring around the stairwell and the ladder that continued to the small lookout tower above. Taverner thought that a person’s silhouette in the tower might be visible from the water, and so he placed the first lookouts—himself and the sheriff—at the gun slots facing the river.
Benches lined the outer walls of the second floor, and the others sat between the sheriff and the colonel. There was very little moon showing through the clouds, so that Taverner’s cribbage deck would stay in his satchel, but soft-voiced conversation seemed allowable, and the colonel himself began the train of discussion by asking about the origins of the fort.
“It was built during our last difficulty with you people,” said Sundry.
“Ah, the conflict of 1812. I thought as much.”
“It was meant to safeguard the river from the British, then?” said Mister Walton.
“To guard Wiscasset, actually, which is the important site,” said the sheriff, a loyal member of the opposite bank.
Sundry, who hailed from the Edgecomb side of the river, said wryly: “Really? It’s an odd thing they built it on Edgecomb soil.”
“Well, it was garrisoned primarily with Wiscasset men,” explained the sheriff.
“And the only shot they ever fired was over the head of a frightened fisherman,” informed Sundry.
“Perhaps the fisherman was from Edgecomb,” suggested Seth.
Mister Walton chuckled softly, and if any of them had been closer to the sheriff they would have heard him chuckle as well. Taverner whispered in the silence that followed:
“I suppose,” said Piper with humor, “that we shouldn’t be exhibiting dis-unity before a member
of the British army.”
“Ach, no worry,” said Taverner. “You sound like good Scots. It is music to my ears.”
“The truth is,” admitted the sheriff, “the Union Jack gave our grandparents some uncomfortable moments. The British landed at Boothbay and on the other side of the river near Wiscasset, and I’ve been told that at least one man was killed, shooting from the porch of his house.”
“As a boy,” said Mister Walton, “I got a glimpse of war from a distance, while our regiment waited to be called into line, listening to Confederate guns and seeing the black smoke over the hills. But that was in Virginia. It is difficult to picture such a conflict here.”
“The land forgets these things,” said Taverner. “For good or worse, it’s people that remember.”
Conversation fell away with this thought and they listened to the night—tree peepers and frogs, the bark of a dog, the brush of a light breeze against the eaves of the fort. Dim bands of luminescence played across the faces of Colonel Taverner and Sheriff Piper as they peered through their gun slots. Even inside, one could sense that rain was on its way.
“We very nearly had a brush with the French here in Edgecomb a hundred years ago,” said Sundry, his mind obviously turning upon the historical.
“Can that story be true?” wondered the sheriff.
“Have you ever been to Captain Chase’s house and seen the furniture that is still there?” asked Sundry.
“I’ve never been invited to look at the Chases’ furniture,” said Piper, who wasn’t sure that Sundry had either.
“They say that the Clough family in Boothbay has letters sent by old Captain Clough to his wife, telling her to expect the queen,” said Seth.
“Do not prepare to receive a queen, but only a very sad and broken-hearted lady,” quoted Sundry, who was perhaps not adverse to a bit of romanticizing.
“You’ve read these letters, as well,” said the sheriff dryly.