Cordelia Underwood, or the Marvelous Beginnings of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  “This was going to be a simple family outing,” said James to his wife. “But I guess it’s to be a major expedition instead. I’ll wire ahead about the increased size of our party.”

  “Alert the newspapers,” said Aunt Delia wryly. “Grace is leaving the house.”

  “Oh, Cordelia!” said Priscilla in a hysterical whisper. “It’s going to be such a romp!”

  Cordelia was stunned. Aunt Delia had just orchestrated an adventure, complete with her beloved cousin and a man who made no secret of admiring her. She looked over at John Benning and nearly flinched when he winked at her.

  37 Damariscotta

  EPHRAM, EAGLETON, AND THUMP HAD TOO MUCH LUGGAGE, REALLY, FOR the carriage they hired, especially when their own shapes were added beside and behind the driver. Thump was somewhat lost in the very back of the rig, his top hat just peeking above an upended trunk to either side of him; and Eagleton found it necessary to clutch at two or three bags every time the carriage rolled over a bump or lurched into a rut along the wet road.

  They had inquired of the driver—an ancient fellow who was hard of hearing in one ear and completely deaf in the other—the name of the next major settlement, and after a very loud conversation in which there was more verbiage than meaning, they discovered that the next community along this road was embodied by the twin villages of Newcastle and Damariscotta.

  There was something romantic in the meeting of these two names, for the one rang with the sound of the Old World and the other seemed to ring as loudly with the New. Oddly enough, their driver heard this portion of their conversation and offered his own thoughts.

  “Ah, yes! Those Damariscotta Indians!” he said with great feeling.

  Eagleton, as alert to the driver’s impressive tone of voice as he was unaware of the mischief in the man’s eye, expressed interest in this hitherto unknown tribe.

  “Greatly feared amongst the Abenaki,” said the driver.

  “Were they?”

  “Oh, my! Tore trees out by their roots and played at ninepins with boulders as big as your head. Their men were as tall as you like, don’t you know, and their women taller.”

  “Taller than the men?”

  “Taller than you like.”

  Eagleton frowned; he wasn’t sure that he disliked tall women. “What made them so remarkable, do you suppose?”

  “Oysters!”

  “Oysters?”

  The driver looked at Eagleton as if wondering which of them was hard of hearing. They drove for several moments before he spoke again. “You should see the oysters they ate!”

  Eagleton wasn’t sure how that was possible.

  “Stacks and stacks of shells,” explained the driver, at the sight of the man’s puzzled mien.

  “I see!”

  “Piles of them!” The ancient man raised one hand high above his head. “Mounds! Hills of oyster shells!”

  “Good heavens!”

  “That’s how they got their name.”

  “That is how the Indians got their name? What does Damariscotta mean?”

  “The tribe that fishes very little in the river.”

  “And did they fish very little?”

  “They ate oysters!”

  “Oh.”

  “You don’t fish for oysters; you dig them.”

  “And these oysters,” interjected Thump, the shortest among his companions. “They contributed to the vitality of the tribe?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “And what happened to this acme of indigenous aboriginals?” asked Ephram.

  “Disappeared.”

  “The Indians disappeared?” said Eagleton, rather sorry to hear these tidings.

  “No, the oysters disappeared. The Indians moved in with their neighbors.”

  “Assimilated in the end,” said Thump. He had once read a social history of mankind.

  “And these oyster shells,” said Eagleton. “You can still see them?”

  “Those that haven’t been carted off or rendered down for lime.”

  “Once we have found Mister Walton,” said Eagleton to his friends, “perhaps we should take in these artifacts.”

  They drove on in silence for several minutes.

  “I quite like oysters,” said Thump.

  The road to Newcastle from Edgecomb (or, at any rate, this road to Newcastle from Edgecomb) was sparsely populated, given to fairly straight lengths on the horizontal, and anything but on the vertical. Some farms had fields stretching to the road, but in as many places trees had begun to take hold—white pine, jack pine, and the occasional maple or oak or elm. The weather had transformed from the uncertain to the promising (just as Eagleton had predicted), and the soft wind that drove the clouds before it ruffled the lengthening grass and rushed among the leaves.

