Thoreau at Devil's Perch (16 page)

Tuesday, August 18th

 

G
lad that Henry T. decided to accompany me to Boston today. His winning ways with the whores proved most helpful. But I get ahead of myself.

Before leaving Plumford I called on Justice Phyfe, interrupting him at his breakfast. Told him why I feared for Trump's safety. With a flick of his napkin, he waived off my concern.

“I have posted guards at the Powder House door,” he said, “to make sure the Indian stays in and others stay out.”

“Such callow youths as that would be no match against a raging lynch mob,” I said. “You must remove Trump to the secure jail in Concord.”

“I will do no such thing,” Phyfe said, at the end of his limited patience. “The Indian will remain imprisoned in Plumford under my jurisdiction. I shall assist the Attorney General when he arrives here to conduct his investigation.”

“So you are willing to risk Trump's life for the opportunity to rub elbows with some Boston bigwig?”

Phyfe got mad as a beaver and ordered me out. The only way left to put Trump out of danger was to prove that Badger himself was Peck's murderer.

Boarded the morning stage to Concord. Had for company two girls going to visit their aunt. They began talking about the savage up in the Powder House, looking into the trees as if a pack of red fiends were about to attack them. They worked themselves into such a lather that one started sobbing and the other looked as wild-eyed as a frightened calf till I took a hand of each in mine and calmed them down. It did make me think how fear can wrest away all reason. Poor Trump will have little chance of sitting before a jury of unbiased peers if they already think him less than human.

Arrived at the Concord station with time to spare before the Boston train was due so I headed for Walden Pond, less than two miles south. A narrow footpath led to the pond, and after passing a large bean field ruled over by a fat woodchuck, I saw Henry's hut in a stand of pitch pines and hickories overlooking the greenish-blue water.

The hut is most modest, about ten by fifteen feet, with a woodshed on one side. The door was wide open, and looking in I saw it was meagerly furnished with a cot, a humble desk and table, and three plain chairs. A rough-made brick fireplace occupied the far wall, and light from two large, open windows streamed in, making the bare floor planks glow. I could not imagine a more Spartan and uncluttered existence short of living directly under the trees and was not much surprised when a phoebe flitted through one window, flew across the room and out the other, as though this was part of its habitual route.

Walked down to the pond in search of Henry. The surrounding woodlands seemed as pristine as when they were the homeland of Algonquin Indians two centuries ago, but when I reached the water's edge I espied railroad tracks running atop the opposite sand bank. They were close enough for Henry's peace to be disturbed by the clattering of train cars and the shrill whistle of the locomotive. It appears that no one, not even Henry Thoreau, can escape the progress of our times.

Gave out a holler and received one back from Henry, but he was nowhere in sight. Proceeded along the shore till I found him. He was kneeling on a bit of sandy ground, and with the enthusiasm of a boy, he had me kneel down beside him to examine a nest of mud turtle eggs. A few of the tiny turtles had just hatched and struggled sluggishly amongst bits of eggshell. Henry sat back and told me that upon awakening this morning, he had determined he would look for turtle nests. He spotted them by the slightest wavering of the surface of the sand and, placing his ear to the ground, he had detected the minute crepitation made as they broke through their shells with their beaks. He might as well have discovered the very secret to eternal life, he looked so happy.

After he had gently spread the sand back over the tiny turtles we stood and gazed out at the calm, deep pond that Henry called his liquid joy and happiness. Sun and shadow played over his quiet face as he regarded the vitreous water.

“I think of this pond as the earth's eye,” he said. “It measures the depth of the beholder's own nature.”

“What measure would it take of men who killed an entire family for gold?” I said and went on to tell him Trump's history with Peck and Badger.

Henry listened intently without interruption, and when I was done speaking he stared at the pond without comment.

“Badger also murdered Peck,” I said after a moment.

Henry turned back at me. “Are you certain of this?”

