Thoreau in Phantom Bog

Home > Other > Thoreau in Phantom Bog > Page 14
Thoreau in Phantom Bog Page 14

by Oak, B. B.


  ADAM

  Saturday, May 20

  Julia, once again, was not awaiting me in her bed this morning. But at least this time she was at home rather than traipsing the countryside with fugitives. When I came through the passageway that connected my office to the kitchen, I found her at the stove. That in itself was an unusual sight, for if my darling knows how to cook, she has certainly kept it from me. Yet there she was watching several eggs boil in a pot of water, and I suppose you could call that cooking. To my great disappointment, she was fully dressed.

  She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek in greeting. “I am preparing breakfast for someone quite special.”

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture,” I told her, “but I’d much prefer us to be in bed together right now.”

  “You think I would not?” she replied archly. “I’m not cooking up these eggs for you, Adam. I have a guest whom I brought here under cover of night.”

  “Good Lord, Julia, you’re not hiding another runaway?”

  She nodded and removed the pot from the stove.

  “I will not allow it!” I said. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. “Pray listen to me, my love. Henry and I learned in Boston yesterday that another Railroad Conductor was murdered, this time in Waltham.” I did not spare her the grisly particulars concerning poor Mr. Vogel’s near decapitation, for I wanted her to appreciate the danger she was in. “A letter declaring that more Conductor assassinations would take place was sent to a leader in the Negro community. And Henry believes the assassin may be staying at the Sun Tavern, posing as a Quaker. So whoever it is you are hiding must leave immediately, or you may well meet a fate equally violent.”

  “No one knows the runaway is here except you, Adam. And I do not intend to conduct her anywhere. I want her to stay put.”

  “Where exactly have you put her?”

  “She’s in the attic. Not the most comfortable hiding place, but far more secure than the Tuttle Farm sugarhouse, is it not? That’s where I found Tansy yesterday.” Julia smiled at my astonishment. “Yes, the fugitive slave everyone has been looking for was hiding out at your family farm. Would you like to meet her?”

  Still at a loss for words, I nodded. Julia led me up the two flights of stairs to the attic and knocked on the door. “Tansy, I have brought my friend Adam, the doctor I told you about. May we come in?”

  Permission was granted, and we entered. Light came from two small gable windows, and I saw that all the attic clutter had been pushed to the perimeters. There was a mattress covered with sheets and blankets in the center space, and beside it stood a young black woman wearing a dark dress and a bright red neckerchief. When Julia introduced me to Tansy, she shook my hand firmly and met my eye directly. I liked her right off and decided there and then to move into my office for as long as she was under Julia’s roof. I would bring a shotgun from the farm and do my utmost to protect them both.

  “I have just been looking out the window,” Tansy said, “and I saw—”

  “Oh, do not look out the window!” Julia interrupted. “Someone may glimpse your dear face.”

  “My dark face, you mean. But don’t you worry. I was careful. I saw the top of a closed wagon down on the Green and was wondering what it was doing there.”

  “Oh, that’s just Rusty’s wagon,” Julia said. “He’s one of those newfangled daguerreotypists.”

  Tansy clapped her hands together. “I hoped as much!”

  “Now is not the best time for you to have your picture taken, Tansy,” Julia admonished gently.

  “Lordy, don’t you think I know that? Rusty drove me here from Boston last Tuesday, and I’m hoping he can drive me someplace else now.”

  “Rusty is an Underground Railroad Conductor?” Julia said in disbelief.

  “Apparently he is a legendary one in the Negro community,” I told her.

  “Will you go talk to Rusty, Doc Adam?” Tansy asked me. “Maybe I could leave with him tonight. He’s got a secret compartment under the wagon to hide runaways.”

  I thought this an excellent plan and went directly to the Green. There was not a sign of life coming from the red wagon so early in the morn, and I surmised the daguerreotypist must still be asleep inside. That did not stop me from pounding on the rear door, however. A moment or two passed before Rusty opened it, wearing but his undervest and unbuttoned trousers. I was glad Julia had not insisted upon accompanying me.

