Thoreau in Phantom Bog

by Oak, B. B.

  I was reluctant to do so, sure they would give away my sex.

  “I ain’t got all day,” he said.

  I stuck out my hands, thankful they did not tremble under his scrutiny. “You’re hired,” he said. “Smallish hands like yours suit this work.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mill,” I said. “I need to earn money to feed my goat Capricorn.”

  “My name is Mr. Tomkins, and I don’t give a fig about your goat. Come along. I’ll show you how to work the combing machine but once. Then you’re on your own, young fellow.”

  He headed toward the back of the mill, but I did not follow him. I would not have minded learning how to operate a combing machine, but could not afford to waste any more time in the wrong mill. If the Cooper family was kept waiting in the woods for too much longer, they would likely strike out on their own. So out the door I went, without so much as a fare-thee-well to Mr. Tomkins. I could not help but be pleased, however, that I had passed muster and been hired by him. How much easier it is to earn money as a male!

  The air inside the next mill I entered smelled deliciously of fresh flour. Two enormous millstones ground round and round against each other, making a thunderous noise, and the thickset miller standing beside them had such a peaceful smile on his rosy face one would think he was listening to a lullaby. I waved to get his attention from the doorway, and as he came toward me he regarded me most attentively.

  “Whom are you looking for, young woman?” he said.

  That he had immediately seen through my disguise yet did not question my reason for one indicated to me that he might well be part of the Underground Railroad. “I believe I am looking for you, Mr. Mill.”

  He registered no surprise at being addressed thus. “What have you been told about me?”

  “That you have a goat named Capricorn.”

  He motioned me to follow him to his office in a far corner of the mill. When he closed the thick door it muffled the sound of the grinding millstones. “Who revealed this information to you?” he demanded.

  I almost blurted out Henry Thoreau. “Mr. Measure. Do you know him?”

  “Yes. And his value to the organization is immeasurable,” the miller said.

  “Last night he delivered some very precious cargo to Plumford, a young black couple and their babe, and I have brought—”

  “But you are not the Plumford Conductor,” the miller interrupted. “I know him too.”

  “I am sorry to inform you that he was murdered yesterday.”

  The miller’s jaw dropped open, but no words came out of his mouth for a moment. “Who murdered him?” he finally managed to ask.

  “Possibly a slave hunter. He was transporting a runaway when he was shot.”

  “What happened to the runaway?”

  “She has gone missing.”

  “More terrible still! What is being done about it?”

  “The murder is under investigation by the Plumford constable, but he is both inept and unsympathetic to the Cause. So Mr. Measure has taken matters into his own hands.”

  “Thank God for that at least,” the miller said. “Measure is the most capable man I know. Young but wise. Intellectual yet practical. And as careful as he is fearless.”

  I agreed on all points and could have added a dozen more admirable traits regarding Henry, but there was no time to spare at present. “As I was saying, I have brought the fugitive family Mr. Measure left in my safekeeping to Acton and—”

  “You conveyed them?” the miller interrupted again. “I assumed you were just acting as a messenger. Why did you take it upon yourself to be a Conductor? That is not a job for a woman.”

  “Well, it fell upon me to take on the job despite my sex. I led the Coopers here by foot and left them hidden in a wooded area whilst I came for you.”

  “Highly irregular,” the miller said huffily, and for a moment I feared he would refuse his help. But the goodness in his nature overcame whatever petty concerns he had regarding my gender, for in the next breath he said, “Let us make haste! We must get that dear family out of the woods before they are discovered. From what you have just told me, there may well be one or more dangerous slave hunters about the area.”

  We went down a set of stairs, climbed onto a wagon loaded with bagged flour, and off we went to collect the Coopers. We found them not too far from where I’d left them. They’d moved to a sunny spot, and Mr. Cooper had made a bed of ferns for his wife and child. The miller had them lie on the soft bags of flour and covered them with burlap. Back at the mill, he led them into a simply furnished storage room to wait until he made arrangements to put them on a train heading north. His wife, he assured them, would bring them food and milk for the babe in short order. The Coopers and I embraced and parted forevermore.

