The Grave Digger

by Rebecca Bischoff

  Amberjack Publishing

  1472 E. Iron Eagle Drive

  Eagle, ID 83616

  http://amberjackpublishing.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, fictitious places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Bischoff

  Printed in the United States of America. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, in part or in whole, in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Bischoff, Rebecca, author. | Tambellini, Stefano, illustrator.

  Title: The grave digger / Rebecca Bischoff.

  Description: Idaho : Amberjack Publishing, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019017846 (print) | LCCN 2019020960 (ebook) | ISBN 9781948705530 (ebook) | ISBN 9781948705523 (hardback)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Grave robbing--Fiction. | Dead--Fiction. | Medical care--History--19th century--Fiction. | Race relations--Fiction. | Family life--Ohio--Fiction. | Ohio--History--19th century--Fiction. | Horror stories. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Mysteries & Detective Stories. | JUVENILE FICTION / Horror & Ghost Stories.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.B5463 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.B5463 Gr 2019 (print) | DDC [Fic]--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019017846

  ISBN: 978-1-948705-52-3

  E-ISBN: 978-1-948705-53-0

  For my mother, Evelyn Israel,

  who taught me to love books.

  ONE

  NOVEMBER 1875

  CIRCLEVILLE, OHIO

  RAISING THE DEAD was hard work.

  Cap had been warned of it. He thought he was ready. He’d expected back-breaking, soul-wearying, and bone-chilling drudgery, but not this. Here he was, underground, surrounded by dark and dirt while a corpse lay inches away. His hands ached with a fierce cold and his body trembled so that he could hardly control his limbs.

  Hard work didn’t begin to describe it.

  “Hurry, boy,” hissed an ugly voice from the entrance of the black tunnel. Columbus Jones, or “Lum,” as he called himself. Cap’s stomach clenched itself into a cold ball. The man must have poked his fat head into the hole, and his words stabbed through the darkness.

  “He’s taking too long,” Lum said. “The trumpets’ll sound and the dead will all awake afore that boy finishes his job.”

  A moment later, the distinctive voice of Cap’s father, Noah, murmured in response.

  “He’ll do it,” Father said. “You’ll see.”

  But worry and doubt colored the man’s words like a tune played on the wrong piano keys. That, more than anything, spurred the boy onward.

  He reached out and felt the cool, splintery wood with trembling fingers, found the head of a nail and pried it loose with his hammer. Despite the chill, a drop of sweat rolled down the side of his forehead as he tore away more nails one by one. And the easy part was done.

  Cap removed the head of the coffin and slid it behind him. Then, he seized the thick rope he’d dragged along. Now came the real test. He stretched trembling fingers in front of him. After an eternal moment, his fingertips touched a head of springy hair.

  “Mother of God!” he blurted as he wrenched his hand away. The cold ham he’d had for supper began to squeal and work its way back out of his belly. Cap scrabbled backward.

  I can’t do it, he thought, shaking his head. No sirree!

  “Cap?” Father called. “Ready, son?”

  The man’s voice was strained. Father needed him.

  Fighting the violent tremors that shook him all over, Cap brought the rope forward. He worked it around the head and shoulders of the unresisting body and then moved it under the arms. The flesh of the corpse was soft, its limbs easy to shift. For all he knew, this person could simply be asleep. Thick braids tangled in the boy’s fingers.

  It was a woman. Cap couldn’t help picturing his mother, home in bed and sick with fever. Mamma was swollen with another child who would probably be born too soon, like the others. And she plaited her hair when she went to bed.

  “We need the money,” Cap whispered. Over and over, he repeated the words. Mamma wasn’t well. They did indeed need all the coin they could get.

  With renewed strength, Cap knotted the rope and gave the signal, a sharp whistle. Grunting softly, the men outside the tunnel pulled on their end of the rope. Inch by inch, the woman slipped out of her eternal rest, eased through the tunnel, and finally emerged above ground.