  “How do,” he said as he buttoned himself up. “I do not open for business until nine, sir.”

  “My business is rather urgent,” I told him. “You see, I am Dr. Walker and—”

  “A doctor?” Rusty ran a hand through his disheveled mass of red hair. “Well, in that case, I’ll take your likeness right now, despite the weak morning light. A doctor’s time is precious, after all. Who knows when you’ll be called upon to save someone’s life?”

  “You have saved lives yourself, I hear,” I said.

  He gave me a closer look. “Now where would you hear such a whopper as that?”

  “In Boston yesterday from the barber Mr. Smith.”

  “Come inside, Doctor.”

  I entered the wagon and sat down in the plush chair he indicated. He took a seat beside his camera apparatus and stared at me for a long moment. His lighthearted demeanor had been replaced by a crafty wariness. “What do you want?” he said coolly.

  “I would like you to help a young black woman. You transported her from Boston to Plumford just a few days ago, but the Conductor you left her with was killed whilst taking her to Carlisle.”

  Rusty nodded. “Everyone in town has been talking about it.”

  “Did you know Mr. Tripp well?”

  “No, I dealt with his wife, not him. She welcomed the fugitive I brought to her very warmly. I heard tell the poor girl might have drowned in a bog after Tripp got shot. I’m glad to hear from you that she didn’t.”

  “She survived that ordeal, but now she must deal with the man who claims ownership of her. His name is Shiloh Prouty, and he’s tracked her down here. She hopes you might take her away tonight.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Hiding out in the house adjacent to my office.”

  “And where is this Prouty?”

  “At present he’s staying in the Sun Tavern barn.”

  “So close! It would be best for the fugitive to keep safely hidden until her owner leaves the area. When he does so, I will oblige her, but no sooner.”

  “She will be disappointed to hear that,” I said. I certainly was.

  “There are others in need of my assistance right now,” Rusty said.

  “Yes, of course. I’m sure your services are in great demand. But has anyone yet communicated to you what happened in Waltham?”

  When Rusty shook his head I told him the details of Vogel’s execution and of the letter Mr. Coburn had received from the assassin. As Rusty listened he looked concerned but not frightened. I could plainly see that such a man as Rusty would not easily be dissuaded from his purpose.

  “Henry Thoreau and I are investigating the murders of both Conductors,” I went on to inform him. “We have had success in such investigations before.”

  “Is Mr. Thoreau a lawman?”

  “Hardly. Indeed, he thinks little of breaking laws he does not feel are just.”

  “He sounds like a man I would like to meet,” Rusty said.

  “That can be easily arranged. He’s presently staying at the Sun Tavern across the Green.”

  “Is he? Perhaps I should get a room there myself. Living in such cramped quarters as these can become tiresome after a spell.”

  “Breathing in the fumes from the chemicals you use day and night cannot be healthful,” I said, for the wagon interior reeked of them. “But you must take care if you go stay at the Sun. It is entirely possible that one of the guests is the very assassin I told you of.”

  “No! What’s his name?”

  I hesitated, not wish
ing to disparage Haven, who might well be innocent despite all the circumstantial evidence against him.

  “Never mind,” Rusty said. “It’s enough to know I should keep my guard up. Besides, an inn filled with people is surely a safer place for me to be at night than all alone in my wagon where I’m as vulnerable as a little ol’ lamb.”

  “You look to be more a wily red fox than a lamb.”

  “Do I?” The smile he gave me did indeed look vulpine.

  I noticed a guitar leaning beside my chair and picked it up. “I play a git box myself on occasion,” I said. “I’m not very good at it, but I hear you are.”

  “You sure did hear an earful about me,” Rusty said.

  “You are spoken of with high regard by Mr. Smith and his friends.” I strummed the guitar. “Appears you have a string missing.”

  “Haven’t gotten round to replacing it.” Rusty took the guitar from my hands. “I been neglecting my sweetheart something terrible.” He rested the instrument on his lap and held it as one would a woman rather than a guitar, patting the curved rosewood body. He then turned his attention back to me. “Well, I reckon we both got a busy day ahead of us and should get on with it, Doctor.”