  They then drove for some distance with the only sight of man or beast being a wagon heading in the opposite direction. From one hilltop, trees and houses on the other side of the Damariscotta River were plain to them, though they yet could see nothing of the river itself. The roofs of houses on this side of the river were visible from this height as well, and a train was heard, then sighted on the next ridge of land to their left.

  Soon they were taking gentle descents toward the water. Houses were frequent and finally numerous, and gathering prettily near this meeting point along the life-giving and occupational river.

  There was something dramatic about the sharp corner leading onto Newcastle’s Main Street; the sounds of a busy town rose up around them, and the beauty of the riverside was immediately apparent. Without discussion their patriarchal navigator took them over the last hill and across the bridge, trotting his rig faster than he perhaps should have. Eagleton took note of a sign before the bridge that promised a three dollar fine to anyone who drove or rode faster than a prudent walk.

  “That sign has been there forever,” said the ancient fellow with a scoff and a wave of his hand. He was forced to slow the pace, however, as they trundled onto Damariscotta’s tree-lined thoroughfare. Soon they were pulled up before a bank and the sign of the Maine Hotel, which occupied the brick building’s second and third floors.

  Eagleton paid the driver and thanked him for his dissertation on the Damariscotta Indians. “Nothing to it,” said the fellow, his answer open to the interpretation of more suspicious individuals than were these three.

  A broad stairway led to the upstairs lobby of the hotel, and there Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump met with disappointment to find no Mister Walton listed among the guests there. The management was obliging, however, and before they signed themselves onto the register, a boy was sent to the inns nearby to find whether their chairman had found other lodgings.

  This seemed a very civil way of doing business to Ephram, and he said so, his friends echoing this sentiment. They chatted happily with the manager, but seemed to confuse him when they mentioned the Damariscotta Indians. Ephram was eulogizing on that tribe’s noble character and on the advantageous effects caused by the eating of oysters, when Thump made a sound of discovery that did not lose its dramatic force for being expressed without discernible words. He did in fact grunt, although with deep conviction.

  A small bill was affixed to a board in the hotel lobby, and Ephram and Eagleton hovered over either of Thump’s shoulders to read from it what had so caught his attention. It was a program to be performed at the Lincoln Hall on Friday the 10th of July. Surrounded by numerous advertisements for local business was the following information:

  1. Overture,—The Fair Maid of Perth,—Bizet.

  Orchestra

  2. Concerto for Two Cornets,—Schneider.

  executed by D. H. Chandler and J. Tyler

  3. Acceleration Waltz,—Strauss.

  Orchestra

  4. Guest Speaker—Notes on Ascension

  Mrs. R.

  And there they came to a halt, each expressing wordless astonishment in much the same manner as had their friend. Thump added another grunt to the dialogue, and though these co
mmunications were made in the most polite tones, they briefly lent the hotel lobby the atmosphere of a slightly restrained barnyard. The manager peered from behind his desk with great interest.

  “Mrs. R.,” said Eagleton.

  “Hmmm,” said Thump.

  “Notes on ascension,” said Ephram.

  “Hmmm,” from Thump again.

  Who could this be, they wondered, but the extraordinary Mrs. Roberto, the ascensionist?

  “Mrs. R.?” said the manager. “She’s a religious speaker. I’m not sure why the initial instead of a name.”

  “Oh,” said Ephram, hoping that a note of disappointment did not ring too loudly in his interjection.

  “Religious, you say,” said Eagleton. This seemed separate from Mrs. Roberto’s area of expertise.

  Thump, however, had experienced something very powerful when he wakened in Mrs. Roberto’s lap, and he wasn’t at all sure that the two things weren’t connected somehow. “There may be something illuminating here,” he suggested.

