Thoreau on Wolf Hill

by Oak, B. B.

  “First return to me four Liberty Eagles as payment for two chandoo,” Zang said.

  “But you are now charging me double for what I just sold you!” Henry said.

  Zang sighed. “Such is the way of the world. I am not charging you any more than I charge my other customers.”

  “Twenty dollars a pill seems mighty steep. Why, I once built a sturdy home for myself for near that amount,” Henry said.

  “Most men who come here are rich enough to afford it.”

  “The way I see it, a man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone,” Henry said. “And that man is richest whose pleasures are the cheapest.”

  Zang smiled again, this time displaying gold teeth. “You sound like Confucius, young man. But even if you were the Great Teacher himself, I would still ask you to pay me forty dollars for two chandoo. Pay me or leave. You choose.”

  Henry reluctantly handed over four gold coins, and the man called out in Chinese again. Expecting the ungainly giant to reappear, I was most pleasantly surprised when a young, willowy Chinese woman in a blue satin robe came forward. She led us down the hall and into a small room furnished with two long couches draped with silken fabric. She then turned to Henry and commenced unbuttoning his jacket. He allowed her to do this without protest, and I wondered what next he would allow her to do. After relieving him of his jacket, she snatched up the silk fabric on the couch and held it out to Henry. I saw that it was a robe, and when he slipped into it he looked quite the Ming mandarin, with his sun-browned face and serious demeanor. Rather than go ahead and remove my own coat, I waited for the young beauty to help me out of it as she had helped Henry, thinking this the courteous thing to do (and, in truth, for the thrill of it), and then I too put on a robe. The silken texture felt most soothing.

  Our hostess gestured for us to seat ourselves upon the two couches and left us. A moment later a Chinese boy in yellow pajamas came into the room, carrying a small wooden serving table laden with two extremely long bamboo pipes and an assortment of paraphernalia. He placed the table on the floor between our two couches and knelt before it.

  “Shall I start preparing your pipes?” he asked in perfect English, striking a match and bringing it to a small brazier of polished metal.

  Henry held up his hand. “We are not ready to imbibe. Please go. But leave the tray here.”

  “Very well, sir.” The boy blew out the match and departed.

  “Now what?” I asked Henry.

  “Now we bide our time,” he said. “Is this not the ideal hunting blind to await members of Chauncey Bidwell’s species? A species, I might add, so profligate it seems doomed to extinction. But whilst members of it still come out to this watering hole under cover of night, let us try to snare one who will be more garrulous than the reticent Mr. Zang.”

  So we waited, listening to customers arrive and make their arrangements with Zang. Business was conducted in a surprisingly muted, polite, and orderly manner, but eventually we heard a loud, arrogant voice that snagged Henry’s attention.

  “Did you hear me, Zang? Set me up with a pipe. Chop-chop!”

  “Twenty dollars please, my good sir,” the elderly Chinaman responded.

  “Just add the amount to my account.”

  “You owe me too much already.”

  “How dare you speak to me that way, Zang? You know very well that I am good for the money.”

  “I know very well that you owe me too much already,” Zang repeated patiently.

  “Cock and bollocks!” the man roared back.

  Henry sprang up from the couch. “The imbecile out there sounds just like Forest Orton. That was his favorite expression when I knew him at Harvard.” He opened the door to take a stealthy look into the hall. “It’s Orton all right,” he told me. “You wait here whilst I lure him into our trap.” Henry stepped out into the hall.

  “May I extend hospitality to a former classmate and invite him to smoke a pipe at my expense?” I heard Henry say.

  There was a pause followed by a burst of laughter that I thought carried a note of derision. “Is that you, Judge? I cannot believe it! I have not laid eyes on you since our days in Hollis Hall. You of all men an opium smoker? Why, this beggars all credulity! Yes, of course I shall accept your offer. I have lost every cent I had on me at the gambling houses, and beggars cannot be choosers, after all.”

  Henry returned to the room with a pudgy, dapper blade. I stood up to greet him, and he eyed me suspiciously.

