by Oak, B. B.
Realizing he intended for us to burn alive, I tried begging for mercy as best I could through the gag, in an anguished moaning.
Swann raised his brows and pulled down the corners of his mouth in a performance of sham regret. “Yes, it will be a miserable death, and I am most sorry for you, Julia. But you got yourself into this fine mess. If you had not bid on this little monster at the vendue auction, I would have done so myself and taken him away. Neither Mrs. Swann nor Noah Robinson would have been seen again, and Orlando Revere would remain his sister’s only heir. Regrettably, now you must die with Noah. The whole town knows what a fire starter he is. Mrs. Swann made sure of that. You will be burned to a crisp, along with any evidence of your bindings. All that shall remain of lovely Julia is her charred bones. So sad!”
He bent down and placed a kiss on my forehead. And then he struck a match with a steady hand, threw it on an oil-soaked towel in the wood bin, and headed for the back door. He turned back. I thought for a blessed moment he’d had a change of heart. But no, he was heartless still. He only came back to get the pistol he had left on the table. He tucked it into the amply stuffed bodice of his dress.
“Good Night, Good Night! Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he declaimed in his best theatrical manner, giving us a bow before he exited.
The dark room filled with smoke as the flames from the wood bin rose and cast flickering shadows on the walls. My eyes smarted from the acrid smoke, and I gagged from the stink of so much spilt oil. I twisted and yanked my wrists and ankles to try and loosen my bonds, but I could not break free. I did, however, manage to get to my knees, and I tried to push over the stove with the weight of my upper body. Noah followed my example, but even together we could not budge the iron beast. I looked at the boy and saw such fear in his eyes that my heart went out to him. I too was afraid, of course, but at least I had lived on this good earth double the time span he had. How grateful I was that I had allowed myself to experience love and passion. My last thoughts, I promised myself, would be of Adam, even as the flames consumed me.
Keeping my eyes locked on Noah’s, I attempted to silently communicate to him my belief that we could not truly die and would continue on in some form or other. The terror in his eyes did not diminish, however. So I began humming a lullaby, hoping that would assuage it. My tune came out a hoarse croak, barely audible through the rags stuffed in my mouth, yet Noah’s expression changed immediately. The fear in his wide eyes was replaced by joy, as if he were staring at an angel coming toward us through the black smoke.
Perhaps he was. But I do not think Henry David Thoreau would care to hear himself described as an angel. He certainly did seem heaven sent, however, as did Adam a moment later. They together tipped over the stove to free my arm and dragged Noah and me out the back door to the porch, our clothes smoking. Henry went back to smother the fire whilst Adam cut through our bonds with his pocketknife.
Once free of my gag, I tried to talk, but had a coughing fit instead. ’Twas Noah who spit out the name Swann.
“Where is he?” Adam said, making clear he knew Swann’s secret.
“He left us but moments ago,” I sputtered. “Garbed as a woman.”
We heard an alarmed neigh from Napoleon, and Adam raced to the front of the house, where he had left his gig by the gate. I ran after him, my speed hampered by smoke-filled lungs, and as I rounded the corner of the house I saw Swann pull away in the gig and Adam sprint down the road in pursuit of him. He caught up to the gig and grasped the back of it. Swann turned around and lashed at Adam with the whip, but Adam would not let go even though he was being beaten and dragged.
His weight made Napoleon slow his pace, and Swann faced front again to whip the horse instead, repeatedly slashing his flanks. Not used to such treatment, Napoleon whinnied in pain and looked back to see a stranger in Adam’s seat. He skidded to a halt in protest, rose up on his front legs, and kicked back with his rear hooves into the dash of the gig. The blow knocked the carriage right off its frame, and Swann jumped out, landing on his feet. He lifted his skirts and shot off across the Green.
Adam picked himself up, charged after Swann, and grabbed his shoulder. Swann whirled and kneed Adam most viciously in the groin. My poor dear buckled over in what must have been blinding pain, but continued to stagger after Swann as best he could. Which was not near fast enough. I caught up to Adam as Swann got farther away.
But this chase was not yet over for Henry now continued the pursuit. He ran past us in an amazing burst of speed and tackled Swann, wresting him to the ground and then throwing himself upon him. My heart rejoiced! The fiend was captured!
