Cordelia Underwood, or the Marvelous Beginnings of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  “And the next morning, he told his best friend that he could not, in clear conscience, allow what we had uncovered to benefit a cause so detrimental to the safety of his country. They argued for the first time in their lives; almost came to blows. And the crew split, with about twenty of us standing by the captain, and five or six with the colonel. There were hot words that day, more painful to those two men, I think, than knife wounds.

  “But old Captain Underwood was as honorable as the day is long, dear man that he was, and he decided that if he couldn’t let any one man have his share, he couldn’t let anyone have his share.”

  “And you went along with it?” asked someone incredulously.

  “It was a bitter pill, no doubt, but the captain was not a man you crossed in such matters. We were all feeling like patriots, on both sides, in those days, and we stuck by his decision—right down to his personal secret regarding the place of reburial.”

  “But after the war . . .”

  “Hard things happened in that war; and though the colonel accepted the captain’s decision, the situation ate at him as the war progressed. The captain served in the blockade—Yancy was there with him, weren’t you, son.” A man nearly as old as the storyteller grunted and gave a short nod.

  “The colonel served on the staff of Jefferson Davis himself. And the story goes that near the end of the war, when the Confederacy was on its last legs, he promised his president enough funds to payroll half the army. The colonel, you see, was convinced that the captain would never have risked the secret of the new burial place dying with him. And the colonel was more than a little convinced that Miss Verrill was a likely source of information, so he attempted to kidnap her, right out of her own home, so the story goes.”

  “Like father, like son, they say,” said the man with the pick, climbing from the hole.

  “Do you think?” said the old fellow, with an odd look in his eye.

  “You say ‘attempted.’ ”

  “Not successfully, however. He escaped with his raiders, but was wounded—almost mortally. Shot in the lung. It was that wound, actually, that was blamed for his death about ten years after the war.”

  “He lived, then, to fight again, eh?”

  “No, he never served after she put that bullet in him.” The pipe came out for inspection again. He tapped it against his boot heel, emptying the bowl before searching his pockets for more tobacco. “Ah, the war brought some hard things.”

  “Better bitter enemies than bitter friends,” said the lookout. He handed his shovel over and retrieved his field glasses.

  The forest woke with a breath from the southwest, a shifting wind that hushed through leaves and needles. The first songbirds replaced the call of night peepers; a crow’s harsh cry carried like laughter through the trees.

  The lake and the land, the great dark pines and the bulk of rock were black and inscrutable against the increasing light; then the hill across the water took on color and the ripples on the surface of the lake became visible as dark wrinkles. A chipmunk scolded from atop Minmaneth Rock, and an acorn bounced down the stone brow and into the hole.

  In daylight the crew looked like any other band of laborers; some wore beards, some simply had not shaved for some time; their faces were weathered and their hands were hardened according to age and experience, their sleeves rolled to reveal sinewy forearms. Many wore their hats throughout their exertions—bowlers or curl-brimmed felts pulled down to shade the eye from the dazzle of the brightening atmosphere. As the hole deepened and the piles of dirt around it rose, even the hats disappeared, and only the blades of their shovels could be seen in dark flashes of thrown soil and gravel.

  The excavation was some ten feet in diameter, and seven feet at its deepest, when the object of their search came to light.

  The size of the box, as they scraped the dirt from its lid, astonished them. This was no strongbox, no drawer-sized coffer to be lifted by one man, or even two. Here was an old sea chest, banded in iron, covered in a thick layer of pine tar and wrapped about with ancient chains. The farther they dug, the more amazed and excited they became, laughing and shouting in triumph. Twice they attempted to pull the chest free, but it was firmly packed in its burial place, and patience was required as they continued to delve around it.

  The third attempt to pull the box from the hole was being readied when the sound of horses brought the proceedings to a halt. Heads turned, and several men moved unhurriedly to retrieve a rifle or a shotgun.

  Two riders appeared from the northwest, picking their way through the trees and around deadfalls and boulders. The hawk-nosed man led, looking worn and weary. Behind him, the young man nearly slept in his saddle.

  They pulled up several yards from the hole, but from the height of their mounts they could see the chest, black and bound in brown rusted chains. One of the men stood proudly upon the box, hands on hips, as if displaying the fruit of his own solitary labor.

  The weariness and the sleepiness, respectively, lifted from the riders, and the older man even smiled from one corner of his mouth. He dismounted and tossed the reins to someone standing nearby, then approached the hole.

  “Well, boys,” he said with a short laugh, “this is the second time I have seen that chest uncovered.”

  “Third time’s a charm, they say,” said the bearded fellow who had told the history of the box.

  “Bite your tongue!” said the man at the edge of the pit. “This time we’ll see what’s in it, Benjamin.”

  The hawk-nosed man nodded. “Aye.”

  “How’d you find us so quickly?” asked one of the men.

  “He read the boss’s message, just like we did,” answered the white-bearded historian.

  “I thought old Underwood was in cahoots,” said the lookout. “He handed over his glasses and left the boss on the side of that hill to flash a signal to us.”

  “It’s just like the boss says,” intoned Ben. “Go easy about things and people put what you want right in your lap.” He gazed up at the massive overhang of granite. “So this was the place.”

