The Lost Constitution

by William Martin

  “I’ve seen all of Portland I want to,” she said. “And my feet are killing me.”

  “We need to buy you some running shoes.”

  “We need to go back and smack Martin Bloom and Paul Doherty a bit.” She took a tissue from her purse and wiped the perspiration from her upper lip.

  “I don’t think we want to go back there,” he said, “not with those two guys running around.”

  “So what now?”

  “We find what we can about a guy named Ryan of the B and M Railroad. We stay after George Amory. We track his movements after the Civil War, pinpoint the place where the story passes from Amory to Ryan.”

  “But we’re trying to pinpoint where the draft is now,” said Evangeline.

  “Trust the process,” said Peter. “We’re getting closer.”

  “So long as no one kills us.”

  The little train chugged through East End Park, with a walking path and beach to the right, a long, gentle slope of grass to the left, and the Eastern Promenade

  Park above. At a little crossing, the train slowed for a car towing a boat down to the public landing.

  That’s where Peter and Evangeline jumped off.

  “You paid for a round trip, folks,” called the conductor.

  “Thanks,” said Peter, “but we’ll catch the Freedom Trolley from here.”

  They were halfway to the top of the grassy slope when Peter stopped to look out toward the water.

  And there he was, rounding the bend on the walking path. He had the blazer under his arm and was moving with a slow and steady lope, like a hunter certain of running his quarry to earth.

  Peter cursed.

  Evangeline said, “Where’s his partner?”

  “I don’t know. Come on. But don’t run. He hasn’t seen us yet. Fast movement will only attract his eye.”

  They made it to the top of the slope and crossed the promenade, so that they were in the shadow of the trees. A row of big houses looked north from here—Victorians with turrets and porches, two-families built in the twenties, newer Colonials from the thirties, with fine views of the bay.

  If Peter had been thinking about it, the neighborhood would have reminded him of South Boston. Same kind of housing stock, same changing demographic as you moved back from the water and into the neighborhood, where there were more three-deckers, fewer single-families.

  But Peter was thinking of putting distance between himself and the guy in the blue blazer.

  They went a few blocks up Congress to the top of Munjoy Hill, the highest spot in Portland, atop which sat a giant wooden tower that looked like a lighthouse. A tour bus was parked in front of it.

  “What’s that?” asked Evangeline.

  “The Portland Observatory. Used to be where they watched for ships.”

  “Maybe we should go up,” she said.

  “And trap ourselves? Why?”

  She stopped and pointed down the street, a steep slope toward downtown.

  There was the black leather jacket, five blocks away, jogging up the hill.

  Peter looked around. There were no open storefronts and the side streets were too far. “I don’t think he’s seen us yet.” Then he took her elbow and turned her into the tower.

  Inside, a volunteer took their money and told them they could join the tour that had just gone up. They found the group on the third level. A docent was lecturing about the construction of the tower.

  Peter positioned himself by a window and tried to see out. Nothing.

  As the group moved up another level, Evangeline whispered to Peter. “Maybe this was stupid.”

  “No,” he whispered. “If we have to, we’ll get right onto the bus with this bunch when we come out.”

  They followed the group to the top, and with admonitions from the docent to mind their heads and watch their steps, they went out onto the wooden deck. One of the most beautiful views in New England opened before them.

  Most of the group turned first to see the water, off to the north and east.

  Peter and Evangeline went to the other side, where they had a distant view of the White Mountains and a much nearer view of the street below.

  There they were: Blue Blazer loping up from the promenade, Black Leather climbing the hill from downtown. Both were talking on cell phones, probably to each other. Whoever they were, they had figured out Fallon’s moves and made all the right moves to counter it.

  Then Evangeline pointed to a big blue Chevy pickup with a double cab. It was cruising slowly up the hill.

  While it was still rolling, a guy got out. He was wearing a camo jacket and a Red Sox cap.

  The guy in black leather glanced at him but kept moving.

  And the pick-up kept rolling.

  The guy in camo took three quick steps, then put something against Black Leather’s back, causing him to hunch up in sudden shock. Before he hit the sidewalk, another guy jumped out of the pickup. They swept Black Leather up and stuffed him into the cab.

  The pickup never stopped rolling.

  “What the hell?” Peter looked toward Blue Blazer, but he was gone. Whatever he had seen, he had known enough to get out of the way.

  “What just happened?” asked Evangeline.

  “Someone who was after us isn’t after us any more.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Hard to tell from up here.”

  “So … are we in more danger or less?”

  “Hard to tell from up here.”

  THEY DID NOT go back to the Old Curiosity. They got to the car and headed out of town instead.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “Back to the White Mountains.”

  “The White Mountains? Why?”

  “Trust the process, and trust me.”

  Once they were on Route 302 going west, Peter placed a call to the Old Curiosity, but there was no answer. Not surprising.

  Then he called his office and left instructions for Antoine. He also left messages with two of his “clients”: Jennifer Segal of Dartmouth, and Josh Sutherland, Harriet Holden’s secretary. “Just touching bases. Nothing to report,” he told them both on their voice mails, then clicked off.

  “Shouldn’t we talk to that girl again?” asked Evangeline.

