Thoreau at Devil's Perch Page 3

  “But I observed that you use only two,” he said. Apparently nothing escapes his notice.

  Explained that was a personal preference or quirk I could not account for. I had read that English longbowmen used that grip during the Middle Ages, but it had long fallen into disfavor.

  “Perhaps in a past life you went on a crusade as a yeoman archer,” he said.

  “As no doubt you were once an Indian brave,” I replied. We both laughed.

  Proceeded to instruct him how to draw, hold, and loose properly. A longbow such as mine requires fifty pounds of effort to hold at full draw, yet he drew it easily. His first arrows flew wildly, but after only a moment’s instruction he shot with amazing facility, exhibiting excellent coordination and wiry strength of arm and back. After we shot a dozen arrows each, we seated ourselves upon the stone wall surrounding the farmyard and became better acquainted.

  He told me he had attended Harvard, and we established that he had studied there five years earlier than I had. He did not seem to think much of the institution. He claimed that he had as many trades as he had fingers, along with being a transcendentalist and a natural scientist, and that he was presently writing a book in the seclusion of a cabin by a pond. Quite an impressive fellow, this Thoreau, if indeed he is all he says he is.

  He asked me where I practiced medicine, and I told him I had been assisting Dr. Holcomb Quincy in Boston for the two years since I had graduated from Medical College.

  “But I have taken over my grandfather’s practice here in Plumford temporarily, until he recovers from his accident,” I went on to say. “He was badly injured a few weeks ago playing town ball on the Green.”

  Thoreau looked surprised. “Is the play that rough?”

  “For the most part, no. But Grandfather was running backwards trying to catch a fly ball and collided right into the town pump. Broke his leg on the base and knocked himself out on the handle.”

  “I cannot understand why grown men waste their time and strength of mind and body in sport,” Thoreau said.

  It was my turn to look surprised. “For the joy of it of course!”

  “A simple walk in nature can bring joy,” he said. “But games of sport can bring out the worst in man’s own nature.”

  “And the best,” I said.

  “I will gladly argue the point some other time,” he offered. “Right now we have more important matters to discuss, however. I am outraged at the decision reached by the Coroner’s Jury this morning, and I presume you are too, Dr. Walker.”

  I assured him that he was correct. “It has disturbed me all day, and I have been attempting to fathom the reasoning behind their judgment.”

  “Reasoning? There was none! Ratiocination is beyond such fools.”

  “I have known most of those men all my life, Thoreau, and they are not fools.”

  “Then how could they have reached the idiotic conclusion that the death was accidental? Did we not present evidence of foul play that was well-nigh unassailable?”

  “I agree we stated the case with logic enough to call for a murder investigation,” I said. “But such an investigation could arouse fears that a murderer might be loose in the area.”

  “One is loose!” Thoreau said.

  “And I do not think Elijah Phyfe wants that made public.”

  “Do you refer to the pompous fellow in the silk hat and purple cravat?”

  I nodded. “Not only is he Plumford’s Justice of the Peace. He is also the town’s wealthiest citizen. He holds the mortgages on many farms hereabouts, and more than a few town merchants are also in his debt.”

  “No wonder he held such sway over the men in the jury,” Thoreau said. “Still, I fail to understand why he wanted them to ignore our evidence.”

  “Perhaps you will understand better when I tell you that Justice Phyfe is presently in the thick of persuading several new mills to locate in Plumford,” I said. “He is touting our town as a peaceable, conducive environment for trade.”

  “So that’s it,” Thoreau said grimly. “Far better to disregard the death of a mere Negro than risk tarnishing Plumford’s reputation with a murder investigation. I opine that many of the men on the jury would also benefit from new industry coming to town. Pecuniary interests influenced their verdict.”

  “This is speculation on our part,” I cautioned. “We cannot know for certain what was in the hearts of those men when they considered the evidence.”

  “I know for certain that self-interest most often supersedes justice,” he replied. “Your jury of respectable Plumford citizens acted no better than a pack of slave owners.”

