Two in the Field (43 page)

“I’ll keep that in mind.” At least it would warm me during the night.

Promising to return with plasters to apply externally, he remarked that emetics and herb enemas would also be helpful.

“No enemas,” I told him.

The next days passed in a feverish haze. Brother Ambrose bathed my face in the heat of the day, changed my dressings, adjusted my splints, brought food and made sure water was near at hand. I left my leafy concealment only at the urging of bladder or bowel.

“Aren’t you seen coming here?” I asked, when my head was clearer.

“You needn’t fear, Brother Will. I tarry at various places along this road, both to fish and to pray. Folks are used to seeing my wagon.”

That afternoon, while he roasted his latest catch of black bass, I said casually, “I heard people talking on the road, something about a balloon and a robbery.”

“We brothers rarely hear much of the world,” he said. “I don’t know of any robbery, but a balloon was found recently near the narrows, and a man is feared lost.” His tone was matter of fact, his attention on the fish.

A man
 … I wasn’t sure what to make of that. But the location
was excellent: it meant that the balloon had drifted all the way across to the interlake area between lakes Saratoga and Lonely, a densely forested area perfect for a man in hiding. No doubt every inch of it was being combed. Through blind luck I’d landed here, by a well-traveled road, where I’d least be expected.

The trouble was, sooner or later I had to come out.

Brother Ambrose carved a cane of hickory for me. As my vision and balance returned, and my leg ached less, I learned to hobble around with it. Missing human company, I took to climbing a low elevation and watching the daily flow of excursion steamers, private yachts and fishing boats. Nearby stood Snake Hill, on the southern edge of the lake, about a mile from the township of Stillwater. The Kayaderosseras Mountains loomed in distance, the Catskills beyond them. Each morning I watched eagles soar from the treetops. At night the lights of Saratoga Springs and outlying settlements glowed like jewels in the darkness and made the lake luminous.

I devoured the day-old newspapers Brother Ambrose brought, but got little satisfaction from them. National news was depressing: unsavory new scandals in the Grant administration; Reverend Beecher’s acrimonious adultery trial in Boston; Mrs. Lincoln’s bitter insanity trial in Chicago. Local items offered nothing on the Club House heist. Old Smoke must have squelched all news of it.

The big question remained unanswered: Had Slack gotten away with the money?

“Do you know the legend of Lovers’ Leap?” Brother Ambrose asked. “It happened right up there on Snake Hill.” The story went that during a war between the Iroquois Six Nations and
the Algonquins to the north, a young Algonquin warrior was captured by Mohawk tribesmen and condemned to die the following day by slow impalement. The Mohawk chieftain’s daughter brought him his last meal.

“Moved by his manly form and heroic bearing,” Brother Ambrose said in glowing Victorian style, “she resolved to save him or share his fate.”

Pocahontas Syndrome, I thought cynically, listening to him. Suckers for enemies in bondage. An occupational hazard for Native American princesses.

“Near dawn she stole in and cut the Algonquin’s bonds,” he went on, “but when they reached the lake’s edge, a whoop of alarm went up. Their canoe went shooting over the water, the Mohawks’ cries in their ears. They came ashore here to hide on Snake Hill, but the pursuers were too close. Atop the bluff, the young Algonquin, weak from his battle wounds, screamed his defiance. As the Mohawks notched their bows, the girl’s father gave the command to slay him.”

Brother Ambrose paused dramatically.

“And …?”

“The princess threw herself before him as a shield!” He said it as if this were a surprise twist. “Then, with the Mohawks closing around them, they locked their arms and threw themselves in a terrible fatal descent to the rocks below!

“A fine tragedy,” he finished contentedly. “Don’t you agree?”

I mostly thought it was maudlin and corny. Nonetheless, it stuck in my mind, and that night I imagined the heavy splash of the canoes’ paddles, the Algonquin’s defiant challenge, the girl’s pleadings. And found myself missing Cait more than ever. I cursed my helplessness and wondered if she thought I’d vanished again. How could she not? And this time with the colony’s money. I wondered how Andy and Tim were
doing. And I thought, too, about Hope and Susy. I missed them. I missed everybody. Had I made the mistake of a lifetime—hell, two lifetimes—in striving to come back here? We were each allotted only so much time. Far too much of mine had been spent alone.