  After briefly stopping by his house to tell his wife about the Coopers, the miller drove me back to Plumford. Rather than have him drop me at my front door, which would surely attract attention, I had him let me off by the new cemetery a little ways from town.

  “Good Day to you, miss,” he said. “What name do you go by in the UGRR?”

  It took me a second to appreciate that the initials stood for the Underground Railroad. “Mrs. Canvas.”

  “Missus? You were widowed young then.”

  “What makes you think I am a widow, Mr. Mill?”

  “No husband in his right mind would allow his wife to be a Conductor. And just look at you, dressed in male clothing. No husband with half a backbone would allow that neither.”

  I smiled. “For one so devoted to gaining civil liberties for our black brethren, you do not seem eager to give any liberties to women, sir.”

  “There is no place in this free country that slavery should be tolerated,” he said. “But women have a proper place in the world as well as men have. And that has been true since Adam and Eve.”

  I was far too weary to argue with him. I just stuck out my hand.

  “Nonetheless, you did right good, Mrs. Canvas,” he said as he shook it.

  I kept both my head and the brim of my hat turned down as I strode into town and was not recognized by the few people who were already about. No one paid me any mind whatsoever, but they well might have if I had entered the house. (Who was that young man calling on Mrs. Pelletier at such an early hour?) Patients called on Adam at all hours, so I went into his office instead. He was writing down something at his desk in a rather agitated manner when I stepped through the door.

  “I require your attentions, Doctor,” I said in as deep a voice as I could manage. “Let us start with a kiss.”

  He looked up with a surprised expression. It turned to one of joy at the sight of me. And then to anger, and he leapt up from the chair and came toward me.

  ADAM

  Thursday, May 18

  As I have done almost every morning for the past five months, I came to town a few hours before my posted office hours, barned Napoleon and my gig, entered my office, dashed through the passageway that connected it to the house, and ran upstairs to Julia’s bedchamber. There she has always awaited me, her lithe body naked beneath the covers.

  But not this morning. A sheet of notepaper lay on the pillow where her head should have been resting, and I snatched it up. What I read was hardly a billet-doux. Must deliver precious cargo to another Station. Shall try to be back by midmorning. Do not worry. I crumpled the paper in my fist and threw it to the floor. Do not worry!

  I searched the house from attic to cellar, looking for clews that might tell me where this mad mission had taken her. All I found were two plates with bread crumbs and cheese rind upon them that had been left on the kitchen table. I then investigated the barn and found nothing out of the ordinary. From there I aimlessly explored the back property and even went a little ways into the woods. There I found a wooden baby rattle. Odd. But of no help whatsoever.

  I reckoned that if anyone could enlighten me, it would be Henry. Although we had arranged to meet at Phantom Bog later in the day, I could not wait
that long to question him and considered driving to Concord immediately. But what if Julia returned home whilst I was gone? Better to find someone to deliver a note to Henry post haste and await his reply. I returned to my office, and as I was writing my inquiry concerning Julia’s whereabouts, she walked in.

  “Where have you been?” I demanded, rising to hover over her. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and give her a good shake. “And why are you dressed like that? You look absurd!” In truth she looked quite fetching in trousers. She also looked exhausted. Rather than shake her, I took her into my arms. “I have been near crazed with worry, Julia.”

  “I am sorry for that,” she said. “But pray hear me out, and you will understand why it was necessary for me to go away.”

  I did indeed hear her out, never once interrupting her as she related the details of her adventure to me. And I continued to hold my tongue even after she stopped speaking.

  “You are angry,” she said, drawing back to regard my countenance.

  “I have not expressed a word of anger, Julia.”

  “But I can read your face like an open book.”

  “Then you have misinterpreted what you have read there. It isn’t anger you have aroused in me by your reckless actions, but concern for your safety.”