  I thought that too severe a recrimination, yet it brought us to the sad truth of the matter. Even in Massachusetts, where the abolitionist movement is deemed the strongest in the nation, the death of a black man does not matter as much as would the death of a white man.

  “Rather than self-interest, it could have been simple practicality that influenced the jury,” I said. “They could have decided that a murder inquiry would lead nowhere. The dead man is unknown, with no identification upon his person, and our constable is a simple shoemaker who lacks both the detection skills and the time to pursue an investigation.”

  “Thus incompetence and inconvenience were the measures used to determine the verdict.” Thoreau heaved a mighty sigh. “Whatever the jury’s motivation, it is now left up to us to find the murderer, Adam.”

  “But whence do we go from here? We do not even know if his victim was a runaway slave or a freeman.”

  “I am an operative in the underground railway,” Thoreau freely admitted to me, “and on my return to Concord this morning I confirmed that no young man of his description has been harbored locally in our houses or hideaways. But I shall investigate further. Someone might have seen our Negro depart from the cars at the Concord train depot.”

  “And I shall inquire in Plumford,” I said. “If we could ascertain what he was doing in this vicinity, that might lead to finding out who murdered him.”

  We shook hands. Our common determination and shared sense of justice had forged a friendship between us, and we agreed to be henceforth on a first-name basis.

  Before we parted, I asked Henry what had brought him to the banks of the Assabet River this morning. He replied he had been in pursuit of a rare climbing fern he had heard grew in the area. He had searched without result for the plant and found the body instead.

  “And now you have made your second long hike to Plumford today,” I said.

  “Not so long. Less than three miles when I cut through fields, which is my preference,” he replied. “I am in the habit of walking many hours, day or night, to observe nature and cogitate. I do some of my best writing in my head as I roam. Methinks that the moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow.”

  He politely refused my invitation to sample my grandmother’s doughnuts and gave me the arrowhead he had found before going on his way. When I returned to the house, one of Gran’s farmhands was waiting for me on the back stoop, the side of his face swelled up and his eyes filled with pain. I took a look inside his fetid mouth and went directly to the gig for my medical bag. When the poor man saw me extract a turnkey, he paled, as it is a dreadful instrument indeed. I assured him he would be feeling better in a jiffy, had him lie on his back, and called for Gran. She came out from the kitchen and cradled his head in her strong, gentle hands as I placed my knee firmly against his chest to keep him down. Told him to open wide, and with one great yank I pulled out a dangerously infected molar tooth. Must say I was so quick about it he barely had time to howl. He felt relief immediately, and for what pain remained I gave him a paper of willow bark powder to mix with water. Gran nodded approval. I was happy she was there to witness that, despite all my fancy learnin’, as she calls it, I still use many of the herbal remedies she taught me as a child.

  It was nearing sundown when I returned to town. The moment I stepped inside Grandfather Walker’s house, I carefully whiffed the
air, and kept sniffing all the way up the stairs and into his chamber.

  “Any stink?” he asked from his bed in lieu of a greeting. We both know that the odor of putridity would be a sign that mortal infection had taken hold in his leg wound and the advance of gangrene begun.

  “Not the slightest trace,” I assured him.

  “Good,” he said, “as I would not like to give offence to my granddaughter.”

  He directed his gaze, as I did mine, toward Julia, who was sitting by the window, an open book on her lap. The golden light of the setting sun poured through the panes, making her lovely face and hair glow. And when she looked at me, that very same light seemed to emanate from her golden eyes, as though she were beaming solar rays at me.

  “Don’t you wish to examine my leg, Adam?” Grandfather said.

  How long my attention had strayed from him I know not, but I brought it back and began cutting away the bandages. Grandfather sat up and studied his broken limb with the cool interest of a physician rather than the apprehension of its owner.