“As certain as I can be without actual proof.”

“No way of thinking can be trusted without proof,” he gently chided me. “And it is hard to credit that Badger would murder his long-standing friend and benefactor.”

“Well, mark this,” I said. “There was recently a severe breach in their friendship. I learned of it when I had occasion to visit Peck the morning before he died. According to him, Badger left Plumford in a rage. I think he returned to kill Peck and scalped him to cast suspicions on Trump.”

Henry looked doubtful. “How would Badger know enough to incriminate Trump if he was not around to witness his run-in with Peck? He was in Boston, drinking the night away, was he not?”

“So he testified at any rate. I am going to Shark's Tavern to find out the truth of the matter.”

“When?”

I pulled out my watch. “Within the hour. This cannot wait. I must interview denizens of Shark's before they forget whether he was there or not there last Saturday night.”

“I doubt any of them will be disposed to talk to you, Adam.”

“Oh, I can be quite insistent when the need arises, I assure you.”

“Even so, I wager you will be dealing with some very rough characters if they are associates of Badger.”

“It is not very likely they are refined teetotalers,” I allowed.

“Then perhaps I should accompany you there.”

“Do you think we would stand a better chance of getting information if we walked into Shark's together?”

Henry nodded. “And a better chance of walking out unscathed,” he added. He gave his crystalline pond a longing glance and turned back to me. “Let us go catch the cars to Boston, my friend.”

I did not protest. In fact, I welcomed Henry's company and even paid for his ticket, for he had not a penny on his person. After we boarded the train and took our seats, I described to Henry the miserable conditions of Trump's imprisonment in the Powder House. I then told him about Badger's trying to stir up a lynch mob in the Sun Tavern last night.

“I am not surprised he failed,” Henry said. “For all their small-minded prejudices, the men of Plumford seem a nonviolent lot.”

“But what if Badger finds men of a more bellicose nature elsewhere? Such as acquaintances from his army days or ruffians he mixes with in Boston.”

“Yes, there are more than enough men ready to do outrage to their proper natures and lend themselves to perform brutal acts,” Henry said. “And even the crudest of men can command those who do not command themselves.”

“Then you share my apprehension that Badger is a danger to Trump?”

“I do, indeed, Adam. I also fear that Trump could be a danger to himself.”

Henry proceeded to tell me about a muskrat that a Concord trapper once caught in his trap. This muskrat had evidently been caught twice before, gnawing off a leg each time to escape. Upon this, his third capture, he gnawed off his third leg, and the trapper found him lying dead by the trap, for he could not run off on just one leg.

“Now if an animal would go to such extreme measures to be free, imagine what a human being might do. Especially a young, spirited Indian like Trump,” Henry said. “He might do grave harm to himself trying to escape the wretched trap they have put him in. How much better off he would be in the jail we have in Concord. I speak from experience when I say it is both clean and secure.”

“I proposed exactly that to Justice Phyfe earlier this morning,” I said. “But I utterly failed to convince him.”

“Perhaps he will listen to Concord's most illustrious man of letters,” Henry said. “I am not referring to myself, of course, but to my friend Ralph Waldo Emerson. I am also acquainted with eminent men in the law profession, namely Judge Hoar and his lawyer sons. I will attempt to recruit their aid as soon I return from Boston today. Trump must be removed from the Powder House without delay.”

I was greatly relieved that Henry not only appreciated the urgency of the situation, but had come up with a possible solution. I leaned back in my seat, grateful for an hour of enforced repose till we reached Boston. I had slept but little the night before, so disturbed was I by Trump's story of his family's massacre. As we swayed along Henry pointed to a pair of shepherds on a road that ran parallel to the railway tracks. They were driving sheep with their crooks toward Boston.

“Their pastoral way of life will be gone soon enough, whirled away by the churning engines that will transport animals and goods far and wide,” he said. “The railroad is not only changing the countryside but the very essence of the people who populate it. We do not ride the railroad, Adam. It rides upon us.”