  “Half of us were camped right next to it,” said the lookout. “When everybody was to bed across the way, we allowed ourselves a little light. Chester climbed up and found chisel marks in the face of the granite, so we dropped a plumb-bob through and found the spot like mother found the button.”

  “He surely didn’t expect us to have it raised this quick!” exclaimed one of the younger men.

  Ben strode down to the shore of the lake. “What’s gone on over there?”

  The lookout hurried up with his binoculars and handed them over. “They’ve been gone for hours now. We didn’t know what to think after you were gone. We counted six people and figured you only got one of the girls.”

  “We would have had both of them, but Miss Underwood proved a bit of a handful.” Ben glanced back at the line of men gathering behind him. “Took the lid of a chamber pot to Ernest’s head.”

  This brought both exclamations of surprise and hilarity. “Did he feel it?” asked someone dryly.

  “Put him on his knees. I’m glad it wasn’t me. And I’m glad I’m not him,” he added. “He busted her in the chops.”

  Now there was real astonishment. “He hit her?” asked half a dozen men.

  “Took her right out, square in the side of the jaw.”

  Numerous deprecations of Ernest’s character rose from the gang, though more than one quietly expressed what he’d do if someone broke a stone lid over his head.

  “What’s the boss going to say?” wondered one of the young men.

  “The boss’ll toast him over a slow fire,” suggested someone.

  “The boss will be here soon, so look lively,” said Ben. “The sooner we have that chest raised and out of here, the better for all concerned—Ernest possibly excepted.”

  While the crew returned to the pit to raise the chest, the white-bearded fellow stayed behind with Ben. “Ernest hit the young lady,” he said, shaking his head
.

  “He did indeed.”

  “That’s a shame. She was very pleasant to me when I came to their house.”

  “You deceived her, didn’t you?” said Ben without a lot of concern. “And I helped nab her. So knocking her senseless was just the next thing.”

  “I don’t like to think of us mistreating the captain’s niece,” said the old fellow.

  “It’s been a long hard slog between digging up that chest thirty-five years ago and digging it up again today.”

  “Old Charlie Stimply must be rolling in his grave.”

  “What’s left of him. Henry! You and Ames get the horse and wagon.”

  The white-bearded fellow, who had once played the role of Charles Stimply, followed the hawk-nosed Ben to the edge of the pit, where a concerted effort was lifting the huge chest from its resting place of three and a half decades. In another moment the box was resting beside the hole, and the men stood about it, gazing at it with wonder and satisfaction.

  “What do you suppose is in there?” asked one man aloud. The horse and wagon was led out of the woods and drawn up to the side of the pit, but no one made a move to lift the chest onto it.

  “What do you suppose we open her up and take a look,” said the white-bearded man to Ben in a quiet tone.

  “These men have behaved very well, under the circumstances,” said Ben, under his breath. “You open that chest here and it’ll be every man for himself. Come on now!” he shouted. “Let’s get her aboard! She’s not going to climb on there on her own.”

  “Good work, gentlemen!” came a voice that startled them all. Heads turned to see John Benning astride his horse, not ten yards away. He held a pistol, which was leveled into their midst, carefully covering the entire company. “Good work, but you make a little too much noise,” he said.

  There was a prolonged silence. “It won’t happen again,” said Ben, with that strange half-smile. He stepped forward slightly.

  “See that it doesn’t,” said John Benning sternly. He slipped the pistol back beneath his coat and eased himself out of the saddle. Ben snatched up the reins. The band of men stepped aside for Benning, making an avenue to the object of their labors.

  He stood then, poised not unlike a mountaineer with a flag, and looked down at the ancient artifact.

  “Who could have thought it would have been so simple, boss?” said one of the younger men. “To find the spot so quick and dig it up so easy . . .” His voice trailed off, silenced by fierce looks from the false Charles Stimply (who knew much more concerning the history of the chest than he had told) and Ben (who knew more still).

  The false Charles Stimply—one Samuel Adams, by name—thought on the real Charles Stimply and how the two of them had tended the malarial Captain Underwood in a hut on the coast of Venezuela, and how they fended off John Benning’s band of armed men, whom Charles would later dodge and Samuel join.

  Ben was thinking on the death of Colonel Benning, and how Mrs. Benning had cursed the name of honor, which had pulled a man between his best friend and his sovereign state.

  “And how is Miss Underwood?” asked John Benning in an expressionless tone. He turned to Ben when no answer was immediately tendered.

  “There was an altercation,” said Ben uneasily.

  “I thought there must have been. Miss Morningside was not clear about details, but the fact that you didn’t take her, too, indicated something went awry.”

  “She broke a stone jar lid over Ernest’s head.”

  “I saw the pieces in the tent. That’s what woke everyone.”

  “I think so.”

  “And?”

  “Ernest hit her.”

  “Ernest Davies hit Miss Underwood.” It was a flat statement, chilling for its lack of emotion.

  Ben barely dipped his head to one side and shrugged. “She was fine when I left her, sir. A little shaken, of course.”

