Cordelia Underwood, or the Marvelous Beginnings of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  Sundry was doing his best to concentrate on nothing at all, but a small scene developing on the next wharf drew his attention.

  There was a small shack of a building there, where a crab picker plied his trade. Steam rose from holes in the roof and from a single window, billowing from the crab picker’s great boilers. Sundry could see the crab man, a spindly fellow without hair or teeth, and two older women pass the window as they worked. Occasionally a bucket of crab shells flew from the window into the water, with some of the refuse not quite making it off the wharf.

  A little ragamuffin of a fellow, no more than four or five years old, with nearly as many holes and patches in his clothes as he had clothes, was entertaining himself by pitching these shells into the harbor. Sundry watched the tyke with sympathy, thinking that a pile of picked crab shells was as close as the little fellow would ever come to a bag of toys. He wondered when the boy had eaten last and, seeing the tyke inspect the shells for meat that the pickers might have missed, decided it had been a while since his last meal.

  Sundry was jingling some change in his pocket and had just determined to do something about this hungry state of affairs when two sharp young men, around eighteen or nineteen years old, came up to the little boy and began to praise his ability to throw.

  It occurred to Sundry that these two were of a charitable disposition and he relaxed.

  “I’ll bet you I can throw one of these shells farther than you,” said one of the young men. “What do you say, Garrett?”

  “I don’t think you can do it,” said Garrett.

  “Well, I bet you,” said the first fellow to the little boy, smiling broadly.

  Sundry smiled; here was a clever way to give the boy a bit of money without the appearance of charity.

  “What are you going to bet, Bo?” asked Garrett.

  “I am thinking. I will bet you five cents,” said Bo to the little boy, “against your hat that I can throw one of these shells farther than you can.”

  The tiny fellow hardly understood what a bet was, but agreed to the wager with a silent nod.

  “Go ahead,” said Bo encouragingly. “Give it your best.”

  The little boy took up a piece of shell and gave it a toss in the direction of the water. It flitted out past the end of the wharf, stumbled in the light breeze, and plitted in the current barely a yard out. Sundry thought that Bo would have to be very clever in order to throw a shorter distance.

  “Uh-oh!” said Bo.

  “You’ve seen it now!” said Garrett, laughing.

  Bo picked up a shell, weighed it in his hand, then flung it several yards into the harbor. Immediately the two began to laugh uproariously and Bo snatched the hat from the little fellow’s head. There was a sort of stunned expression on the child’s face, and when he put his hand up to his bare head, Bo and Garrett went into new convulsions of laughter.

  “Would you like to try and win your hat back?” asked Bo, when they had composed themselves.

  “I think you boys have had enough fun,” said the crab man, peering out his window. “Let him learn his lesson and leave him alone.”

  “I won it fair and square, old man,” smirked Bo, waving the hat.

  “You won it—though I would argue with fair and square. Get!”

  “I thought you were going to throw that shell,” said Sundry, who had hurried back to shore and was now walking up the other wharf.

  Bo and Garrett were startled by his approach, but relaxed when they saw him. Sundry Moss was tall, but his long limbs and slim frame did not present a particularly threatening appearance.

  “I suppose you are going to show me how it’s done,” said Bo, not sounding as if he cared.

  “Why, I could throw you further than that!”

  “I don’t think you had better try,” said Bo, his false smile slipping into a threatening sneer.

  Sundry stood almost toe to toe with the man. Garrett stepped up to his friend’s shoulder, adding to the sense of danger directed toward the newcomer. Sundry winked at the little boy, who stood at the end of the wharf, trapped by the unfolding scene. “What are you, afraid of getting wet?” asked Sundry.

  “I’m not afraid of anything you can do,” said Bo, and Sundry had to admit to himself that the fellow did not seem the least bit daunted.

  “You know, the other day,” said Sundry, “I threw a fellow clear across the harbor to the east side.”

  Bo and Garrett laughed then and some of the tension dissipated. “Clear to the other side?” said Bo.

  “I’ll bet you that I can do the same with you.”