  “Harvard too,” Henry said of me to Orton. “The class five years after ours.”

  “All right then,” Orton said, and no further introduction was required. Comfortable with the situation, Orton shrugged off his cape and threw himself down on the couch I had vacated. Henry and I seated ourselves on the one across from him.

  “Cock and bollocks!” Orton said again, staring at Henry. “To see you of all people here is a thorough shock. You were such a thorough teetotaler during college days.” He winked at Henry after each play on his name, and then turned to me. “During our days at Harvard together, our friend here used to be as sober as a judge. Indeed, he was called Judge. My own set of chums also referred to him as Beau Brummell. In jest, of course. Henry was anything but a fashion plate. Despite the requirement that students wear black frock coats to lectures, Henry had the gall to wear one of green homespun!”

  “It was the only frock coat I owned,” Henry said in his calm, quiet voice. “In fact, I wear it still when the occasion demands. And I can still button it, too. I wager you cannot claim the same in regard to your own college coat.”

  Orton smiled and gave the bulge beneath his vest a fond pat. “Indeed, I cannot, but why should I care? I have a new coat tailored to my measurements whensoever I please.”

  “Then I also wager that your tailor is more lenient about extending you credit than your opium supplier is,” Henry said.

  Orton’s smile stiffened. “Did you not invite me here to share your own supply?”

  Henry gestured toward the serving table. “Help yourself. Or shall I call for the boy to do it for you?”

  “No, no, he’ll expect a gratuity. I can do it just as well myself.”

  Orton plucked up a needle-like copper skewer and jabbed it into one of the opium pills. “Light the brazier,” he ordered Henry imperiously, and then held the pill over the flame to warm it. Once the heat had softened it sufficiently, he spread it around the tiny ceramic bowl of the pipe, all the time breathing heavily—in excited anticipation or because of an asthmatic condition, I know not. He then heated the filled bowl over the brazier until the opium began to turn to vapor. At that point he took the pipe to his lips, inhaled deeply, rolled his dull eyes, and closed them. After that he stopped breathing altogether, and as the seconds passed I became more and more concerned. I was just about to leap up from the couch and give him a hard slap on the back when he gave out a long exhale through his nostrils, sighed, and lay back against the cushions, smiling.

  “Thy poppy throws around my head its lulling charities,” he murmured.

  “Bed, not head,” Henry replied. He had observed this whole process with obvious distaste. “If you are going to quote Keats, at least do so correctly, Orton.”

  “Same stickler as you always were, Henry,” Orton said lazily.

  I picked up the used pipe he had thrown aside and examined it out of curiosity. “Now I understand why meconium, which is the ancient Greek word for opium, is also the medical term for a babe’s first bowel movement,” I told Henry. “Same viscous, sticky appearance.”

  He smiled. “Did you hear that, Orton?”

  Apparently not. Orton’s attention was completely taken by the remaining opium pill on the serving table. “I would not refuse another pipe,” he said.

  “Let us talk a little more first,” Henry said. “Do you perchance know Chauncey Bidwell?”

  “Oh, yes, he is a denizen of Chandoo Gate and likes to hobnob with his betters.”
/>   “You refer to yourself as his better?” Henry said.

  “Well, after all, Bidwell is not a Harvard man. He is a highly entertaining fellow, though; I will give him that. Especially when he brings along those pretty actresses he knows. I was hoping he might do so tonight. But come to think of it, I have not seen Bidwell around of late. That little country wench of his must be keeping him amused.”

  “Is he courting a girl in Concord?” Henry said.

  “Somewhere thereabouts. But courting would be putting too fine a point on it. He claims he stole her virtue and can do whatever he likes with her now, without so much as an if you please or thank you, ma’am.”

  “Did he name the girl?” Henry said, keeping his voice expressionless.

  “Interested?” Orton said, leering at him.

  Henry stared back at him with a stone face. “Did he name her?” he repeated evenly.

  “Only as his Poppy Poppet. Not only did the wicked boy introduce her to fleshly delights, but he succeeded in binding her over to poppy smoke, all the better to make her his utter love slave.”