  After some thought, John Benning said: “I don’t like it, but if you rough-house with people, you have to expect someone to be roughed up.”

  “That’s what I thought, sir. But it is unfortunate.”

  “I’ll deal with Mr. Davies. Did she tell you anything?” asked Benning.

  “I thought we were going to have to scare her, at first,” said the hawk-nosed Ben, “but we gave her a moment to think about it and she did the wise thing.”

  “She told you where to look.”

  “Did everything but make a map.”

  “Good. Then they have no reason to suspect me. Now I can catch up with Mr. Underwood and help organize his daughter’s rescue. You know the way out of here?”

  “I do.”

  “It has gone rather simply, hasn’t it,” said John Benning, looking across to the young fellow who had spoken earlier. There was something in his tone that allowed the men to relax. Some of them let themselves smile again, feeling the sense of celebration rise once more within them. “We’ve been up against some very smart and determined people from the start,” he continued, returning to his horse. “But leave the eternal verities of honor and duty aside, play what cards are handed to you, and few will have the wherewithal to foul you up.”

  60 Reprise the Overture, Please

  IT WAS MID-MORNING BEFORE MISTER WALTON APPEARED IN THE HOTEL dining room, searching for breakfast. There the charter members of the club and Sundry Moss occupied a table by a window and they hailed him cheerfully. Pulling up a chair, he apologized for keeping his companions; but his apologies were met with gracious insistence that a good sleep, in the light of his recent adventures, was no more than his due.

  The rest of the table had already consumed a large breakfast, but the Club members were unwilling to let their chairman eat alone, and they thoughtfully ordered another round of eggs and ham and potatoes with sauce and herring and scones with jam and a very large pot of coffee for themselves. Sundry thought these good manners laudable and emulated their example.

  It was almost noon before breakfast was finished, and there seemed a great need to get up and move about. The members considered one another with the sort of uncomfortable satisfaction that accompanies an excessively full stomach. Thump let out a groan of overindulgence disguised as a sigh, startling himself.

  “Oh, dear!” said Mister Walton about nothing in particular.

  Sundry looked like he might fall asleep again.

  Ephram glanced at Sundry, wondering how he and his friends—after all this time—could gracefully inquire about the young man’s name. Eagleton was thinking that their breakfast deserved a mention in his journal.

  “I should cable the Baffins,” said Mister Walton. “They take care of me at home,” he explained. “I should really let them know where I am. Then, perhaps, I might look up Miss McCannon, and hear her impressions of last evening’s entertainment.” This last thought was expressed with a smile, and rising from his chair, he invited the others along.

  The suggestion cut through their torpor slowly, but they rose in his wake and followed him down to the street.

  The receiver was clicking at a steady rate when they entered the telegraph office. Several men stood about, their eyes intent upon the operator, who scribbled upon a large pad of paper. Most of these men recognized Mister Walton as the man who had tamed the bear at the Lincoln Hall; and each acknowledged this newsworthy person with a nod or a silent word, but the previous object of their attention quickly drew them back.

  Mister Walton had seen such a gathering before, when he was a youngster at the beginning of the War Between the States—men tense with concentration upon the ticking of the telegraph receiver, waiting for the verbal translation of the operator to tell them the outcome of an engagement between armies.

  The tableau stopped him from approaching the counter at first, and when he did rest an elbow there, he waited for the talking clicks to pause and the operator to look up before tendering his message.

  “Just as soon as the line clears,” said the operator. The machine began to dance again and he turne
d back to his pad. “There’s a fairly large party organized at Millinocket,” he said. “The first of them have already taken up the search.”

  Mister Walton glanced at his companions, then at the other bystanders in the room. A man took a pipe from his mouth and said, in a puff of smoke, “A young woman was abducted.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “Happened last night,” said another man. “Rode right into the family’s camp and snatched her from her tent.”

  Mister Walton and his friends unconsciously imitated the attitudes of those who came before, listening with uncomprehending ears, half-convinced that a note of dire necessity, or even peril, could be heard in the staccato knacking of the telegraph receiver.

  “This is much of what we got before,” said the operator. “It’s all over the wires. They’re asking for any information that might help to find her.” He read aloud from the audible code as he wrote. “Miss U.’s father . . . requesting information able seaman . . . Charles Stimply.”

  Mister Walton’s friends were mystified by this communication. Miss Ewe’s father? mused Ephram.

  Miss you, Father? thought Eagleton.

  Misuse Father? wondered Thump, somewhat aghast at the suggestion.

  Even Sundry pictured the father of someone named Miss Yew.

  “Excuse me,” said Mister Walton slowly, “but did you say ‘Miss U.’?”

  “Underwood,” said the operator, scanning the message. “Yes, it’s all the same. Wire’s jumping with it.” He turned in his chair. “Of course, I can’t blame them. What do you suppose . . . ?”

  “Miss Underwood?” said Mister Walton, the general sense of anonymous horror crystallizing into something more personal. A sharp twinge plucked at his heart. “Is her name Cordelia?”

  “Yes,” said the operator, and while he continued to read the chatter of the line with one ear, he looked with renewed interest upon Mister Walton. “Do you know her?” The other men in the room drew closer.