  They perused the rest of the bill:

  5. Selection,—I Puritani,—Bellini.

  ORCHESTRA

  6. Museum Piccolo Polka,—Beckett.

  Executed by E. P. Beckett

  ____________________

  Gentlemen are respectfully requested to abstain from expectorating on the floor of the hall.

  “I quite like polkas,” said Eagleton (though he had never danced one).

  “Perhaps it would be wise for us to sit still a bit,” ventured Ephram.

  “I would like to see these shell heaps,” agreed Thump.

  The boy came back after half an hour to inform them that no Mister Tobias Walton had registered at any of the local inns or taverns, but that word would be sent to the Maine Hotel if such an individual appeared.

  “I am sorry,” said the manager. “Your friend doesn’t seem to be anywhere in town.”

  “Yes,” said Ephram. “Thank you for your considerate help. By the way, where is the Lincoln Hall?”

  The manager pointed. “It’s just the next building, sir.”

  “Yes,” said Ephram again. He glanced from Eagleton to Thump. “I think,” he said to the manager, “you may register us through to Saturday.”

  The twin villages were singularly pleasing to the club members. The weather remained uncertain, but while the sun played in and out of a series of dark clouds they took in the local sights. From the bridge they admired the tree-lined Main Street and the steepled church upon the hill; and from the steps of the church upon the hill they admired the tree-lined Main Street, the broad river, and the rustic and melancholy aspect of old shipyards now fallen into disuse.

  They were filled with great purpose as they walked, and never failed to tip their hats to whomever they met along the way. With some people they stopped to talk—store owners leaning in the doorways of their establishments and young boys playing at baseball in an empty lot beside the Lincoln Hall. Inquiries concerning the Damariscotta Indians garnered two sorts of response: the first was characterized by a puzzled or blank stare; the second, by an expression of great wisdom (especially among the young) followed by some fascinating bit of knowledge.

  “They were such a short people,” one lad informed them, “that they were seldom seen.”

  This surprised Ephram, since the driver who took them here had insisted that the Damariscotta Indians were exceedingly tall.

  “They were very clever about their height,” amended the boy, when informed of this discrepancy.

  “See the wooden Indian here?” said Herman Sykes, standing outside his fruit, confectionery, and tobacco business. (A sign above his door apprised the reader of a First Class Billiard Room in the back!) The tradesman hooked a thumb at a nearly life-sized carving on the front step of his store.

  The three men gave the impressive figure a careful appraisal.

  “Yes,” said Ephram.

  “Nothing like that.”

  After spending several minutes inspecting the wooden Indian, to see what the Damariscotta tribe didn’t look like, they continued their perambulations about the town.

  It was early in the evening when they returned to the Maine Hotel where dinner was being served in the upper-story dining room, and here they heard further evidence that the Damariscotta Indians had been of a remarkable nature.

  “You’ve never known a people so apt to laugh,” said a white-whiskered fellow at the next table.

  “Pardon me?” said Eagleton.

  “No, pardon me, please,” said the man. “I couldn’t help but overhear the subject of your conversation.”

  “The Damariscottas?” asked Ephram.

  “Yes, indeed!” said the man, and he smiled wistfully as if these mysterious people were close to his heart.

  “Did you know them, sir?” asked Eagleton eagerly.

  “Alas, no,” said the man. “But my father did. Met them under the most peculiar circumstances.” The man nodded to himself, considering the remarkable nature of his father’s story, then turned back to his meal without another word.

  Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump watched the man’s back for several minutes, occasionally glancing at one another with the expression of the most awkward curiosity. “Pardon me, sir,” said Thump eventually.

  “Pardon me?” said the white-whiskered man.

  “I say, pardon me, sir, but would you care to join us. We would quite like to hear of your father’s experiences with the Damariscotta Indians.”

  “Well, you are very kind. I don’t mind if I do join you. Dining alone has no charm, I am sure of it.” Then the white-whiskered fellow turned his chair about and the three travelers made room for him at their table.