  “You’ll bet me, huh?” said Bo, still laughing.

  Sundry made a soaring motion with his hand to indicate how Bo would sail to the eastern shore of the harbor. “I did it before.”

  “That’s very funny.”

  “It is a wild ride, so he told me. Didn’t even get his feet wet.”

  “What’s the game?” asked Bo, a bit more seriously.

  “Nothing. I’ll bet you”—and here Sundry reached into a pocket and counted out several large coins—“I’ll bet you twenty dollars against that hat that I can throw you to the other side of the harbor.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “I am quite serious.”

  Bo looked at the money in Sundry’s hand, then glanced at his friend with a puzzled laugh, then turned to the crab man, who was watching all this from his window. “Are you hearing what he’s saying?” Bo asked.

  “I’m waiting to see it,” said the crab man. The two women working with him joined him at the window. Several other people, including two fishermen from a nearby boat, clambered onto the wharf for a closer view.

  Bo thought about the proposed wager and could see no hole in it. Then he weighed the discomfort of getting wet against the twenty dollars, stuck his hand out, and said: “You’re on! I wager that you can’t throw me across the harbor—your twenty dollars against this hat. Our friend the crab picker will hold them for us.”

  Sundry shook the young man’s hand. “Agreed,” he said.

  But Bo felt suddenly cautious. “You’re to throw me across the harbor.”

  “Yes.”

  “To the other side.”

  “That’s it.”

  Bo laughed. “You’ll toss me and my feet won’t even touch the water.”

  “They might sting a little bit.”

  Satisfied, Bo took off his coat and emptied his pockets, handing his things to Garrett. He walked up to the edge of the wharf. “I’ll stand at the edge here and make it a little easier for you,” he said.

  “That’s very sporting,” said Sundry. He patted the little boy’s shoulder, advanced to the end of the wharf, and without ceremony took Bo by the scruff of the neck and by the britches and threw him into the harbor. There was a loud round of applause, despite that Sundry had only gotten the fellow no more than three yards out.

  It was obvious that the harbor water was cold, Bo was that anxious to be out of it, but he was laughing as he swam to the ladder, and sounded like his own personal rainstorm, dripping into the water, then onto the wharf as he climbed up. “Well, that was the easiest twenty dollars I ever earned!” he said with a look of contempt at Sundry.

  “Not yet, you haven’t,” said Sundry. “I didn’t say that I could do it the first time!” And without warning he took hold of Bo by the back of his shirt and britches and threw him in again. He dusted off his wet hands with several loud slaps, and said to the astonished crowd: “I sort of have to build up to it.” A great roar of laughter filled the harbor and echoed from the eastern shore.

  When Garrett saw that Sundry was waiting for his friend at the top of the ladder, he dropped Bo’s things and closed in on him.

  “I didn’t make a bet with you,” said Sundry. “But it’ll be good practice.” Seeing a hard look in Sundry’s eyes, Garrett stopped just short of grappling with him.

  Bo had reached the top of the ladder by now and was protesting as Sundry attempted to
muckle onto him a third time.

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Sundry. “I’ve got all day. Of course, you could always forfeit.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the kind,” hissed Bo. “You tricked me!”

  “I would say it is just about as fair and square, me against you, as you against a four-year-old.” Clearly Sundry was pushing, and a weathered old salt came up between them and suggested that everyone had had his money’s worth.

  “He’s a cheat!” snarled Bo.

  “You made a bet,” said the fisherman. “And you have to allow him the opportunity to fulfill it. If you didn’t stipulate how many tries he could have, you have no complaint.”

  Bo rubbed the water from his eyes, snatched up his things where Garrett had dropped them, and stormed off the wharf.

  Sundry collected his twenty dollars from the crab man, then replaced the hat onto the little boy’s head. “Remember,” said Sundry. “When someone offers to bet you something, it is usually because they know they can win. Now, where do you belong?”

  Having uttered not a single word, the little boy appeared hesitant, even fearful of breaking his silence. He stared at Sundry with large blue eyes, daunted perhaps by the young man’s rough way of dealing with his tormenters.