  “I don’t consider my actions reckless,” she said. “What else was I to do but guide the Coopers to Acton? Wouldn’t you have done the same in my situation?”

  “Yes, but we are not the same, Julia!”

  “If you are referring to our difference in sex, pray do not call mine the weaker one.”

  “I do not claim that women are weaker in mind or spirit than men, but it is a fact that they have less muscle mass, hence less physical strength. How could you have defended yourself if you’d been attacked by a slave hunter last night? It’s risky enough to hide fugitives in your home, but far riskier still to conduct them to the next Station. God help us, Julia, a Conductor was murdered just yesterday!”

  “And that is why I was called to do my part last night.”

  “Must you always heed your adventurous spirit when it calls you to danger?”

  “It was not my desire for adventure that I acted upon, but my desire for justice! I could not let the Coopers go back into bondage.”

  “Henry should never have brought them to you.”

  “Of course he should have, Adam. Mine is one of the safest houses in the area right now. Don’t be angry with Henry for what happened next. He fully expected to take the Coopers to Acton himself tonight.”

  “I’m not angry with anyone,” I insisted. But of course anger is a reaction to fear. And I fear losing Julia more than death itself.

  She reached up to stroke my hair, a gesture that usually soothes me. Her hand trembled with fatigue, and her lovely countenance was drained of its usual vitality. I decided that she needed rest more than she needed further reproofs from me at the moment.

  “Go to bed, Julia, before you fall asleep on your feet. We will talk of this later.” For once she did not put up an argument.

  Soon after she left, the stable boy who works at the Sun Tavern came bursting into my office. Sam Ruggles had sent him to fetch me quick. A guest staying in one of the upstairs bedchambers Ruggles lets out to travelers seemed to be in great pain and in dire need of treatment. I took up my bag and hurried to the Sun.

  Mrs. Ruggles was waiting on the stair landing when I got there, and she led me up to the distressed man’s chamber. I could hear his groans through the closed door and went in to find a slender but wiry fellow half-sitting, half-lying on the bed. He looked to be in his middle twenties, a year or two older than me. His bright, nervous eyes scanned me with suspicion.

  “I am a doctor,” I said, “and have been called in to help you.”

  “Then I welcome thee. I am a Quaker far from my community and feel most awful.”

  The Wideawake Hat hanging on the bedpost confirmed that my patient was indeed a member of the Society of Friends. He appeared feverish, yet he had wrapped a blanket about himself and shivered as if cold, although he was fully and somberly dressed in a black frock coat, black trousers, and black boots. His pale, smooth hand was moist to the touch when I took his pulse, which was two hundred beats per minute.

  I asked him what was the matter, and he pointed to his right leg. “Pitched off my horse in the dark and fell on a sharp rock. It tore right through my trouser leg and cut my shin. Tied my handkerchief around my shank to close the cut and rode on. Pain was shooting up my leg something fierce, so when I saw this place I figured I would get a room and rest awhile. Just fell into bed without even taking off my boots. I guess I slept a good long time. I have no notion what day it is.”

  “It’s Thursday morning. What day did you come here?”

  “Wednesday at dawn. Had to pound on the door a good while to wake up the innkeeper.”

  “So it has been over twenty-four hours since you were injured. Let’s have a look at the wound.”

  He lay back, and I first removed his boots to make him more comfortable. He was wearing red stockings, an unexpected ostentation for a Quaker. I then rolled up his right pant leg and cut away the blood-soaked handkerchief he’d tied around his lower limb. I saw that the injury he’d sustained was most severe. His flesh had been sliced right down to the tibia and into the adjacent calf muscle. There was considerable swelling, and virulent infection had taken hold, for pus was seeping from the wound.

  I asked Mrs. Ruggles, who was hovering in the doorway, to fetch me up some clean linen cloths, a pan of hot water, and a bottle of cheap whiskey. She did so most speedily, and, without inquiring if I needed her further assistance, she departed just as swiftly.