  As much as I have seen of life as a doctor, especially of late, I was still shocked to hear this. I looked at Henry. He too seemed shocked, but when he spoke, his voice was as calm as a pond.

  “What more did Bidwell tell you concerning this young woman?” he asked Orton.

  “Is that not enough to tell about any woman?”

  “Did he describe her?”

  “Well, he claimed she is beautiful, of course. And he related to me intimate details concerning her anatomy. But clothed I would not know her from Eve. He never mentioned the color of her eyes or hair or such as that. And neither did I care.”

  “Did he ever mention where they would meet for their liaisons?”

  “Not precisely. He has alluded to a mossy little love nest where he can leave the pipe and they can have at each other like two minks in a burrow. He brags that he has her so bound to the drug that there is little need to talk of love at all anymore. Just poppy smoking and rutting. Some men have all the luck, do they not?You should ask Bidwell about Poppy Poppet yourself if you are so fascinated, Henry. He is always hard up for cash and may be willing to share her for a fee. If you get her drugged up enough, she may not even notice you have taken his place between her legs.”

  Henry stood up abruptly and loomed over Orton. “You think like a pig, speak like a pig, and even look like a pig. In short, you are a pig, sir.”

  I fully expected some sort of challenge from Orton, but he merely turned his eyes to the opium pill on the serving table again. “Have we not talked enough, Henry?”

  “Indeed we have. We shall leave you to suck up more excrement.”

  We shrugged off our robes, threw on our coats, and went off into the cold night without a backward glance at the Chandoo Gate.

  As we rode to Concord we pondered over what we had heard from Forest Orton’s befouled lips concerning Bidwell and the maiden he’d seduced and habituated to opium.

  “If Bidwell was as vile as that,” I said, “there could be dozens of people who might want to kill him.”

  “But only one did,” Henry said. “And let us hope the murderer had no connection to the unfortunate young woman. If he turns out to be her enraged father or brother or sweetheart, then the whole sordid story will become known to one and all. The Bidwell ladies will realize what a villain their beloved Chauncey really was. And the young woman in question will become an outcast in society.”

  “Perhaps it would be best to stop investigating his death,” I suggested.

  “No,” Henry said. “We can never stop searching for the truth. But what we do with it when we find it is another matter.”

  And that is how we left it when I dropped him off in front of the Emerson house.

  JULIA’S NOTEBOOK

  Sunday, 12 December

  Well, the Phyfe sisters returned today for another sitting so I can only assume they did not tell their father about Mrs. Swann’s indecorous comments. I thought for sure that they had when they canceled the last sitting, but the reason turned out to be that Arabel had not been feeling well. At any rate, today’s session went very well. And Mrs. Swann behaved most properly with the young ladies. I shall start working in oils tomorrow.

  After the sitting, I wanted to stretch my legs, and my feet took me in the direction of the Shrove farm. What an uninviting place it is, located in an isolated area upriver with only the burnt-out remains of a cottage nearby. The lack of trees on the fallow fields surrounding the farmhouse is evidence that a valiant attempt had once been made to clear the land for tillage, but countless saplings have sprung up to replace their downed forebears, and even more than saplings, there are rocks everywhere to impede a plow’s progress. The house itself looked more and more ramshackle the closer I got to it. I spied two men and three little boys standing on the sagging front porch, and as I drew nearer still I realized that one of the men was none other than Henry T.!

  If Henry was as surprised to see me as I him, he did not show it when he introduced me to Mr. Shrove. The farmer looked to be as worn out as his threadbare overalls and shabby boots, yet when he smiled at me I saw that he could be little more than thirty. My prejudice against him for forsaking Noah prevented me from smiling back.

  “So you are the kind lady who took in the unfortunate orphan,” he said.

  “Far better me than the collier at the charcoal pit,” I replied rather sharply. “We were the only two who bid on the boy at the vendue auction.”

