The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  Jonathan’s hand shot away from the box, his arm flailing in the air, his legs buckling. Enrique grabbed a chair and steered his son’s limp body toward it. He checked the pulse and found it racing. Gently, he stroked his son’s hair until—more than one hundred counts later—Jonathan’s dark eyes fluttered open.

  “What happened?” he murmured.

  “I will tell you everything I know.” Enrique pulled another chair close, sat facing his son and began to talk.

  Chapter 6

  Scientific Minds Converge

  Phineas Dailey pressed his horse to move more quickly now that the road was smooth and dry. How nice to be away from the streets of the new District of Columbia where construction continued non-stop and the plethora of workers, slaves and conveyances kept the muddy roads continually churned and boggy. Alexandria was a refreshingly quiet, charming town by comparison.

  His two-wheeled trap approached the address he’d been given, rolling to a stop beside a massive brick building. At the side, two other carriages waited—a fine landau which he felt sure belonged to Walter Brannigan and a nice little tillbury cart he recognized as that of his tobacco-farming friend George Randall. During his drive he had wondered if Mr. Benjamin Franklin might also be present but he did not see evidence of the great man yet.

  It was at Randall’s suggestion that today’s meeting should take place here. Phineas stepped down from his buggy and handed off the reins to a slave who stood by tending the other vehicles as well.

  George stood at the top of three steps leading to a wide front door.

  “Greetings! So good that you could come, Phineas.” He descended to street level and extended his hand. “Come in, see what you think.”

  As a scientist Phineas supposed he would always be the quiet one of the group, the man who lived inside his own head. George Randall, with his plantations and multitude of slaves, was an outgoing man with large hands and full-blown facial features including bushy side whiskers that were not quite in fashion. He followed his host through the white-painted double doors.

  Inside, the space was large and hollow, echoing their footsteps and voices. A table that would have over-filled his own dining room in the city seemed quite small in the cavernous room. Three men stood around the table, where a decanter of golden liquid sat in the midst of a set of cut-glass aperitif glasses.

  “Come, come. Let me introduce you.”

  George quickly presented the businessman Walter Brannigan, of whose reputation for success Phineas was well aware, along with Roderick Smith and Isaak Templeton. Smith’s British accent revealed that he was a recent immigrant, but with the fight for independence now finished the colonists were becoming more accustomed to having Londoners as neighbors. Smith was apparently another source of financing for their little venture, while Templeton and Phineas himself were included as the scientific side of the equation.

  “We shall partition off various rooms,” George was saying. “It was originally a warehouse but with the newer ones being built closer to the river’s edge, I’ve begun storing my own crops there and this building has stood empty for nearly two years now.”

  He picked up a roll of white paper that Phineas had not previously noticed and unrolled it on the table.

  “Now, here,” said George, pointing at the largest room on the drawing, “I would envision the laboratory. If it meets with our scientists’ approval, of course. Two small rooms serve as offices for the financial accounting and a secretary or two. I am certain there will be additional uses, but this is a start. What do you think, gentlemen?”

  Brannigan suggested the addition of a large vault for safe storage of items of value which, in turn, expanded the size of one of the offices. Phineas felt his pulse quicken as Templeton pulled out a pencil and sketched a layout for work tables and storage for the burners and beakers they would use to conduct experiments.

  “What level of financing will be required to get the project started?” George asked rather bluntly.

  “At a bare minimum …” Templeton began.

  “Let’s not talk of minimal in anything we do,” Brannigan interrupted. “If we plan to do this we should do it correctly and without frugality.”

  Templeton asked to have a moment and drew Phineas aside. They talked quietly and Isaak wrote a list. When he handed it over, he sounded apologetic. “It will run into the thousands of dollars, I’m afraid.”

  Brannigan and Smith turned to George Randall now.

  “Do you plan to donate the use of the building?” Brannigan asked George. Phineas was learning that these two did not mince words or stand on niceties. “If so, I believe that Smith and I can put together the funds for the renovation and equipment.”

  Smith had not actually said much up to this point, but he nodded agreement. Phineas could only surmise that the two men knew each other fairly well and had already discussed the matter.

  “Before we move forward, I think we should clarify our goals and set forth a mission statement,” George said. “Privately, each of us has discussed our interest in science and in unexplained phenomena. May I state it now for the group, that this is our intention: We are here to study occurrences and items that may come to our attention, those which are purported to or have a reputation of demonstrating a power beyond our knowledge. We will use any and all scientific techniques available to us, as well as any new techniques that shall become available in the future. Our own fortunes and those that might be offered by others with a similar interest shall be used to fund our research, but we shall never accept money from any entity with a vested interest in the outcome of any finding.”

  “Hear, hear! The science speaks for itself and shall be conducted diligently and without prejudice.” Brannigan’s sentiment was echoed by the others.

  “And what shall we call our new scientific institution?” Smith asked.

  George Randall had clearly considered this question as well. “I would propose that we name it for the man who first piqued the interest of several of us here today, the scientist who, although his name will never be known by most of the world, is the man who set the standard for the sort of research we hold in esteem, Helmut Vongraf.”

