Thoreau at Devil's Perch (15 page)

“Don't listen to Badger. He lies,” I shouted. “I was present when Trump was captured, and I heard no such confession from him.”

Badger's face swelled with rage. His eyes bulged like those of one suffering from the goiter as he glared at me. “You durst call me a liar?”

“Yes, and I know you to be far worse than that.” How tempted I was to proclaim him and his captain the vile murderers of Trump's defenseless family. But I cautioned myself, as I had cautioned Trump, to keep silent about it until after he is tried for Peck's murder.

“Stand up so I can knock you down, you son of a bitch,” Badger told me.

I complied immediately for I was eager to fight him. In fact, my loathing for him aroused in me a great desire to do him grievous harm. I have never experienced such aggressive feelings as that toward another human being before. But at that moment I did not see Badger as human. He had lost all claim of humanity when he shot four innocent people for gold. I made my hands into fists and braced myself for his attack, eager to strike him back. He did not put up his own fists, however. Instead, he pulled his terrible knife from his boot and made his way toward me.

In the next instant more than a dozen men rose up to block Badger's path. He was shoved back from me by many hands and thrown against the wall with such force that he crashed to the floor.

Proprietor Ruggles came from behind the bar and put himself in front of Badger, no doubt one of his best customers. “That's enough, boys,” he said, looking around him. “No need to dissuade the sergeant further. I expect he must have drunk a mite too much antifogmatic.”

His use of the old humorous name for rum brought a few tight-lipped smiles and broke the tension. Men stepped back, and Ruggles turned his attention to Badger.

“You should have kept your knife in your boot, Rufus,” he said, standing over him. “Dr. Walker is a local lad, and we will not tolerate mortal injury to him. Nor to any other unarmed Plumford citizen for that matter.”

“What about Captain Peck?” Badger said, staggering to his feet. “He was a Plumford citizen, and neither should
his
mortal injuries be tolerated! Who here is willing to join me in hanging the no-good Injun who murdered him?”

No one spoke up but Ruggles. “The courts will take care of that Injun,” he said. “He will be legally hanged for the captain's murder soon enough.” A murmur of agreement followed.

“Or set free by the trickery of some fast-talking lawyer!” Badger yelled. “I ain't going to chance letting that happen.” He looked around him and sneered. “You're all a bunch of milksops. I reckon I will have to find myself better men to do what needs to be done.” With that, he picked up his knife from the floor and stumbled out of the tavern.

Left shortly thereafter myself, after treating the men who had prevented Badger from slashing me to ribbons to a free round of drinks. The effects of my own drinking have long worn off, but my concerns over Trump's safety have intensified. Although Badger could not rile up a lynching party at the tavern tonight, he may have better luck another night. Or at another place. He is most determined to get Trump hanged before he goes to trial. Why? Does he fear that a good defense lawyer would investigate other suspects and their alibis? Could it be that Badger's own alibi is a lie? He might well have killed Peck himself. If anyone is capable of such butchery, it is Rufus Badger. God help me, I do believe he did it. And tomorrow I shall set out to prove it.

 

I
attended Capt. Peck's burial today. I had not planned to, but when the sexton began tolling the bell to summon mourners to the churchyard, I found myself donning my plainest bonnet and going forth. As I stepped out the door I saw the funeral procession pass by. 'Twas not a large one—just the coffin carriage draped in reams of black crepe and pulled by a black steed, followed by a file of six men on horseback, all wearing black armbands. Sgt. Badger was on the lead horse, and Lt. Finch rode behind him, trailed by four rather rough-looking riders in shabby military jackets and caps. Vail and his wife were not in attendance.

A good number of townsfolk waited in the churchyard, though, including craftsmen who had done work on Peck's house, the tavern keeper, Mr. Ruggles, and Mr. and Mrs. Daggett from the general store.

“Captain Peck will be missed here in town,” Mr. Daggett told me as we stood by the open grave. “He was very free and easy with his money.”

“And his morals,” Mrs. Daggett added.

“Do not speak ill of the dead,” Mr. Daggett reprimanded her. “Especially of one who died so terribly. I daresay the memory of Peck's butchered corpse will give me nightmares for the rest of my life.”