“You’ve come to resemble us,” Brother Ambrose teased, indicating my bushy whiskers. “If you but manifested the slightest spiritual leanings, I’d recommend you for the Society.”

Suddenly I saw a way out of hiding. “Could you bring me a robe,” I said, “and a broad-brimmed hat like yours?”

He smiled. “You wish to judge your appearance before joining us?”

“I wish to travel,” I said. “How far to the Hudson?”

“Only some ten miles, but over rough hills.” He shook his head. “You’d have to sit in the wagon bed, I’m afraid. Your splinted leg would fit nowhere else.”

“I can stand it.”

“Brother Cecil wishes to obtain more of Dr. Graham’s Crackers,” he said. “And we require fish meal for fertilizer. If you wish, you could accompany us to Albany.”

We looked like an Amish visiting committee. The brothers manned the driver’s bench; I sat behind in the bed. Brother Cecil was a pale, lumpen individual who reeked of the cabbage soup he drank for “dyspepsia”—which I gathered meant ulcers—and said little the entire trip other than how much he wanted his Graham Crackers.

Brother Ambrose tried to handle the two-mule team carefully as we set out from Snake Hill, but the pounding of the thin-springed wagon bed sent fiery pangs through my leg. After traveling almost all day across rugged knolls, we arrived at Bemis
Heights, where the brothers arranged stable keep for the mules. From there a shuttle buggy carried passengers down the slope to a steamer dock on the broad river. Descending crazily in a series of bounces, I thought it might be my last ride.

Nobody paid particular attention to the three weird religious types buying tickets. Still, I breathed easier once we were aboard. A mirror in our room gave me the first view of myself since the Club House. I bore a passing resemblance to Haystack Calhoun, a wrestler from my youth, my hair a tangled mess, my beard ragged and overgrown. Next to me the brothers looked almost dapper.

Traffic on the Hudson thickened as we steamed downriver. At Albany we debarked and set about locating fish meal and Dr. Graham’s Crackers in bulk quantities. The brothers let me pay for it, the only compensation they would accept.

Back at the terminal I watched them walk up the gangway, robes swaying. Brother Ambrose stood waving from the stern until he was far distant. A true Good Samaritan.

Maintaining my Brother Will persona, I got my hair and beard trimmed, then took a room at Delavan House near the Albany train station. Being there again was a pointed reminder to stay alert. McDermott had once arranged my shooting outside the Delavan’s entrance.

I sent off two telegrams. While waiting for replies, I paid a visit to the Merchants Trust Bank on Pearl Street. Its exterior was elegantly fitted with polished wood and gleaming brass. Its interior was hushed, as befit a cathedral of finance. I thought that my robed and hirsute presence would strike a favorable chord there, but I was ignored until I announced that my society was looking to deposit its considerable funds. With comic alacrity I was referred to a paunchy junior officer whose collar
was so stiffly starched that I wondered it didn’t slice into his jowls.

“Yes … sir?” he began tentatively.

“Brother,” I corrected. “Brother Will.”

“And you represent …?”

“Society of the Willow Bark,” I said expansively. “You don’t know of us? Well, it happens we have petroleum lands and are thinking of diversifying our investments.”

He pulled out a gilt-edged prospectus that detailed the bank’s assets and virtues. It answered one of my questions immediately, for listed among the trustees was John M. Morrissey.

“Did you say willow bark?” he said.

“Yes, we drink it as tea. A wonderful tonic for the whole system. Care to order a few cases?”

“Um, perhaps at a later time. You mentioned petroleum—”

“Dr. Graham’s Crackers,” I said, “is another foodstuff we venerate. In fact, those two form the basis of our liturgy. Ha! But I’m not here to proselytize. How is Merchants Trust on western territories?”

He blinked several times. “How do you mean?”

“Well, we might wish to exchange our petroleum holdings for land where our group could resettle. We’ve had promising reports about the Nebraska and Dakota lands. Do you offer title deeds or stock certificates in communities there?”

He blinked faster and glanced toward the entrance. “Not any longer.”

Which answered my other question. They’d obviously taken heat for McDermott’s scam.