But then, most unexpectedly, Swann started screeching for help in a falsetto voice. People came out of the houses surrounding the Green to see what the matter was, and several men, including Mr. Daggett and Mr. Lyttle, ran toward us with lamps. They hauled Henry off Swann, shouting severe rebukes at him for treating a female so roughly, which drowned out his own words of explanation. Mr. Lyttle helped Swann up from the ground and offered a handkerchief from his tailor’s apron.
Adam and I witnessed all this as we staggered toward the group, hollering to them that Swann was a man. In all the confusion no one paid us any mind until we got close enough for Adam to lurch toward Swann and rip off his wig. What followed was a moment of stunned silence as lamps were lifted to illuminate Swann’s face, now set in a savage grimace.
“He tried to kill Noah and me!” I screamed, pointing my finger at Swann. “And he admitted to killing Kitty Lyttle!”
“You killed my wife?” Mr. Lyttle asked Swann in a stunned voice.
In one swift motion, Swann grabbed hold of the tailor, pulled out his pistol, and brought it to Lyttle’s temple. “I will shoot this man as easily as I slit his wife’s throat if I do not have a horse within two minutes,” he demanded.
The first to react was Lyttle, and he did so with lightning speed. Roaring with rage, he drew the scissors from his apron and twisted around to bury them deep into Swann’s throat as the pistol discharged in the air.
Clutching his throat, Swann fell to the ground. He had a look of utter astonishment upon his painted face. “Has the curtain come down for me?” he choked out as blood spewed from his mouth.
Indeed it had. He was dead a moment later.
“Clearly an act of self-defense on Mr. Lyttle’s part,” Coroner Daggett declared.
I walked back to the house with Adam and Henry, and we told Noah that he was now safe.
ADAM’S JOURNAL
Saturday, December 25
As I stood looking out at the Green this afternoon, blanketed in white and glowing with sunlight, I sent up a prayer of thanks with each breath that floated up into the icy atmosphere. All the myriad troubles we so suffered have been swept away in a gale of revelations and rescues that have left us peaceful and safe at last. And the Consumption epidemic that has so plagued our community seems to be abating.
Napoleon neighed at my back and gave me a shove with his nose. So much for contemplation. Time to be off! No wonder he was eager. I’d given him a Christmas feast this morn—an extra ladle of oats and sunflower seeds and an added, high forkful of timothy grass as well. Lord knows he deserved it. And I’d combed out his mane and long tail and brushed him till his coat shone bright. And he did so enjoy pulling a sleigh. He stamped with impatience to be off trotting through the drifts.
Called out that the Christmas express to Boston was ready to depart. Out the door pounced Noah with a shout, Julia right behind him, and we three climbed onto the red-cushioned seat of the sleigh, Julia thigh to thigh with me. I pulled the thick buffalo robe across our legs, and off we went! As we sped past the Green and over the bridge we seemed to be sliding along on a surface of cloud and cotton, the only sounds the hissing of the runners, the jingling of the sleigh bells, and the soft thud of hooves. Hill and dale all glinted and glistened pure white in the sun. Pointed to a dozen pine grosbeaks with their russet caps and breasts feeding on crimson dogwood be
rries. Noah spotted a fox that sat atop a snowdrift watching the world go by. Julia waved to a whirling flock of snow buntings. All the world seemed intent on entertaining us.
Napoleon in his turn expressed joy in every shake of his proud head and every stride as his hooves sliced deliciously into the packed snow. He snorted in the air that was so clear that each inhale to man and beast alike was like an energizing medicine.
Yesterday’s blizzard had deeply stacked the snow against the windward side of farmhouses right up over porches and near up to the roofs. Shovels could just be seen above the drifts as farmers and their sons heaped the snow yet higher to get from house to barn. Everyone gave us a wave and a cheer when they heard our jingling bells.
On every high hill we saw children flying down the slope on sleds with wide runners of supple softwood that held the sleds atop the snow far better than the newfangled runners of iron. Adventurous and foolish boys on one precipitous slope careened downhill and flashed across the road ahead of us at breakneck speed to slam into a snowdrift and roll out all coated and caked in snow, sputtering with laughter. We laughed too.