  “The Vongraf Foundation.” The words slipped from Phineas without a second thought.

  Brannigan had reached for the decanter. “To The Vongraf Foundation!” he said, filling each of the five small glasses.

  Phineas sipped the sherry. He had met Helmut Vongraf once when his father financed a trip to Europe during which Phineas was to finish his studies and open his mind to the wider world beyond the small American colonies. The Austrian had been a visitor to Paris, along with his lovely wife Kirsten, who had also studied science and acted as the great man’s laboratory assistant. Phineas suspected that Kirsten may have contributed significantly to her husband’s discoveries. His enchantment with the lady, however, might have been based on the fact that he developed a glorious youthful crush on her that summer.

  He tamped down those thoughts. The truth was that the Austrian pair had brought scientific interest in the unexplained into the modern age. They disputed tarot, magic and alchemy even though those topics were still popular in parlors across the continent. He suspected he knew what they would think of superstitious American colonists who believed that the devil and his minions lived in the heavily wooded areas of New England. Such legends as the Jersey Devil would surely draw their scorn, as it did his own.

  “One more item for discussion,” George said, holding his half-empty glass. “For the present time I believe that we need to keep our activities quiet. We are not a so-called ‘secret society’ such as the Masons, Illuminati or Rosicrucians. We know that. We know ourselves. But others may become suspicious as they learn of the types of artifacts we want to investigate. Prosecution for the practice of witchcraft is not supposed to exist anymore but there are yet those who would think of us in that way.”

  All heads nodded.

  “Until we prove ourselves as diligent seekers
of scientific knowledge, I say we do not discuss our work or our beliefs. As long as we are experimenting in the unknown, the unexplained, we run the risk of being seen as heretics. And that, gentlemen, could be very dangerous indeed.”

  Chapter 7

  A Balloon Drifts

  Elizabeth Cox stood within the wicker enclosure looking out over faces in the crowd. Her husband, handsome in his top hat and tails, gave her a hearty smile then turned back to the crowd. Their two little girls, Nancy and Constance, were in the front row where their father could keep watch over them. Nancy, in particular, would fidget through the entire ceremony, Elizabeth knew, but at this moment the enormous balloon held the girls’ attention.

  “Friends! Fellow Texians! This is a momentous day indeed,” shouted James Cox. “For we have declared our independence from all other powers and have become a sovereign nation unto ourselves. March 2, 1836, will be forever marked as a day to remember!”

  A roar rose from the crowd.

  Beside her in the balloon’s gondola, Elizabeth felt Rory Duncan move about. The pilot—her husband’s acquaintance from the newly formed legislature—checked the dozens of ropes that secured the inflated bag of gas to the basket, yanked a few times for good measure at the sacks of sand that hung around the edges, and looked up critically at the valve where the gas had been pumped in.

  “All is perfectly well,” Rory said under his breath. “We shall launch the minute James’s speech is finished.”

  The excitement among the people became palpable; to see a balloon floating over Galveston was a first-time event, and to have the mayor’s wife aboard—well, Elizabeth knew she was the envy of all her friends. Virginia McDermott had been unable to quell her snide remarks at the Ladies Aid meeting on Tuesday, a sure sign of her jealousy over the fact that Elizabeth had been chosen to stand here in front of the gathering in her new spring finery and to experience the upcoming excitement of the aerial view.

  James talked on … the bravery of Stephen Austin and Sam Houston, the treaties with Mexico which had finalized the breaking away of the new republic. He glossed over the squabbles between Mirabeau Lamar and Mr. Houston, each of whom had different ideas about the direction the newly formed country should take. Elizabeth had heard all of this discussed in her own parlor until she was sick of all subjects political. Now she merely wanted the balloon to launch and to float over her city. What would it be like? Would she be able to pick out her own house? Surely so, it was the largest at the north end. They planned to land as close as possible to the park, where a luncheon spread was being prepared. A crowd would greet them and bear them back in triumph to the celebration. It would be the perfect way to cap the afternoon and to rub her little achievement in the face of Virginia McDermott.

  Rory’s voice caught her attention as he instructed the four men holding handling lines attached to the corners of the basket to release them. James had finished talking and was looking over his shoulder at them. Rory pulled the tie string on one of the sandbags and as the sand poured to the ground the basket became buoyant and she felt the floor of it wobble under her feet. Oh, my!

  Her daughters waved the white handkerchiefs she had insisted they carry. Everyone else in the crowd waved small paper flags with the Lone Star. The red, white and blue bunting around the dais fluttered in a light breeze. A cheer rose. Elizabeth found herself looking at the upturned faces of the entire citizenry. Her stomach fluttered and for one tiny moment she wondered what on earth she was doing. Then a smile spread over her face.

  They rose to treetop level. None of her friends had ever viewed a fully grown elm tree from its crown. And the houses! The peaks and gables of the Cox home stood high and beautiful, just as she had known they would. Only the church was larger and she realized with a start that they were drifting right toward the steeple tower. She turned to tug at Rory’s sleeve but he had already spotted the danger.

  “Not to worry,” he said, reaching for another of the sandbags. “We drop more sand, we rise a little higher.”