“Then we shall both suffer from lack of sleep,” Mrs. Daggett said. She turned to me. “When Justice Phyfe appointed my husband Town Coroner, we did not foresee that the position would put such a strain on his nerves. How could we? Murder was unheard of in Plumford until poor Mrs. Upson was killed by that horrible tramp. And now, less than a year later, yet another distressing murder to deal with. Leastways it has been good for business. Folks from all over the county been coming to the store to hear Mr. Daggett recount the details of Captain Peck's grave injuries.”

This did not surprise me. I own I importuned Adam and Henry for such details myself. Henry was far more forthcoming than Adam, who seems always to fear upsetting my delicate female sensibilities. Has he forgotten how staunchly I assisted him during Trump's operation? Apparently so.

“I do not see Dr. Walker in attendance,” Mrs. Daggett said, glancing around the churchyard.

“His leg still gives him difficulty getting about,” I replied.

“I was referring to the young doc, not the old one.”

“Adam had reason to go to Boston today.”

“Did he now?” Mrs. Daggett looked at me expectantly, awaiting further explanation.

She got none. Even if I knew why Adam had taken off so early for the city, I would not have told her. But of course I do not know. Adam tells me nothing anymore. We barely speak to each other. Indeed, we avoid being in the same room together.

Our relationship has suffered most grievously since we succumbed to that kiss. Before it, we were quite comfortable in each other's company, brushing shoulders, grazing hands, leaning into each other to look at a book. We were almost (but not quite) like the familiar chums we'd been as children. I suppose we were much too free and easy with each other in those days, but our affectionate canoodling was as innocent then as it is dangerous now.

Consequently, we must endeavor to avoid even the slightest physical contact. We did share a brief hug Sunday morn, however. And I would have stayed pressed against Adam's solid frame for much longer if Henry had not been present. Whenever Adam holds me I feel I
belong
in his arms. The awkward embraces and dry, whiskery kisses from other men have felt so alien by comparison. 'Tis no wonder I have directed my passion solely to my art. Until now. Now it is
mis
directed. As right as it feels to be intimate with Adam, it cannot be right if the result of our union would be so disastrous.

The men in the funeral procession dismounted and slid Peck's coffin off the hearse. The wake at the house must have been a spirituous one, for they all seemed rather drunk as they trudged to the grave site with their burden. The coffin tilted in a precarious manner, and I do not think I was the only one who watched with bated breath, half fearing, half hoping that Peck's mutilated body would tumble out for all to see. But the bearers made it to the grave without mishap and began wrapping ropes around the oaken coffin.

“Twice the expense of a pine coffin,” Mrs. Daggett remarked. “The cabinetmaker told me that when Sergeant Badger commissioned it, he could barely speak, he was so distraught. But he made clear that he wanted nothing but the best, sparing no cost. Just look how he suffers the loss of his friend and employer, Miss Bell. Is it not touching?”

I made no reply, having no sympathy for the man who had attempted to rape young Harriet. Copious tears ran down Badger's hateful, drink-flushed face as his fellow pallbearers regarded him with pity.

“They all served under Peck at one time or another,” Mr. Daggett informed me. “Badger rounded them up to come help him bury their captain.”

“Touching,” Mrs. Daggett said again.

Most unexpectedly, the Rev. Mr. Upson came forward to conduct the burial service. “Pastor Jenkins has had a severe flare-up of gout and has asked me to take his place today,” he explained.

I could not help but note how distinguished Mr. Upson looked in his dark minister's garb, the sun glinting off his spectacles and lighting up his blond hair. He balanced an open Bible in his palms, his long, white fingers gracefully splayed against the black covers. His pale eyes searched the crowd and rested a moment on me. I nodded, and he smiled back at me, ever so slightly, before he began to speak.

I did not care for his sermon, which was all about corruption and depravity, man's deceitful heart and wicked ways. I glanced around me. Most of those in attendance did not seem to be paying much mind to Mr. Upson's harsh words. But when he began reciting Scripture regarding an eye for eye, a tooth for tooth, a wound for wound, etcetera, Badger and his cronies snapped to attention and loudly voiced approval of such retribution.

After they then lowered the coffin into the grave, I went to the area of the churchyard where my mother and most of my Walker kin are buried. I know not where my father will be buried when his time comes, but I am sure it will be far, far away from here. I suppose a great distance separated my parents even when Mama was alive. Except for me, they had little in common.