  Thus dismissed, I stood and made my way to the door. “You won’t forget about Tansy?”

  “Tansy?”

  “The runaway being hounded by her owner,” I reminded him.

  “Oh, right. I never ask their names, you know. That way, no one can make me give them up. But I haven’t forgotten her plight, I assure you, and I’ll get her moving north again in due time.” I sensed he did not share my sense of urgency.

  When I left the daguerreotype wagon I crossed paths with Constable Beers on the Green. We crossed swords, too.

  “I want a word with you,” he said, blocking my way.

  “You need only ask politely,” I said, not much liking his commanding tone and belligerent stance.

  “I’ll ask any way I please,” he said. “Who the hell gave you and Thoreau the authority to organize a search party to look for that slave girl?”

  “You sure weren’t about to do anything about finding her, Constable.”

  “And it turns out I was right. Ferreting about Phantom Bog for the wench was a big waste of time for all involved.”

  “If you think we proved you right, you have no grudge,” I said.

  “Oh, I got a mighty big grudge against the both of you. You have no call to keep interfering in my business.”

  “No call? The summer before last an innocent man almost got lynched thanks to your incompetence,” I reminded him. “Last winter you allowed a vampyre hunter to terrorize our town. And now you are not making the slightest effort to discover who murdered Ezra Tripp. If you won’t perform your constable duties, Mr. Thoreau and I will continue to interfere. And you can stick that big grudge of yours up the terminal part of your large intestine.”

  I took a step forward. Beers placed his hand against my shoulder to halt me from taking another. “I am warning you, Walker, that I am keeping a sharp eye on not only Thoreau and you, but also that light-heeled woman you keep such close company with.”

  “If you are referring to Mrs. Pelletier, you had better show more respect. And that’s a warning to you, Beers.”

  A leer slid across Beers’s fat, sweaty face. But he must have seen unleashed fury in my eyes, for he stepped aside to let me pass. Apparently he did not want our confrontation to become physical, and it was just as well that he backed off. The good people of Plumford would have found it disturbing to witness the town doctor giving the town constable a trouncing. I must admit, however, I felt more disappointment than relief when it did not come about.

  I continued on my way to the Sun to talk to Henry. He would want to know that Julia was harboring our missing fugitive. And he would also be surprised to learn that the legendary hero Rusty, so admired by Mr. Smith and his associates, was right here in Plumford.

  JULIA

  Saturday, May 20

  Adam returned to the house with Henry, who told me he was staying at the Sun to keep his eye on a guest he suspects to be the Conductor assassin. He was eager to question Tansy about what she saw the night Tripp was murdered, but when he did she told him nothing more than she had already told me. And although Henry was most sympathetic when Tansy expressed how anxious she was to continue her journey to Canada, he agreed with Rusty that she should stay well hidden whilst Prouty was so close by.

  Later in the day, when I went to the Sun to sketch Mrs. Ruggles, I found Henry and Rusty sitting together on the porch, which affords a fine view of the Green. I greeted Rusty warmly, for my opinion of him had greatly improved after hearing Tansy’s recounting of his brave deeds as an Underground Railroad Conductor. Indeed, I sorely regretted my initial prejudice against him just because he was a Southerner. He looked slightly different to me, but I could not pinpoint how. Perhaps it was only that I now viewed him differently. He told me he had decided to stay at the Sun for the rest of his time in Plumford. Business was so brisk, he said, that he could well afford it.

  As Henry and Rusty chatted with me they kept glancing in the direction of another man seated at the opposite end of the long porch. He was wearing a Quaker hat, and his leg was propped up on a bench, so I knew that he must be Jerome Haven, the murder suspect. Frankly, he did not look much like a killer to me, but I am not the best judge of character. I had married Jacques Pelletier, after all.