  Scrambling out after her, Cap stood and stretched stiff legs, gulping crisp air that smelled of rotting leaves. He gazed up at a patch of stars that sparkled through a tiny gap in the clouds. The pinpoints of light, like a scattering of diamond dust in the sky, made a comforting sight.

  “Help us, boy!” Lum hissed. “Don’t stand there lollygagging up at them stars. This job ain’t over, yet!”

  Blinking, Cap stumbled over to assist his father and Lum as they lifted the slight form into the back of the waiting wagon. Lum’s shuttered lantern was open only a fraction of an inch. It gave a thin beam of golden light that barely pierced the ocean of black ink around them.

  “What did I tell you?” Father said. Then, the man’s hand fell upon his son’s shoulder, and the surrounding darkness seemed lighter.

  “I’ll allow you that, Noah,” Lum admitted, chuckling. He slapped Cap on the back so hard the boy stumbled. “Didn’t think your boy had the grit.”

  “Cap may be knee high to a milk stool, but he’s as full of grit as any boy twice his size,” Father said, his words now certain. “And he’s near to reaching his thirteenth year. He’ll be a man, soon.”

  At those words, Cap unconsciously stretched himself, trying to look taller.

  The men began to scrape dirt back into the tunnel. “Back to work, boy!” Lum barked. “You’ll make a poor fist of this business with your lazy-dog ways.”

  With fingers aching from the cold, Cap seized another shovel and began to heave clods of earth into the hole, while his thoughts roiled in his head. Father had warned him to obey Lum’s orders and keep his trap shut, but words sprouted from the boy’s lips before he could stop them.

  “This tunnel was a fool idea!” he blurted, shoveling dirt as fast as he could into the hole. “It’ll take us an hour to fill it in. We should’ve just dug through the dirt right above the grave. It’s still soft from when they made the hole this morning.”

  “All right, then, you smart-mouthed little cur,” Lum hissed. He grabbed Cap’s arm and steered him back to the wagon. “If you don’t like your job, you take the clothes off! We gotta leave them or we’re stealing, remember?”

  Father hurried over. “I’ll do that,” he said. “My boy will finish filling the tunnel.”

  With a wheezing chuckle, Lum dropped Cap’s arm and the boy returned to his shovel, his shoulders sagging with relief. He’d forgotten one detail: The law said it was illegal to steal from the dead. You couldn’t take jewelry or anything buried with them, including their clothing. The law said nothing about stealing the dead themselves. They weren’t anybody’s property.

  “Who’s there?” a man shouted. The sudden sound pierced the cold night air.

  Cap dropped his shovel and whirled. Light glowed in the distance, and the cemetery gate clanged open.

  “Run, boy!” Lum said. “Your pa and I’
ll take care of the goods. You scat; you’ll slow us down.”

  Without hesitation, Cap darted into the trees at the far edge of Forest Cemetery and flew across fields lying bleak in the cold November air. Shouts grew fainter by the moment. His breath came out in harsh gasps and his chest and legs ached something fierce. Still he ran, stumbling over frozen furrows and clattering across the wooden footbridge that crossed the stream and led to his streets.

  Finally, the welcoming shape of his home loomed ahead. Cap squeezed through the gap in the fence. With a heart clattering like horses’ hooves on a cobbled street, he hurried to the old willow tree. The hanging branches, bare and brittle, parted with thin whispers as he slithered through them. Reaching the well-hidden door that led to his workshop, he slipped inside.

  Cap plopped down onto the stool beside his worktable and struggled to breathe. Then he dropped his head onto his folded arms, near to worn out.

  If his work ended up like this, night after night, raising the dead was going to kill him.

  TWO

  “WAKE UP, CAP,” Mamma said.

  The boy bolted upright, squinting in the morning light. He’d spent the night hunched over his worktable. He glanced at his mother, half-expecting her to be livid or frantic; but Mamma was smiling.