  “We should talk to both of them,” he said. “They must know more.”

  A few hours later, he and Evangeline reached North Conway, eastern gateway to the White Mountains, a strip of outlets, malls, hotels, and motels where the Saco River turned south and meandered down the intervale.

  They took a table in the back of a franchise restaurant, Mexican variety.

  “Mexican food in New Hampshire,” said Evangeline, “like lobster in Nebraska.”

  “Order the Granite State rellenos,” said Peter. “They’ll taste like scrambled eggs.”

  Evangeline looked out the window, across the wide riverbed. The mountains leaped from the earth a few miles beyond. They made everything in North Conway, from the newest mall to the most venerable guest house, seem puny and insignificant.

  “I don’t know why we have to go back,” she said.

  “We’re following pathways through time. There’s one up there.”

  She looked up at the mountains.

  “Once that was the forest primeval,” he said. “Then the loggers came. They cut rail lines. Trains from Boston came up on the west, spurred off and came in this direction. Trains from Portland came right through this town, then they followed the Saco up through Crawford Notch.

  “The names of the men who logged out those mountains are like a who’s who of New England robber barons. Van Dyke, J. E. Henry, Saunders. Most loggers only hauled out pine and spruce. They cut down the hardwood and left it. Left little stuff, too, used it for matting to roll the big trees, then left it to dry to tinder. So you had huge forest fires, fed by the slash, then massive erosion.”

  He paused, as if he was trying to see something not only from the perspective of a hundred and fifty years away, but from high in t
he sky, looking down on those White Mountains the way he might look down on a relief map.

  “They wrought so much destruction that in 1918, the government funded the White Mountain National Forest to save what was left, otherwise they might have stripped everything, including the roof of the Mount Washington Hotel.”

  “And George Amory was one of them?”

  “It’s in the judge’s notes.” Peter read from a sheet he had dog-eared in the manila folder. “An agreement between D and C Saunders Company and George Amory, from the Carroll County Registry of Deeds, conveying one thousand acres for certain considerations….”

  “Leave it to a judge to know where to go to follow a guy’s tracks,” she said.

  “I wonder what ‘certain considerations’ were. No money changed hands.”

  Just then, Antoine Scarborough walked into the restaurant. He came straight for them and plunked down an armful of books.

  “Did you bring clothes?” asked Evangeline.

  “Found everything, right where you told me.”

  “Did you cover your eyes when you went through my underwear?”

  He sat at the table. “Best job all day.”

  Peter was more serious. “Did anyone follow you?”

  “I don’t think so. But people have been looking at me. They don’t call these the White Mountains for nothin’.”

  “Where’s Orson?”

  “Hiding out in Newport. Said he’d stay in touch.”

  “Bernice?”

  “Gone to the Cape. With her Beretta.”

  “What about you?”

  “Like Orson said, I’ll hang with my homebodies … on Newbury Street. Watch the front door and back. Make sure no one messes with the inventory.”

  Peter picked up one of the books: Maps of the Logging Towns of the White Mountains, 1895.

  Antoine said, “Rare’s not the word for this one, boss.”

  “Thanks for bringing these up. I couldn’t have worked with them over the phone.”

  “Where you going?” asked Antoine.

  “Up into the Notch again.”

  “You want me to go with you?”

  “No. You go back to Boston. Do what you can to find out about a conductor on the B and M named Mike Ryan. He died in 1974.”

  Antoine gave Peter a long look. “That’s all you have on him?”

  “At the moment. If I find any more, I’ll tell you.”

  NINETEEN

  August 1874

  ON A BRILLIANT SUMMER afternoon, a big Baldwin 4-4-2 steamed into the new North Conway depot. It was hauling four cars full of guests bound for the grand opening of the Fabyan House, in the high valley beyond the Gateway.

  The ride from Portland had been a great lark. There was much visiting from car to car. Children scampered about. Jugs of lemonade and boxes of cookies were passed. A few flasks made the rounds, too. And once someone noticed that the click of the rails provided a perfect rhythm for songs like “Old Dan Tucker” and the ever-popular “Marching Through Georgia,” there was singing in the second car.

  Even a dour New Englander might shed his reputation and give out with a tune on a day when the developers of the Fabyan House were paying for the fun.

  George Amory was riding on the last car.

  He was now a timber man, a small operator but well respected by the Portland businessmen who had built the new hotel. Any doubt about his reputation had been erased when Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain was inaugurated as governor of Maine and invited George to the ceremony. And an unmarried man of thirty-four, with a good reputation, always caused a stir among the husband-hunters and their mothers.

  But George had not mingled during the ride. He sat by a window and let his assistant, Edouard “Frenchy” LaPointe spread charm enough for both of them. George’s mind was elsewhere—on business and family business.

  Business: At the White Mountain House, the Saunders—father and son—were waiting to discuss the purchase of his Sawyer River property.

  Family business: In his pocket was a letter from his cousin Bartlett:

  Dear George, I will not mince words. I write because I need your help. The post-war downturn has badly hurt our business. The Blackstone Investors are using it as a pretext to replace me at the board meeting in October. But I refuse to let the Pikes go from “shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations.” You should refuse also. If we can combine family shares and gain the support of another board member, we can fend off Arthur Perkins and his gang.