As I stood at my mother's headstone, I recalled how she always told me she could not tolerate city life because of her delicate disposition. But I think now it might have been Papa's turbulent temperament she could not tolerate. That he seldom left his Boston studio to come visit us when we removed to Plumford seemed to bother her not at all. But then, Mama never complained. Hence, I never realized how very ill she really was until the day she died. And the shock of it near killed me off too. If not for Adam, I might well have followed her to the grave.

My wonderful, darling comrade! I confess thoughts of Adam as a boy, rather than thoughts my beloved mother, filled my mind as I stood there in the sunny churchyard and a light breeze tickled my neck. Adam used to tickle it with a piece of straw and make me shiver. He used to make me laugh in so many ways. I eventually recovered from the loss of my mother and found much happiness in Plumford, living with my grandparents in their fine old house on the Green and seeing my beloved cousin each and every day. I wonder even now what made my father decide to take me off to Europe with him. I suppose he was merely laying claim to what was rightfully his.

But I did not see it that way. I loved my cousin far more than I could ever love my aloof father. And Adam loved
me
more than his happy life on Tuttle Farm. The night before Papa was to come and fetch me away our plans were set in motion. Adam came to the back of the house just past midnight and softly hooted like an owl. I slid out my chamber window and climbed down the trellis, already disguised as a boy in some of his old clothes, and off we went.

A pack of vicious dogs attacked us not four hours into our journey as we walked down the moonlit Post Road. We stood back-to-back and fought them off with our sharpened walking sticks, and then sat down in the road panting like dogs ourselves until we could go on. And on we did go, hand in hand, fully expecting more adventures with wild Indians and grizzly bears and stampeding buffalo as we traveled farther and farther west. We did not get far enough to encounter any of them, but we did have a run-in with two farm boys whose intention it was to rob us of the few pennies we had. The fight that ensued proved a bloody one, especially for Adam, who did most of the punching and hence got punched back the most. But I managed to overcome “my delicate female sensibilities” enough to wallop one of the bullies, albeit the smaller one, right in the nose. So shocked was he by the gush of blood that resulted that he ran off. Meanwhile Adam kept thumping the bigger one until he turned tail too.

Later that day we hid in the woods. Lying together on a mossy bank, we slept as soundly as soldiers after a successful battle, Adam with his arm around me and me with my head on his chest. I knew then that I wanted to be with him forever, but what does an eleven-year-old girl know about forever? Our freedom together lasted but five days. Always heading west, using a compass Adam had gotten on his twelfth birthday, we went from Plumford to Concord, and then on to Sudbury, from there to Marlboro, and then almost to Worcester, traveling at night, hiding in barns during the day, drinking water from springs and eating our fill of field squash and tomatoes and as many walnuts and hickory nuts as we could find. We always slept twined together, breathing as one, our hearts beating in rhythm. How could such bliss possibly last?

Once we got far enough away from home we took to walking by day instead of night to make better time of it. 'Twas shortly after we stopped at a farm and did some chores for a hot meal and milk that we heard a wagon come up behind us on the road. Adam turned round and stopped in his tracks. I looked at his face and knew our goose was cooked. Sure enough, Granny and Grandpa Tuttle sat there in the wagon, staring at us. When Gran yanked me up hard to sit beside her, she gave my arm a real hard pinch for good measure.

Two days later it was good-bye Lewis, good-bye Clark. Neither Adam nor I shed a tear in parting. What was the use? We had done our best to stay together but all for naught. Soon we would be separated by a vast ocean.

Lost in this reverie as I regarded my mother's headstone, I did not hear Lyman Upson approach. His voice startled me back to the present.

“You must have found today's burial most distressing, Julia,” he said.

I do not recall giving Mr. Upson leave to call me by my first name but no matter. I told him that I had not known Capt. Peck well enough to grieve his loss, but of course I was sorry he had died so horribly.

“It is not his
demise
that I thought would distress you,” Mr. Upson said, “but his interment in the hallowed burying ground of your ancestors.”

“I am sure they shall pay him no mind,” I replied, perhaps too lightly.

“It is the living who should mind,” Upson said. “Peck has no right to be buried here. That he lies nearby my wife's grave offends me greatly.”

“If you feel so strongly about it, Mr. Upson, why did you agree to conduct Captain Peck's requiem service?”

“As a man of God I am obligated to do many things I find difficult,” he replied stiffly.

We did not have much more to say to one another after that. When I bid him Good Day he took my hand in parting and suggested most ardently that I call him Lyman. I agreed. How could I not? He seems to have so few friends in Plumford.