  “So I heard,” Mr. Shrove said, looking as shamefaced as I thought he should. One of the children, little more than a babe, started wailing, and Mr. Shrove picked him up and pressed his lean, bristled cheek to the child’s soft cheek. “There, there, my boy,” he said softly, and I liked him a little better for that. At least he cared for his own.

  “I came here to inquire if Mr. Shrove wanted his property surveyed,” Henry said to me, “and he informed me that he’d just given up his lease on it. He and his family are heading west.”

  “We’re leaving for Illinois tomorrow to join up with relatives,” Mr. Shrove said, “then on to Oregon in a wagon train. Land is far cheaper out there, and the soil is much richer.”

  “Beets grow up to three feet around in Oregon,” the tallest boy, who looked to be about seven, said.

  “And turnips grow five feet around!” his brother topped him.

  A weary-looking young woman stepped onto the porch. She was wrapped in a patched shawl, carrying yet another child in her arms, this one still of suckling age. “We have not kept back any possessions belonging to Noah, if that is what you have come for,” she told me coldly. “We took him in with only the clothes on his back.”

  “My reason for calling was to learn more about Noah from you,” I said. “And I also thought you might care to know how he was faring.”

  “Well, tell me then,” she said impatiently, moving the mewling babe from one hip to the other.

  “He’s doing well enough, but keeps to himself most of the time,” I said. “And he will not go to school.”

  “As far as I know, Noah never went to school,” Mrs. Shrove said. “But he knows how to read and cipher well enough. His father must have taught him. Mr. Robinson was a clever, city-bred man.”

  “What did he do for a living?” Henry said.

  “He was a carpenter of sorts. Built sets for the Howard Theater in Boston,” Mr. Shrove said.

  “Or so he claimed anyway,” Mrs. Shrove said. “For all the time he was our neighbor, I never saw him lift so much as a finger, much less a hammer. Who knows when last he worked? He left a lot of debts unpaid in Weymouth or Falmouth or wherever it was they lived before removing to Plumford.”

  “We know because a debt collector came by here last month looking for the Robinson family,” Mr. Shrove said. “I pointed to Noah mucking out the barn and told him that was the only Robinson left.”

  “For a debt collector, he was such a personable, re
fined young man,” Mrs. Shrove put in. “When he learned that both the boy’s parents were dead and he could not collect a penny, he went over to Noah and gave him a penny. Was that not kind of him? But I reckon he considered the sight of such a peculiar deformity worth paying for.”

  “Ma made Jackrabbit give that penny over to her,” the eldest boy said.

  “Of course I did,” she said. “We shared our home and food with him, so it was only right he shared whatever he came by with us. The town gave us a mere pittance for his upkeep.”

  “But he did make an effort to earn his keep,” Mr. Shrove said.

  “Oh, I have no complaints on that score,” Mrs. Shrove allowed. “Noah could keep house better than most hired girls twice his age. He could even bake pastries. Not that he ever did so for us. We could ill afford to spend money on sugar and chocolate to make those fancy puffs he used to bake for his mother.”

  “He did all the cooking, washing, and cleaning for his mother,” Mr. Shrove said. “That’s why I bid for him at the vendue auction. I reckoned he would be as much help to my wife as he’d been to Mrs. Robinson.”

  “Not that I need as much help as a blind woman,” Mrs. Shrove said irritably.

  “Noah’s mother was blind?” Henry said.

  “From birth, she told us,” Mrs. Shrove said. “That might well have been a blessing, for she could not perceive how repugnant her child was. Indeed, she lavished a great deal of affection upon him. I tried my best to be kind to Noah when he was with us, but I could not be affectionate. I could see very well what he looked like.”

  “Methinks Noah’s blind mother truly saw him, whilst you merely looked at him,” Henry said. “Who then is the one without vision?”

  Mrs. Shrove frowned at him. “I do not understand.”

  “I did not expect you to.”

  “You need not speak to me in that superior manner,” she told Henry. “I am a well-educated woman. Indeed, I attended Amherst Academy.”

  “That is where I met my wife,” Mr. Shrove said. “I taught there.”