  “Nicholas Buchanan,” said the man, who proved of medium height when he stood to shake hands with his new acquaintances. He was broad shouldered and powerful looking, despite his age and there was something kind and pleasant in his face, the wrinkles on his forehead, and the rheumy blue of his eyes. His voice was deep and filled with the native drawl, which was expounded from the right side of his mouth.

  When the three friends had properly introduced themselves and hands were shaken all around, Mr. Buchanan sat down at their table and began his tale even as he recommenced his meal.

  “It was near Wytopitlock that my father met the Damariscottas,” he said. “He was a young man . . .”

  “Wytopitlock?” asked Ephram. He could not imagine such a place.

  “Yes, on the shores of the Mattawamkeag River.”

  “He met the Damariscottas on the Mattawamkeag by Wytopitlock?” wondered Eagleton out loud.

  “Didn’t I say they had a sense of humor?” said Mr. Buchanan, and they decided, each to himself, not to interrupt him again.

  “My father tried his hand at a number of pursuits and the one he had most recently disliked was knocking down trees. It was too noisy, he told me; lots of chopping and banging and crashing and men hollering across the woods to gangway. Timber!

  “Well, the man who supplied meat for the lumber camp went out hunting one day and never came back and it occurred to my father that another prospect had opened for him, with only the occasional bang of a gun to jangle his nerves. So he purchased himself a horse and a mule and an old rifle and packed out. The camp was just south of Baskahegan Lake and it took a day or so to get to the woods east of Wytopitlock where he understood the hunting to be good.

  “Now we’re talking considerably outside the circumspect margins of civilization and a quick hike to the Canadian border. Now, it is a fact that rough men live where the amenities of polite society have yet to be introduced, and the borderlands between countries are notorious for hiding the most miserable kinds of bandits and bad men. My father was an innocent young fellow, however, and prone to friendly behavior. (I take after him greatly, you see.) So when he was thinking of finding a place to settle for the night and caught sight of a campfire on the other side of a small valley, it never occurred to him that there was any danger in joining the
men he found there and sharing his coffee with them.

  “A wealth of accents caught my father’s attention as he rode up to their camp—French, German, and the broad vowels of the Maritimes. There were half a dozen of them, and they were a hard looking lot; even in the fading light my father counted a missing eye, a scarred cheek, and an ear with a bite taken out of it among them. They greeted him cheerily, though, when he hallooed to them, and called him up to their fireside. They had horses upwind of the fire and he tethered his animals besides these.

  “As is often the case with such men, their leader was the largest among them—a great bear of a man named Tom Fern. Tom looked like he hadn’t been out of his clothes since he left home, and none of the crew was exactly perfumy, if you take my meaning. They were as noisy as chopping down trees in their carrying on—roaring and laughing and arguing. They were highly civil to my father, however, and he took it that they were rough but likeable enough once a body got to know them. He would be just as glad, nonetheless, when morning came and he could go his own way again.

  “At any rate, they calmed down eventually, with the help of several jugs, the contents of which my father sampled only once, and declined thereafter. Vaguely uneasy with this company, and yet tired from his day’s riding, he drifted off to sleep by the warmth of the fire.

  “It was late September and the air was cold as soon as the sun went down. The leaves had begun to turn and the nearest trees rustled dryly above the campfire, their tall shadows cast against the dark bulk of the forest. The fire dwindled with my father’s consciousness to bright embers, dreams that cast their own light and perhaps his sleeping ears were yet attuned to the rustling and murmuring about him, for he had the impression upon waking early the next morning that sometime in the night he had overheard a muttered conversation among the men concerning his immediate well-being. In short, he decided to be off without joining them for breakfast or even saying good-bye.”

  Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump had completely forgotten their lunch at this point, they were so rapt in Mr. Buchanan’s tale; not so Mr. Buchanan himself, who continued to shovel a great plate of roast beef, vegetables, and potatoes into him as he spoke.