And off he went on an extemporaneous discourse concerning the locomotive, referring to it as a mighty iron horse that breathed fire and smoke from its nostrils as it lurched through town and country, destroying both nature and livelihoods. As Henry railed against the rails my heavy eyelids closed, and I soon found myself lying in a clover pasture. Julia was lying beside me, as she had done many times when we were children. In those days we would stare up at the clouds, pointing out the fanciful images we saw in their billowy formations, but in my dream we were as we are now, fully grown and caressing most fervently. Henry's voice suddenly intruded upon our pleasure, and I tore my lips from Julia's to shout, “Go away, Henry!”

My own voice awakened me, and I opened my eyes. Henry was smiling at me. “I would be most happy to oblige you, Adam,” he said, “but we are traveling far too fast for me to leap from the car.”

“Pay me no mind. I was having a dream.”

“Apparently I was aggravating you mightily in it.”

“The dream had little to do with you, Henry, and much to do with Julia. She fills my mind both night and day,” I blurted out, still under the persuasive power of my reverie. “Yet as much as I long to be in her company, apparently she no longer wishes to be in mine.”

“Really? You seem to me to be a most compatible pair.”

“We used to be. We never clashed as children. We were as like as two peas in a pod in those days, a world unto ourselves. We planned a life of adventure together, intending to travel up the Missouri and across the Rockies just as Lewis and Clark had done twenty-five years before. We had read all about it in a book by Patrick Gass, who was a sergeant in the expedition.”

“Ah, yes. I know of that book,” Thoreau said. “I would like to peruse it myself, but copies are rather rare.”

“My grandfather has one,” I said. “When I was a boy he would not permit me to take it out of his study, and it is no doubt still there, on the very same shelf. I have not had the heart to look at it since . . .” I shrugged. “Well, since I grew up. As a boy, I was captivated by it though. Perhaps reading about such an adventure was a way for me to escape the pain of losing my mother. Then Julia came to Plumford. Her company was most pleasant, and she shared my enthusiasm for the book as none of my male friends had. We bonded over it, I suppose. We began writing our own expedition adventures, and she would draw illustrations more fantastical and vivid than the ones in Gass's book. She was a skillful artist even then, when she was no more than eight or nine.”

Henry nodded. “We all dream of going off on adventures when we are young. But so few of us do.”

“Well, Julia and I did. Her own mother died a few years after mine, and when we heard that her father intended to take her off to Europe, we took off for California instead.”

“Or so you imagined,” Henry said.

“No. We truly did. We lit out and got as far west as Worcester in just five days. I was but twelve and Julia eleven. That is pretty fair time for two youngsters to make, is it not? Especially since most of our walking was done at night to avoid being seen.”

I saw a rare expression upon Henry's countenance. He looked impressed. “What made you turn back?”

“
Nothing
would have made us turn back. But Gran and Grandpa Tuttle tracked us down, carted us back to Plumford, and before we could even catch our breath we were abruptly separated.”

“As though torn asunder by some jealous god?” Henry must have noted my blank look, for he went on to explain. “According to Aristophanes, we humans originally had four arms and legs and were so fleet and strong that Zeus became jealous and split us in half. Hence we cannot feel complete unless we find our other half again.”

“It is a most compelling fancy,” I said, recalling how Julia's little girl body twined into mine when we slept in haylofts or under the stars. Recalling too how her womanly body had melded so perfectly to mine when I pulled her into my lap and kissed her.

“It is more than a mere fancy,” Henry said in a low, confidential tone. “I know because I have indeed found my other half. She is of me and I of her. Verily, there is such harmony when her sphere meets mine that I cannot tell where I leave off and she begins.”

This surprised me, for Henry has always struck me as a man most content in his own company. I know little of his personal life, however. “Have you made plans to wed?” I made bold to ask him.