  I know that Quakers eschew liquor and all stimulants but did not hesitate to give the man a good dose of laudanum to quiet him and help with the pain. He surprised me with the alacrity with which he drank it down. I then poured the whiskey into a bowl and soaked my instruments in it. I washed my hands in the basin in the room, laid out my tools, pulled up a chair, and got to work. The amount of pus worried me greatly, although some of my profession call it laudable pus and believe the body produces it to rebalance the humors. I believe no such thing, for I was taught at medical college, by none other than Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, that pus is the result of infection and the source of that infection must be got out. What’s more, the more the pus, the more serious the infection. My main concern was gangrene.

  Told my patient to be as still as he could bear to be, spread open the lesion, and laid some linen strips inside the border of the gash to sop up the blood that began to flow afresh. I really could have used a good assistant to do the sopping up, one who did not blanch at blood and gore and had a gentle touch and compassionate nature. In a word, Julia. Whenever she had assisted me in the past, we had worked as a team of the same mind and heart.

  The poor man moaned as I probed down into the wound with my forceps. It took me a good quarter hour to pick out what looked to be fibers from his pants, and gritty dirt. This took some patience as such work gets slippery and messy with the blood and pus and the patient’s shifting about.

  Finally satisfied I had gotten out all the offending foreign bodies I could reach, I doused the wound with whiskey, which brought a howl and a stream of profanity from the man that would have scorched the ears off a pagan seaman, much less his fellow Quakers. Gave him another dose of laudanum, mixed with whiskey this time, and he fell back, so white you would have thought I had purged all the blood out of him.

  After I let the wound drain, I told my exhausted patient I had to use a needle to stitch him up and it would cause him considerable pain. I trebled up a short piece of linen and gave it to him to bite down on, and he took it and used it.

  Smeared the sides of the lesion with honey and pressed it closed, and with the first thrust of the needle he moaned and bit hard down on the linen in his mouth but kept his leg steady. He was then most fortunate to lose consciousness. I sewed up the wound with catg
ut, making sure the ten stitches were evenly spaced and not too tight. I left a half-inch opening to allow for drainage, smeared more honey over my work, and sat back, satisfied that I had done everything in my power to prevent gangrene from setting in.

  My patient came awake as I cleaned my instruments in the whiskey and to my surprise asked in a low mumble when I thought he could travel.

  “You don’t want to rip open the stitches, so not for several days at least,” I said, hoping he managed to live that long. The infection either winning or losing would decide his fate. “Eat all you can, drink plenty of water, and rest.”

  “How about leaving me a bottle of that red poppy juice you been giving me, doc?” he said.

  I refused, for I had already given him more than I should have so he would not suffer too much during the operation. I told him this and assured him I would check in often, as my office was right down the street. He waved a dismissive hand, more irritated with my refusal than grateful for my medical aid. I bid him farewell, and when I exited his room I heard a most terrible screaming coming from down the hall. Assuming that yet another guest was in dire pain and in need of my medical attentions, I hurried forth. The door to the chamber was open, and I paused at the threshold, my concern dissolving into amusement.

  The screams, it turned out, were emanating from Mrs. Ruggles’s red and purple parrot. The cause of the bird’s excitement seemed to be the feather duster Mrs. Ruggles was waving about the chamber she was cleaning, and they both seemed to be having a fine time of it. As the bird flew overhead, Mrs. Ruggles pranced around the room, merry as a pixie, be it an oversized one. But when she noticed me in the open doorway she stopped abruptly, and the parrot settled on her shoulder, becoming just as still.

  “You have caught me acting foolsome, Doctor,” she said. Her English is heavily accented and less than fluent.

  “You weren’t acting foolish at all,” I told her, but in truth I was rather amused that one so staid and plain as Mrs. Ruggles would carry on with such a sense of abandon and frivolity in private. I liked her more for it.