  “Well, it’s healing well enough,” he allowed, gingerly touching the crimson scar that extended half the distance between foot and knee. “You did a fine job of mending the tear. I’ll give you that much, Adam.”

  “How fortunate Adam was visiting you the day you broke your leg, Grand-dear,” Julia said.

  He snorted. “Had Adam not suggested I join him in a game of town ball, I would not have broken my leg in the first place.”

  “And you will never let me forget it.” I smiled at the crusty old man. “I did not expect you to play with such risk to life and limb.”

  “And I did not expect you to risk my life to save my limb, Adam,” he retorted. “An open fracture, as you well know, offers a gateway for noxious matter to enter the body. Most physicians, myself included, would have amputated a leg that had a snapped bone piercing through the flesh.”

  I had been expecting this criticism from him. Until now he had been too weak to make it, and I was pleased that his assertive spirit had returned. But I also felt it necessary to defend myself, especially in front of Julia.

  “Of course I considered that danger, Grandfather. But the bone break was not fragmented, and there was a minimum of tissue damage. And dash it all! I could not have you go legless if I could help it. So whilst you were still unconscious, I aligned the two halves of the fibula at the point of breakage and sewed up the wound with cat gut.”

  “Darn good thing I was insensible to the pain,” he grumbled. “So tell me, young doctor. What is your prognosis? When will I be up and about?”

  “As soon as a proper knit takes place between the bone ends. And for that to happen, we must keep your leg immobile for a while longer.”

  He groaned with impatience rather than pain as I replaced lengths of wood to each side of his leg and bound them. Julia brought his pale, bony hand to her lips and kissed it. I could not help but imagine the soft warmth of her mouth against my own flesh.

  “Do not fret, Grand-dear,” she told him. “You shall be walking about soon enough. And until then I shall stay by your side.”

  Comforted by her promise, he lay his white head down upon the pillows and closed his eyes. She pulled a light blanket over him, and we both quietly exited the chamber and went downstairs. Molly had gone for the day, and Julia offered to make me supper. I told her I had consumed a hefty portion of Gran’s fricasseed chicken before leaving the farm, and she looked relieved. The preparation and consumption of food seem to be of little interest to her. Perhaps she receives her sustenance from her art.

  I suggested a stroll in the garden or a walk around the Green, but she declined. Thinking she was perhaps fatigued, I suggested retiring to the parlor where I might entertain her by strumming my guitar. Feeble as my musical talent is, it has entertained her well enough on previous evenings. But again she declined. Stating she had work to do, off she went to the study, leaving me to wonder if she was irked with me. It had not escaped my attention that she had been so this morning. But was she still? Decided to find out.

  She looked surprised when I entered the study for I have stayed well out of it since she took over the room as a makeshift studio. An unfinished portrait of our grandfather rested upon an easel she had set up by the window. The liveliness of it astonished me.

  “I have depicted him as he will look once he recovers,” Julia said and gave me an expectant look. “He will recover fully, will he not?”

  “He is mending as well as can be expected for a man of seventy,” I hedged.

  “Oh, dear,” Julia said, wrapping a long pinafore around her slender frame. “That does not sound an overly optimistic prognosis.”

  “Oh, I am optimistic,” I said to assure her.

  “Then why are you twisting your fingers in your palm like that?”

  I immediately let go grasping the first two fingers of my right hand, recalling how Julia used to tease me about this telltale sign of apprehension when we were children. She knows me too well. “He will regain his ability to walk,” I said.“But he will never regain the youthful vigor you have given him in your portrait, Julia. In truth, I believe Grandfather will need assistance should he continue his medical practice. You might consider staying here in Plumford with him for good.”

  “For good?” She did not seem too pleased by my suggestion as she turned to the writing desk she had covered with canvas. It was littered with tubes and bladders of oil paints, and vials of turpentine and linseed oil, along with an assortment of brushes. After carefully selecting a brush, she looked back to me. “You might consider staying here for good yourself, Adam. You would be of more assistance to our grandfather than I could ever be.”