  “He came in on that toy steamer down by the mill,” said the crab man, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “Came in with Sir Eustace Pembleton.” The name was delivered through the nose to indicate how Sir Eustace would say it.

  Sundry looked again at the boy’s ragged clothes—unable to believe that he came in with any sort of sir at all. “What’s your name?” asked Sundry of the child, and for the first time since Sundry had seen him, the boy actually moved his lips, though little or no sound came from them.

  “Bird,” said the boy, when pressed.

  “Bert?”

  “Bird,” he said simply.

  “Well, Bird. Let us go see if Sir Eustace is at home.” Sundry did not like the way that the boy tensed up when this course of action was suggested. He took the child’s hand, however, and led him off the wharf.

  Sundry had never seen anything quite like the vessel that had been dubbed, by the crab man, a toy steamer. Barely thirty feet long, with a stack hardly taller than Sundry himself, it did indeed look like a child’s version of the genuine article. The cabin, its trunk oddly slouched, was low and nearly as large as the boat itself, so that there was only a narrow deck to walk on. The forward section of the cabin was slightly raised to accommodate the pilot with a proper view, but Sundry couldn’t imagine that any pilot would willingly take her out, she looked so unseaworthy. She was dirty, in need of paint, and laundry hung from her sides. The name across her bow was Proclamation.

  Standing upon the run-down dock that served the Proclamation as a wharf, Sundry wondered how a boiler, which needs be so small, could render enough steam to put the boat under way. “You don’t sail in this thing, do you?” he wondered aloud to the little boy.

  “We don’t sail,” came a nasal tone from the direction of the boat. “We steam.” A man emerged from the dilapidated cabin, ducking his head beneath the lintel, and steadied himself with one foot upon the shallow bulwark. “Do not be amazed,” he said. “She is a prototype—the parent vessel of an entire fleet. She is, by my own coining, the first personal steamer.”

  “I see,” said Sundry, hoping that some measure of apology sounded in his words. He was, momentarily, dumbstruck. The man before him was rail thin, and dressed in shabby attire that had, not so long ago, been fashionable and expensive. His dark beard was newly trimmed, but his hair was long and badly kept, and his eyes were bleary lights above sagging pockets.

  It was the very man in the dory that had gotten away from Colonel Taverner only the night before; and Bird was the child—hardly seen in the shadows—that this man had used as a living shield in order to make good his escape. Having watched from the darkness along the shore that night, Sundry himself was in no danger of being recognized.

  “Sir Eustace Pembleton, I presume,” said Sundry, when he had recovered sufficiently from his surprise.

  “I am,” said the man, infusing the simple statement with an uncommon degree of hauteur. “What trouble has this urchin got into?”

  With a hand on Bird’s shoulder, Sundry felt the child tense again. “Not any trouble at all,” Sundry replied. “He’s a very good fellow. He seemed to be alone and I simply asked where he came from. Is he your son?”

  “He can get inside,” said Sir Eustace, without answering Sundry’s question. He looked at the boy in a vague sort of way and jerked his head once in the direction of the cabin. “There is no reward, if that is what you are looking for. He wasn’t lost.”

  “I wasn’t looking for one,” said Sundry as Bird climbed from the dock to the vessel’s narrow deck.

  Sir Eustace directed a weak backhanded slap at the boy’s head, but missed, then looked up at Sundry again and blinked at the distaste he saw on the young man’s face. “He is my charge,” said the man. He glared then, toward the shore end of the dock, and Sundry felt a tremor in the boards at his feet.

  Only then did it occur to him that the third member of that strange trio had yet to be accounted for, and looking over his shoulder with as much composure as he could muster, a sudden discomforting thought was unhappily confirmed. Trudging heavily down the length of the dock was the giant fellow who had nearly crushed Sundry’s head with a rock the night before.