  The three of us did not talk long. Henry went back to his carpentry work, Rusty went back to his daguerreotype wagon, and I went to find Mrs. Ruggles. Her husband sent me up to their private suite on the second floor of the rambling old inn, where she awaited me arrayed in layers of lace and ruffles. She need not have bothered to dress up, for it was her countenance, not her clothes, that I would be concentrating upon, but I could see that she enjoyed having the opportunity to display her best finery. The sitting room proved to be most commodious and bright, well suited for my work. The only drawback was that Mrs. Ruggles’s parrot Roos considered it her territory and cawed at me most vociferously as she flapped over my head.

  “Roos get used to you one time soon,” Mrs. Ruggles assured me.

  “And I hope I get used to Roos,” I replied.

  “You have no liking for birds?”

  Not this particular one, thought I. Although Roos was a beauty, with velvety feathers of bright red and vivid violet, her black hooked beak looked sharp and cruel, her claws looked menacing, and her beady jet eyes, rimmed in blue, looked merciless.

  “I have no familiarity with parrots,” I told Mrs. Ruggles. “How did you come by one so extraordinary?”

  “My brother bringed her to me back from Indonesia. I have her with me always since a girl.” She looked up at the bird and said something in Dutch. The parrot immediately perched on her shoulder. “Very smart, my Roos.”

  “Does she know English?”

  “Only little. Mr. Ruggles teaches her words, and one day Roos speaks English more good than me.”

  “You are a very gorgeous creature, Roos,” I told the bird.

  “Merci,” she replied.

  “Oh, she speaks French too!”

  “No, no, how could she?” Mrs. Ruggles said. “Roos and me never been to France.”

  “But merci means thank you in French.”

  Mrs. Ruggles laughed. “Roos hears the English word mercy from my husband. Mr. Ruggles cries out mercy, mercy me! when he . . . you know, reaches height of pleasure with me.”

  That was more information than I cared to know about the Ruggleses’ personal life, and I hoped the image now filling my mind of the parrot watching them with beady-eyed intensity as they made love would soon fade.

  I inquired as to which chair Mrs. Ruggles favored, and she pointed to a rocker. I dragged it to a window and posed Mrs. Ruggles in it so that the angle of the light gave her flat, broad face more definition. I then sat myself down across from her, opened my sketch pad, and brought out my pencils and char
coals.

  “No paint?” Mrs. Ruggles said, sounding most disappointed.

  “Not yet. I make a number of preparatory drawings before settling on a pose to paint on canvas. Composition is the key to a successful portrait.”

  “Composition,” she repeated.

  I could tell she no more understood the word than Roos did and went on to explain the Aristotelian concept that portraits should not only resemble the sitter but also be harmoniously arranged. Even a pose that seemed spontaneous involved the most contrived components of design, viewing angle, and harmony of hues.

  Mrs. Ruggles found my explanation of little interest. “Just don’t make me ugly,” she said.

  My goal, of course, was just the opposite—to depict her as precisely as I could, yet at the same time flatter her. That was what her husband was paying me to do, but I also had my own artistic needs to satisfy. I always try to capture the essential being of my subject, which goes well beyond outward appearance. It is this portrayal of human dignity that draws me to portraiture, along with the pleasure of revealing the unique personality of the sitter. The viewer takes all this for granted, for such elements register with a glance, but to convey them upon a flat piece of canvas requires intuition as well as technical skill. A rapport with the subject is essential.

  Therefore, my first order of business was to put Mrs. Ruggles at ease, and I encouraged her to tell me about herself, which has proven to be the most satisfactory topic of conversation for most of my subjects. Mrs. Ruggles, however, was not very forthcoming, perhaps because she felt awkward speaking English. All I learned about her was that she had come here from Rotterdam only six months ago to work at a relative’s brewery in Boston, and there she had met Sam Ruggles. She much preferred talking about him than herself, and she could not say enough about his fine character, looks, and humor. Her stiff posture relaxed, her countenance became animated, her pale eyes lit up, and she became quite pretty. She was obviously very happy to be the innkeeper’s wife and helpmeet.

  Roos became quite talkative too. Although I did not understand a word the bird was saying, I rather enjoyed listening to her chatter, for she had an unexpectedly pleasant voice, rather like a little girl’s.

 

‹ Prev