We had the company of sleighs of every size and description on the road all the way to town. Despite Napoleon’s proud heart and sturdy physique, he had to pull three of us in a heavy old sleigh, and so we were on occasion passed by young sparks and their girls in light-as-a-feather, new speeder sleighs, all lacquered and gold-gilded, pulled by purebred racing trotters.
Did not believe any man luckier than myself as I sat under that buffalo robe with Julia beside me. What a gem, what a treasure, what a strong, fine, sensible, imaginative, serious, happy, gay, thoughtful, passionate, bold, and wildly, touchingly, beautiful woman she is. A few flakes of wind-swirled snow had caught in her hair and on her long eyelashes, and when a few bold crystals dared to descend onto her full lips I could not resist and turned to kiss them away, tasting her and the sparkle together. That brought an extra flush to her rose-tinted cheeks, and her eyes flashed love.
On an even, flat stretch of road I handed the reins over to Noah. The boy swelled with happiness and pride as Napoleon, who sensed the lightest change in touch from the reins, glanced back and then surged ahead, I swear just to please the new young driver.
We glided past fields, pastures, woodlots, and farm after farm, most clad in chestnut shingles naturally weathered as of old, but more and more now painted white or yellow, the shutters black and the barns red. We saw mills springing up along the larger streams and shanties where the Irish immigrants are housed to work the new looms, presses, and forges.
We stopped at a farm by the road to water our horse, and the owner spoke around his clay pipe of current affairs, kept abreast of the world beyond his hundred acres by reading the new abolitionist newspaper published by Frederick Douglass. As we regained the sleigh I wondered aloud that soon there would be no quiet village left to its own peace in our entire country.
When we neared the city we decided to proceed to Beacon Hill by way of the Mill Dam, which is but a long extension of Beacon Street across the Back Bay all the way out to Brookline. There is talk of filling in all of the Back Bay to make land for building. Some call it a harebrained scheme, but I think it a grand idea. If Boston does not grow and progress it will surely become just a backwater for Brahmins and bankers.
Farther up Beacon Street we glided, alongside the Commons, where families were making fanciful snowmen and skaters swooped and swirled on the frozen Frog Pond. A group of rascally boys, standing beside the street as we passed, suddenly attacked us with a blizzard of snowballs that burst against the sides of the sleigh. I blocked one snowball with my hand, and the impact sent a shower of snow into all our faces and we laughed in surprise. I urged Napoleon on to pull us clear of the assault, which he did in a burst of speed.
Turned off Beacon and climbed slowly to the top of Vernon and the Trescots’ high, brick townhouse. A servant appeared to lead Napoleon to the stable behind and assured me he would be unharnessed, wiped down properly, given a stall away from any drafts, and fed—but not too much grain, I insisted, as we would be going back home today. The same maid greeted us at the door, but this time with much cordiality, and escorted us right upstairs.
Miss Dibble threw open Mrs. Trescot’s chamber door and beckoned us within. The sight of Mrs. Trescot gladdened my heart. She sat in the same posture on the chaise longue, but in just two days at least ten years had melted from her face. She was trembling far less, and her gaze had sharpened, and I did not see a bottle of calomel on the table. Her eyes were bright with anticipation.
Without ceremony, Julia stepped forward with Noah and introduced mother to son. These first seconds, I knew, meant everything. The boy walked to the chaise longue and looked at her with an open curiosity while she stared at him, studying his every feature, which of course included his deformity. When their eyes met I knew all was well. Mrs. Trescot slowly stood to embrace and kiss Noah.
“My son,” she said, her voice breaking, “let me love you now. I promise to never let you go again.”
He looked at her and nodded and buried his face against her shoulder, and I could see every muscle in his being relax as they held each other.
Well, that is all of true importance there is to record, although Julia and I remained for several hours, all of us happy and relieved. I detected a touch of sadness in Julia’s joy for the boy, as she has grown most fond of him and had been ready, if necessary, to take him into her life for good.