  Sundry managed a weak smile that froze as the huge man halted several giant steps’ away and scowled at him with less recognition in the expression than uncertainty. It had been dark, after all, during their pursuit and struggle, and Sundry relaxed ever so slightly as the man’s frown drifted into perplexity.

  The giant’s hesitation was enough for Sir Eustace, however, and the bearded man shouted in a voice high pitched with nerves. “Well, come on, you idiot! I can’t wait here all day! Get in and shove us off!”

  Sundry stepped aside for the huge man, who lumbered past and lowered the near side of the miniature steamer several inches with his great weight as he stepped down. Sundry gave a wave that felt silly and looked in vain for Bird in one of the cabin windows. Then he turned up the dock and tried not to look as though he were hurrying.

  Mister Walton had known Sundry Moss for only the better part of a day and a half, and yet was sufficiently impressed with the young man’s characteristic calm to be surprised when Sundry met him on Boothbay’s Main Street in a state of barely concealed agitation.

  The sun won out as the afternoon began, and Mister Walton was on a leisurely stroll through the village, feeling somewhat sleepy with the warmth of the day and the effects of his meal. He was thinking on the curious events of the night before.

  Sundry was not running, but there was a briskness to his step and a seriousness to his expression that suggested that all was not well. Mister Walton halted on the sidewalk and waited for the young man to catch sight of him. When they did meet, Sundry was brimming with urgency.

  “Mister Walton, that man with the beard—the one in the boat, just the last night—well, I’ve seen him.”

  “The fellow with the boy?”

  “Yes, and I’ve seen the boy. I spoke with them. Then the big fellow that I chased arrived, and I think he recognized me.”

  “Good heavens! Where are they?”

  “On the oddest little boat I’ve ever seen and heading out of the harbor, even as we speak.”

  “My word! Colonel Taverner would like to know about this.”

  “I wish I could have stopped them!”

  “Well, we have no proof that they’ve done anything illegal—except perhaps running away from Colonel Taverner.”

  “I’m more concerned about the little boy.”

  “Ah, yes. He’s been on my conscience as well. Leaving the harbor, you say.”

  “Come this way. I think we can catch sight of them on the other side of this building.”

  Such was not the case, ho
wever, and they continued in the direction of the shore till they could see the Proclamation steaming its way toward the mouth of the harbor. Mister Walton agreed that it was a singular contrivance, and the two of them meandered toward the wharves, watching the vessel disappear, till Sundry found himself standing once again by the crab picker’s shack.

  “Who is this Eustace Pembleton?” asked Sundry of the crab man through the open window.

  The picker’s face appeared amidst a gout of steam. “Sir Eustace Pembleton, if you please—though I don’t know where the sir is coming from. He’s an out-of-work actor, if you ask me. I’m more royalty than he is—a direct descendant of Brian Boru!”

  “Any idea where he’s going?” asked Sundry.

  “Anywhere he can cadge a dollar or two to get him to the next port. He’ll scour every dump and low tide itself to fuel that contraption of his. He’s a schemer, that one. A swindler.”

  “A confidence man, do you mean?” asked Mister Walton.

  “Yes, he’ll get a person’s confidence with his accent and his false title. Did he get something of yours?”

  “No,” said Sundry. “Just my curiosity.”

  “He is a curiosity at that. You’re a bit of a schemer yourself, aren’t you? That was a sharp one you pulled on that smart fellow, aye? Toss him across the harbor!”

  Mister Walton felt he had missed something. He watched Sundry, and Sundry watched as the last sight of the Proclamation’s head of steam disappeared behind the western point of land at the harbor’s mouth.

  35 The Members Are Outraged

  WEDNESDAY’S MID-MORNING TRAIN STOPPED IN WISCASSET WITH NO MORE fuss or fanfare than had the train before it or would the train to follow. Familiar and unfamiliar faces came from or boarded her as the engine chuffed and voices—charged with command or cheerful in greeting—called out in the damp air. No one within sight or earshot of the station would have found anything noteworthy in the typical transfer of cargo, mail, and passengers—and yet three of those passengers, in their arrival, represented another step toward the birth of a glorious tradition!