  “I almost regret letting Noah build this shop for you,” she said. She placed a plate of fluffy biscuits spread with strawberry jam on the table at Cap’s elbow. “It’s bad enough you spend every waking minute here. Now I even find you curled up to sleep beside your precious tools!” Mamma chuckled and ruffled Cap’s honey-colored hair. His mother’s words, spoken in her refined English accent, were gentle. Cap breathed out a sigh of relief.

  “Why, Cap, is that your warming box?” she asked, pointing to a wooden box in the corner.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He’d built it recently as a home for newly hatched chicks. A thin sheet of metal served as the base, and below that was a space to hold hot-water bottles to heat the base and warm the inside of the box.

  “What a clever idea,” Mamma said. “That should save some of our chickens come spring.”

  She rubbed her ever-growing belly, while her breath puffed out into the cold air of the workshop in tiny white clouds. Mamma’s usually rosy face was nearly light as cream, while bluish-gray smudges were apparent under her eyes.

  “Are you well, Mamma?” Cap asked.

  “Well enough, thank you. A bit more tired than usual, but Dr. Ivins will be by this morning. Oh, I do hope Noah was able to…” her voice trailed off.

  Able to scrape together enough money to pay the doctor. Cap spoke in his head the words Mamma didn’t say aloud. But where was Father? Had he and Lum gotten caught?

  “Bring your plate to the kitchen when you’re done,” Mamma said, moving to the door. “And wash up before you head to school. You look like you rolled in a pigsty last night.”

  With a start, Cap began to slap at the dried dirt that coated his jacket and trousers. Father would whip him but good if he ever let slip the truth of what the men of the family had started to do on dark nights.

  Cleaning accomplished, Cap tucked into his hot biscuits. He licked melted butter and sweet jam off his thumb and scolded himself for falling asleep at his worktable. Finishing quickly, he rose and headed to the washroom to scrub his face and hands.

  Somewhat cleaner in appearance, he hurried downstairs. Mrs. Hardy, their elderly housekeeper, plucked the plate from his hands and shooed him toward the front door.

  “March, young man,” she said. But suddenly, she grabbed his shoulders while her narrowed green eyes traveled over Cap’s rumpled clothing.

  “Look at the state o‘ you,” the gray-haired woman said, clucking her tongue. The creases about the woman’s eyes crinkled even more deeply. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you spent the night sleeping in the dirt.” Mrs. Hardy’s Irish brogue colored her words more than usual whenever she scolded him.

  Cap stifled a laugh, but then grimaced as Mrs. Hardy began to brush the dirt from his jacket with strength surprising for a woman her age.

  “What would Mina say if she saw you like this? Your mother raised you better, Cap.” Finished with her cleaning, the housekeeper took the boy once more by the shoulders. “So did I,” she added. Her eyes twinkled. “Now go,” Mrs. Hardy said, opening the door wide and pushing him gently through. “Godspeed. Don’t be late.” She tweaked one of his ears, as she did each morning, turned in a whirl of blue gingham, and closed the door behind her with a solid thud.

  Hunched against the cold, Cap plodded across his front yard to the gate. He arrived just in time to open it for the woman who stood on the other side, bundled in a thick coat and carrying a heavy basket. It was Jardine Cole, Dr. Ivins’s brown-skinned assistant, who sometimes came along to help tend the patients. Lately, she’d begun to come here on her own, leaving something for Mamma each time she did: small packets of herbs or cakes dotted with raisins. In return, she often borrowed one of Mamma’s many books.

  “Good morning,” she said. Her large brown eyes, ringed with long lashes, were friendly.

  Cap nodded a greeting, while out on the street, Dr. Ivins was climbing down from his carriage. The tall man smoothed his chestnut-brown hair that was tied back with a ribbon at the nape of his neck. He straightened his vest and brushed at a speck on his crumpled coat.

  “Hello, Cap,” he said with a weary smile. “How is our bright young inventor this morning? Anything new?”

  Scuffing his boot in the dirt, Cap grinned and explained his warming box project.