  We know of the Saunders ambitions “below the Notch.” We know of yours, too. Might we all do business? Or might you and I come to a private arrangement over our shared knowledge of a certain document?

  I offer an excerpt from the Boston Post regarding the St. Albans Raid: “Dawson Caldwell was shot in the street and the contents of his safe deposit box stolen from the Franklin County Bank…. Annie Mills, a halfwit, claimed that ‘a man with a limp,’ who represented himself as a Maine timber man, had masqueraded as one of the rebels. Others corroborated part of her story….”

  A dead man named Caldwell? A safety deposit box, just right for holding a few sheets of precious paper? A limping timber man from Maine? My cousin, perhaps?

  I do not know the value of a first draft of the Constitution, but I know that Grandfather would approve if we used a bit of the nation’s history to save a mill that is a part of the nation’s history, too.

  George had read the letter several times. Each time, his blood had boiled, gone cold, and boiled again. His cousin, who had betrayed him so blithely, hoped now for help. And if help were not offered, his cousin would try to extort it.

  George had composed his answer as the train rocked along:

  Dear Bartlett, I now divide my time between the natural wonders of the New England north country and the man-made wonders of Europe. I make money from one so that I may enjoy the other. I buy woodlots and bigger tracts where I can, log them as I can. Your thoughts on my involvement with the Saunders family are as speculative as my plans for the tract below the Notch, but not so fantastical as your speculations on an article that appeared in a newspaper ten years ago.

  I will educate myself before the board meeting. If I feel that it is in the best interests of my investment to bring the Saunders family to your side, I will make an effort. I leave you to hunt for a limping Maine timber man and the lost Constitution of our grandfather’s fantasies. And whatever decision I make, remember: business is business.

  FRENCHY POSTED THE letter at the new depot in North Conway, then he stopped at the men’s twoholer, and just before the conductor shouted “All Aboard!” he got back to his seat and elbowed George in the ribs. “Pretty lady out there, boss.”

  “Oh?” George had his head buried in Harper’s Weekly.

  Frenchy pointed out the window. “Take a look.”

  George raised his head briefly. Then he looked again, and before his brain quite recognized her, his stomach jumped. She was beside the outhouse, helping a man into a wheelchair. He had not seen her in years, but he had never stopped thinking about her.

  “Pretty good lookin’, eh?”

  “Her name is Cordelia Edwards Atkinson.” George enunciated each syllable as though he had rolled it over his tongue a hundred times.

  “You know her?” Frenchy wagged his brows. “You know women everywhere.”

  George watched her roll the wheelchair to the front car; then he turned to his paper and tried to put her out of his mind. He had more important things to worry about. But if had been thinking about her for years, how could he stop now that he’d seen her? Perhaps it was time to meet her invalid husband. Whenever he found himself thinking too much about a woman, meeting her husband always cooled his ardor.

  So he got up, steadied himself as the train lurched, tugged the wrinkles from his vest, and went forward, in and out of the puffing smoke that swirled between the cars, all the way to the front.

  “Excuse me.” He stood over her and tipped his hat.

&
nbsp; Cordelia looked up. Her face no longer had the adolescent fullness that had lingered into her twenties. Lines had furrowed around her eyes. Her cheekbones seemed sharper. But her smile was as brilliant in the sunlight flickering through the windows as it had been on that November Sunday so long ago. “George! What a pleasant surprise. I … I heard that you’d been included. I didn’t see you get on.”

  The man beside her was not her war-ravaged husband but her age-ravaged father, drained of size and, it seemed, personality, staring straight ahead, oblivious.

  George dropped into the seat across the aisle. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

  “Father, look,” said Cordelia. “It’s George Amory.”

  “Who?” Edwards looked about, as if angry to be brought from wherever his mind had taken him. “George Atkinson? He’s dead.”

  “Dead,” said George. “I didn’t know.”

  As if awakening, the old man looked around, then looked at George. “Your Unitarian prayers didn’t do a damn bit of good.”

  Cordelia mouthed the words “I’m sorry” to George.

  As the old man came out of his reverie he became more like his old sarcastic self. Best not to contribute to any outbursts.

  So George stood, tipped his hat, and said, “I’m sorry for you.”

  “It’s been a year,” she said. “I’ll wear no more black.”

  “You’re going to the opening of Fabyan House, then?”

  “My father’s middle initial, F, is for Fabyan. He was cousin to Horace Fabyan of Portland, who built the first hotel on that site.”

  “Then we’ll have time over the next few days,” he said. “Time to talk.”

  “That would make me very happy.”

  GEORGE WENT BACK to his seat, looked out the window, and thought of nothing but Cordelia until the train stopped in Bartlett at the base of the Notch, the end of the line.

  Four red stagecoaches, one for each car, were waiting to take the guests the rest of the way. The passengers from the fourth car rode in the fourth coach. George and Frenchy sat in the extra seats on the coach roof. Soon they were moving as steady and confident on the Tenth New Hampshire Turnpike as the train had been on its rails.