  But the string seemed to have knotted and he had to resort to another tactic. Pulling a deadly-looking knife from its leather holster at his belt, he bent over to slice the canvas bag. The steeple was coming at them with alarming speed and Elizabeth edged back, not wanting to see it, trying to leave Rory extra space to work. He bent at the waist, over the edge of the wicker basket.

  Too far. With flailing arms he went over the edge, a frantic shout escaping him as he went. Incongruously, she noticed a hole in the bottom of his right shoe just before he disappeared completely from sight. Elizabeth Cox did something she ordinarily thought crass and stupid—she screamed. And screamed, and screamed.

  A quick peek over the edge of the basket showed that Rory had hit the steep roof of the church and was sliding swiftly toward the ground. The balloon, on the other hand, now shot upward at a frightning rate. Her heart threatened to burst from her chest and her breakfast rose in her throat. She looked around, without a clue about what to do.

  Her house seemed much smaller now, the trees merely a fuzz of green and the people mere dots. Had anyone witnessed what had happened? Would someone figure out a way to rescue her? She felt frozen at the edge of the basket, watching everything on the ground grow more distant, wanting to reach for the sandbags. She had a dreadful feeling that rescue was impossible. She was on her own.

  She pressed her hands to the sides of her head and forced herself to think. What had the pilot told her? Dropping sand made the balloon go up. She stepped away from the temptation to touch those bags. Venting gas made the balloon go down, but she had no idea how he had intended to perform that feat. None of the equipment or the rubberized cloth bag made a bit of sense to her. She risked another glance over the edge and her eyes widened in horror.

  Instead of moving inland over the city, the craft had now changed direction. She had just crossed over the narrow strip of beach. In no more than a moment there would be nothing below her but the blue-gray waters of the Gulf of Mexico. She felt her legs give way as she fainted to the wooden floor of the gondola.

  * * *

  James Cox watched the red and yellow balloon drift lazily over the city; he sported a smile at his successful planning of this day of celebration. He stepped off the dais and stood next to his daughters as he shook hands with well-wishers. The plan was to make his way slowly by open carriage toward the city park where, with luck, Stephen Austin planned to join the Galveston citizens for the midday meal. The important man was very busy, so there had been no promises, but still—a local politician could hope.

  “What’s happened?” someone in the crowd called out.

  James followed the fingers pointing at the sky. Why was the balloon going so high? This did not fit with Rory’s plan to skirt the treetops, make his way to the north end of town, and then tether the balloon so he could give rides to the populace during the picnic.

  “I’m sure it’s fine. The pilot knows what he’s doing,” he assured the people nearest him. “He’s very experienced.”

  James hoped to God that was true; he’d only known Rory Duncan for a few weeks.

  “Let’s continue to the park,” he said with his best political smile. “Refreshments await!”

  He steered Nancy and Constance toward the road and the open carriage with his finest trotter hitched to it. It was all he could do not to betray his concern over this unplanned turn. James Cox was a man who made plans and expected them to go perfectly.

  He’d no sooner released the brake on the carriage and given the horse a gentle smack with the reins than he heard shouts of alarm. A man on a chestnut quarter-horse rode toward him full-out, yanking his mount to a stop only a foot from Cox’s carriage.

  “Mayor—” his breath came in gasps. “There’s been—” He glanced at the two little girls next to James. “I need to speak—”

  James set the brake again and told the girls to sit absolutely still. He climbed down, wishing that bad knee would quit acting up, and walked to the bac
k of the rig. The other man had dismounted, leading his horse and standing very close.

  All around them, concern turned to shock on the faces of the crowd as some kind of news rippled through the gathering.

  “It’s the balloonist, Mr. Mayor, that Rory fellow. He’s fallen. By the church. We saw him fall off the roof and— I’m afraid he’s dead, sir.”

  “Dead?” James repeated the word as if he’d never heard it before. Comprehension dawned. “But then, where’s my wife? Was she thrown out too?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. Well, no one’s seen her.”

  James stared skyward. The balloon was a small spot in the sky now, and it was much too far south. Over the water.

  * * *

  Elizabeth stirred. The air around her felt cold, so cold. She sat up, her fuzzy mind trying to recall … the situation coming back to her at once when she saw the wicker basket all around. Her light, spring shawl offered little protection and she hugged herself, scrubbing her hands along her upper arms for warmth. Her skirt and petticoats were tangled around her legs, and she gathered some of the material around her upper body. But the muslin dress was of little help.

  She looked up. The fabric of the balloon seemed a bit more slack than before. Had some of the gas leaked out? She got to her knees, briefly considered praying but decided God had already abandoned her. Gripping a piece of rope tied to the inside of the gondola she pulled herself to her feet and risked a glance over the side. Nothing but blue, far below.

  She sank to the floor again, placed her forehead against her bent knees. James was a man of action and he would do anything in his power, she felt sure, but what could he really do? Nancy and Constance—her sweet little ones. Their faces appeared, clean and neat in their best dresses and the bonnets she’d chosen for them that morning, exactly as she’d last seen them waving from the ground. A physical pain stabbed her heart at the thought of them.