  “That sounds promising,” Dr. Ivins said, making Cap beam. “And how is your mamma this morning?” The man was usually clean shaven, but today a scattering of dark whiskers on his cheeks made his already pale complexion seem even lighter.

  “Well enough, sir,” Cap said. As the doctor approached the gate, the man stifled a yawn.

  “Our poor doctor can hardly leave the hospital,” Jardine told Cap. “I believe he’s slept there for days.”

  “One must do what one must do,” Dr. Ivins said, covering another yawn. “Many people are getting sick. Two died this morning.”

  “Died?” Cap blurted. Dr. Ivins nodded solemnly. A jolt of fear hit Cap in the stomach. Why, he’d be right back at the cemetery before two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

  “That’s too bad,” he managed to say, closing the latch behind him. Before he took another step, a plump woman wrapped in a threadbare shawl hurried from a house down the street, calling and waving. She reached them and handed a basket full of eggs to Dr. Ivins, practically shoving them into his arms.

  “For curing my wee Lisbeth,” she said. The tiny woman stretched up on her toes to plant a kiss on the doctor’s cheek before scurrying back to her house.

  Jardine chuckled as the doctor turned pink as a summer rose. “Why, that’s real nice,” she said with a dimpled smile.

  Dr. Ivins cleared his throat but said nothing.

  “Well, I’d best hurry. The school bell’s about to ring,” Cap said.

  Jardine and Dr. Ivins waved to him and turned toward the house, while Cap trotted down the street.

  A small knot of boys from his neighborhood were at the end of the block. A ginger-haired boy with a face like a speckled hen’s egg caught Cap’s eye. He turned and said something to the others, and they burst into laughter. Then, they broke into a run, turned the corner, and disappeared.

  Wonder what those fellows would say if they knew what I got myself up to last night? Cap thought.

  A broad smile sprouted on his face. Then just as quickly, it wilted like a dying flower and faded away. They’d almost been caught. What would have happened if they had been?

  THREE

  BREAKING INTO A trot, Cap made it to school just as Master Rankin rang the bell a final time. Everyone else was already seated in his classroom. All eyes turned to him as he entered. Scowling, he hurried to his desk.

  “How grand of yo
u to join us,” Master Rankin told him with a wintry smile.

  Cap’s face burned.

  The boy spent the morning fighting to stay awake but often lost the battle. When Master Rankin rang the bell for the midday break, Cap yawned and wearily rose from his seat.

  “You look mighty tired,” a girl said. Cap glanced up at a pair of sparkling black eyes. They belonged to Jessamyn, the girl who sat in front of him. Every so often, he was tempted to reach out and tug the thick braid that always hung down her back. Gently, of course.

  He froze. Jessamyn hardly ever spoke to him, or to anyone else, for that matter. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. The girl’s eyes weren’t black like he’d first thought. They were a deep brown, the color of chestnuts in the fall.

  Jessamyn smiled. “Oh, I don’t mean to tease,” she said. “I only wanted to let you know that your slate pencil rolled under my desk. Here it is.” She held it out.

  Their fingers brushed when Cap took the pencil, and a warmth spread through him.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  The girl smiled again, and a flush brightened her fair golden skin. She reached beneath her chair for her lunch pail and turned away. Cap followed her with his eyes as she went to join the small group gathering near the oil stove.

  “Ain’t you never seen a girl before?” someone said. Cap scowled up at the talker. It was Eli, the red-headed boy who’d said something to make the other boys laugh at him earlier that morning.

  “’Course I have,” he said. He hurriedly lifted the top of his desk to stuff his slate and pencil inside. He let the lid of the desk slam into place with a loud clatter.

  “Must you be so rough with the school’s property, Mr. Cooper?” Master Rankin said as he approached. He paused and dropped a folded newspaper on one of the desks. Then, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his nose.

  Eli leaned close to Cap and whispered: “I know why you like her.”

  Cap squinted at him. “What the devil do you mean by that?”