  “But I have my own work to do.”

  “And I do not?” She slapped the brush lightly against her palm. “I suppose you do not consider me a serious artist because of my sex.”

  “I am highly respectful of your sex,” I replied rather stiffly.

  “Even though you think it inferior to yours?”

  “You have no reason to believe I do, Julia.”

  “That you spoke to me as one would speak to a child this morning seems reason enough.”

  “I knew it,” I said.

  “Knew what, pray?”

  “That you were harboring some resentment toward me. But you should not hold it against me for trying to protect you, Julia. Indeed, that is rather childish, as I am only looking out for you.”

  My words, unfortunately, did not appease her. Instead, they seemed to perturb her even more. Color rose to her cheeks, and anger flickered in her eyes.

  “How fortunate for me that we are reunited, Adam. How did I possibly manage to look out for my own witless self all these years we were apart?”

  Do not find sarcasm an attractive trait in women. What man does? Still, I would have been most willing to continue our discussion had she seemed so inclined. But she turned her back to me again and busied herself squeezing paints onto a wooden palette. I left her to her work, and for aught I know she is still at it.

  Just heard the tread of her footsteps on the creaking stairs, then the squeak of her chamber door opening and closing. She has finally gone to bed, so I too shall retire, knowing she is safely tucked in. And as I do every night before I fall asleep, I shall imagine how the moonlight shines through the lace canopy above her bed, casting light and shadow upon her face and neck.

  JULIA’S NOTEBOOK

  Wednesday, 5 August

  Early this morning we buried the young Negro. Town officials would not permit him to be interred in the Plumford cemetery, so Adam asked his grandmother to give him a place in the Tuttle burying ground on the farm.

  That Elizabeth Tuttle would allow a stranger, and a black one at that, to be buried alongside her kin might be surprising to some, but not to me. During the three years I’d resided in Plumford as a child, I’d never seen her deny Adam anything. I’d thought him a most fortunate boy to have such a doting grandmother and took to think
ing of Mrs. Tuttle as my granny, too. Not that I would have presumed to address her as such, for we were not related. Nor had she ever shown the slightest fondness for me. Even so, in my heart she remains Granny Tuttle to this day. I suppose I still feel a strong connection to her because we both care so much for Adam.

  Adam, Henry Thoreau, Granny Tuttle, her ward Harriet, and I were the only graveside mourners. How sad to think that the deceased youth’s friends and loved ones do not even know what happened to him. After the simple wooden coffin was lowered in the ground, Granny read out some Bible verses, and Thoreau played a poignant tune on his flute.

  Adam and I stayed behind whilst the others went back to the farmhouse. We have been cool toward each other since Monday evening, but our warm feelings returned as we stood before his mother’s grave and held hands, just as we used to as children. I felt the connection between us once again, as strong as the links in a chain, yet as subtle as a current in the air. The marble marker we gazed upon, carved with an angel’s head and wings, was as white and shiny as I remembered it, thanks no doubt to Granny’s diligent scouring. I had memorized the inscription as a girl: “Sacred to the memory of Sarah, daughter of Elizabeth and Eli Tuttle and wife of Owen Walker. She was born November 18, 1799, and departed this life June 11, 1829.” Seventeen years ago. Adam had been but seven. Two years later, when I removed to Plumford from Boston, we became fast friends, and he would often take me here to admire the marker.

  “I have always imagined your mother to look exactly like that beautiful angel,” I told him.

  “She might well have,” he replied. “I remember her voice and laugh and even her touch, but her features have sadly faded from my memory.”

  “What a pity you have no likeness of her as I do of my own dear mother.”

  “My father had one, I am told. A portrait miniature painted on ivory. He always carried it on his person. Therefore it was lost with him at sea.”

  I imagine Owen Walker pressing Sarah’s image to his heart as his ship went down in the whaling grounds of the Pacific Ocean. His last thoughts must have been of her and his baby boy.