There was much to discuss and explain and wonder over. We first spoke of Noah. Mrs. Trescot wanted the boy to stay from this moment forth in her home and grow to be a man under her care. I told her of my wish to mend his harelip. She was cautious, saying that she would much prefer him as he was to possibly losing him under the knife. That expressed a true, loving concern for the boy as he was, not how he might be. Noah did not hesitate to softly say he wanted the operation, and I noticed as he spoke she again looked at him with the uncritical love of a mother. She knew what she had already missed, and I could see she was determined to make up for those lost years. In the end, she agreed to the operation but not for a few weeks yet as she wanted Noah just as he was for now.
Mrs. Trescot told Noah the house was his now, and off he went exploring as we sadly related the unsuccessful attempts her brother had made on Noah’s life. The man who had killed Orlando, we said, would not be charged with the crime for the Coroner’s Jury had deemed it self-defense. Mrs. Trescot nodded in silent acceptance of this verdict, and after a moment of silence, she rapidly composed herself.
“My brother always had a titanic self-love, but that is common enough among actors,” she said in a sad tone. “I was aware of his faults, but that is all I thought they were, a handsome, talented, self-absorbed man’s personal flaws. I was blind to his rapacity, and I must say, his cold-bloodedness.”
Noah came back from his first exploration of a house that no doubt far exceeded his wildest dreams of what a home could be. All he said, as he looked at us in wonder, was, “Ten fireplaces!”
“It’s actually twelve, my son,” Mrs. Trescot gently corrected him.
Noah then whispered something to Julia with a worried look on his face.
“No,” Julia said, “I do not think you will be responsible for filling all the fireboxes with wood every morning.”
We partook of small, finger-sized sandwiches and assorted sweet delicacies and sipped champagne for the remainder of the visit. Before we departed I insisted on a moment alone with Mrs. Trescot. I asked if I might give her a cursory physical examination to which she agreed, and my findings confirmed my suspicions. “I see no evidence of any bodily ailment in you whatsoever,” I said. “If you will completely forego any further ingestion of calomel, I believe you will soon be well. Your symptoms have been brought on by your guilt and anxiety over losing your son and made immeasurably worse by this poison many of my counterparts in my profession call medicine.”
She softly laughed in relief.
“I have been bled and had disgusting leeches applied to my flesh as well. I believe your diagnosis may well be correct, but I will follow your advice only if you promise to visit me as your patient and bring Julia with you. I like her very much, and I do not want Noah to ever forget her kindness.”
We shook hands to seal the agreement.
Mother and son, trusty nurse right behind them, stood out on the steps of their home and waved a fond farewell as we started away down the hill. Napoleon seemed to have enjoyed his city sojourn but was, as ever, eager to prance his way back to Plumford.
The ride home was a gliding heaven. Julia and I sat pressed together, ecstatic to be close for a few blissful hours under a sky so clear and dark the Milky Way seemed to ripple above us and every star winked at our love.
ADAM’S JOURNAL
Saturday, January 1, 1848
Henry and Lidian and her three children came by to wish us Happy New Year this afternoon. Such a pleasant family. And they do truly seem a family, with Henry acting as both papa and brother to the children whilst Mr. Emerson continues to tour Europe. Lidian looks exceptionally well, I am happy to report, for the last time I saw her I detected a mild case of jaundice. Today her complexion was peaches and cream. All three children are handsome and healthy and well behaved, but they soon grew restless nevertheless. They are very young and energetic, after all, the eldest only eight. Henry suggested we take them for a ride and leave the ladies to their talk of Art and their milk punch and biscuits. This seemed to suit Julia and Lidian as well as the children.
Off we rode in Henry’s borrowed carryall. A three-day thaw had melted away most of the snow, the air was sharp and still, and the sun, low in a crystal clear sky, warmed our backs. Henry deemed it a glorious winter day because its elements were so simple. The children, sitting in the back of the wagon, sang “Auld Lang Syne” or rather their own version of it, laden with malapropisms, which delighted Henry no matter how many times they repeated it. Can’t say I found it quite so amusing as he did, but I was in a fine mood nonetheless. Indeed, my heart was close to bursting with happiness whenever I thought that I would be spending yet another night with Julia. And another and another. For eternity, I hope.