The Grave Digger

by Rebecca Bischoff

  “Are you still going to be a doctor?” Cap asked her.

  Delphia regarded him for a long moment with a serious expression. “You try and stop me,” she finally said. Her lips twitched, and she rewarded the boy with the tiniest of smiles.

  With that, she turned and swept past Father and down the stairs. With a nod to the two, Jardine followed her daughter.

  Father cleared his throat. “Son?” he said, placing an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

  “Yes?” Cap answered. Father’s expression was blank. Rain spattered and wind howled around the eaves. Finally, Father’s mouth started to work. His lips trembled.

  “Don’t let Mrs. Hardy know you were out socializing with the ladies wearing naught but your night shirt.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  FEBRUARY 19, 1876

  CAP WOKE UP early for a Saturday. He pulled on his clothes and hurried to his workshop to finish the new warming box he was making for Sally Taylor’s chickens. The woman was busy building up her egg business and offered to pay him after she heard about the first box he’d made. Jessamyn and Tillie now boarded with their newly discovered relative. Tillie took in sewing and helped Sally. Jessamyn seemed much happier than she’d ever been at the orphanage.

  She was still speaking to Cap.

  Father knocked on the door frame as he entered. “Thought I’d see what our inventor was up to,” he said. He pulled at the torn sheet covering a bulky object on the table. “Are you ever going to show me what this is, or must I come in on the sly?”

  Smiling, Cap said: “I suppose you can see it now.” He whisked the sheet away. “We can test it outside when the weather is warm.”

  “What’s it for?” Father asked, touching the circular cast iron object. “Why are those wires wrapped about that contraption at the top?”

  “The wire becomes the trigger,” Cap explained. Father jerked his hand back like the metal was hot as a poker taken from the fire. “Oh, there’s no gunpowder inside, yet. You only add that after you bury this above the coffin.” Swiftly, Cap explained his invention. “I call it a ‘grave torpedo.’”

  “A torpedo?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cap said, flushing. “You see, when someone tries to dig up the grave, he’s blown into the next county.”

  “After all that ruckus about folks not wanting the bodies of their loved ones taken away, who’d want to use this to blow them up?” Father asked with a grimace.

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Cap said. “You bury this a few feet above the coffin. The explosion is for the snatchers. The body stays safe. Least, that’s my idea.”

  “Ah,” Father breathed. A slow smile spread across his face. “So much for the family business, eh?” The man chuckled. “Of course, we gave that up a few months ago, didn’t we?”

  Cap nodded. “I thought we might make us a new family business, selling this invention if it works. I hear they can use them anywhere near a medical college.”

  Father put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You’ve always had a quick mind, Cap. I’m proud of you. And, by the way, a fellow at work asked me about buying one of your warming boxes. I suppose your tinkering has its uses.”

  Cap ducked his head and smiled.

  “You hear about Sister Mariah?” Father asked suddenly.

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said. He returned to his worktable. “I read the papers.”

  Father cleared his throat. “I’m not surprised she was found innocent. She’s a nun who runs an orphanage, after all. Besides that, it was those doctors who killed their patients to have more bodies. And even though Dr. Ivins died after she hit him with that bedpan, she only struck him to save you. If he’d been well, that probably wouldn’t have done him in, but he was weak from losing blood.” Father glanced at Cap as he spoke the last few words.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, the boy relived the moment he’d kicked the doctor, sending him crashing onto the table covered with sharp instruments.

  “It wasn’t your fault, son,” Father swiftly said, putting his hand on Cap’s shoulder. “You did what you had to do to escape. And I’m glad you did.”

  Taking a deep breath, Cap spoke. “Is Sister Mariah back in town?”

  “Yes. In fact, she called on us yesterday while you were at school,” Father replied. “To see Mina and say she was sorry for her hand in our family’s troubles.”

  “What did Mamma say to her?” Cap asked, blinking.

  Father traced a pattern in the frost on one of the window panes. “She invited Mariah to her next literary meeting.”

  The old clock in the corner ticked slowly.

  “Well,” Cap finally said. “I reckon she needs more ladies. Lots of the ones who used to come don’t anymore.”

  Rustling filled the hallway, and Mrs. Hardy burst into the tiny room.

  “The baby’s coming,” she said breathlessly, giving the two a stern look. “You two stay away.”

  Father stood and then sat again, looking wildly about the shop as though he might find something useful to do.

  “Shall I fetch Jardine?” Cap asked, bolting to his feet.

  “She’s already here,” Mrs. Hardy said over her shoulder as she hurried back to Mamma’s room. “She stopped in to bring herbs for Mina.”

  The long day crawled by. Cap and Father remained mostly in the shop, where the boy tinkered feverishly and Father paced and bit his nails. Neither could eat. At seven o’clock, the two turned as footsteps approached the door.

  “The baby’s arrived,” Mrs. Hardy said when she appeared. Her face drooped with fatigue.

  “Mina?” Father asked, bolting to his feet.

  “She’s well,” Mrs. Hardy answered, “but the baby…” Her voice broke.

  Cap leapt to his feet and bolted down the hall, brushing past Mrs. Hardy.

  No! It isn’t fair!

  The words tore through his brain, flowed in his veins, and pulsed through his heart. Cap burst into his mother’s room.

  Mamma lay in her bed with the covers pulled up to her chin. Her sweat-soaked hair was plastered to her skull. Her eyes were closed. Jardine bathed her face with a cloth and whispered softly to her as she did so. Tears slid down Mamma’s cheeks.

  Jardine looked up.

  “Where?” he breathed.

  “She’s in the kitchen,” the woman whispered.

  The baby was lying in a basket on the table, naked atop a towel. Her skin was mottled red and white. Her eyes were closed in her tiny, round face. A thatch of hair, dark as Father’s, swirled atop her head. Cap reached out to touch it. It was impossibly soft, like strands of corn silk.

  He picked her up. She weighed more than Jardine’s baby boy, but not by much. Tears pooled in Cap’s eyes. Nearby was the basin Mrs. Hardy had prepared to bathe the baby. The heated water sent tendrils of steam into the air.

  Please, God, this isn’t fair, none of this. If you didn’t give me a gift that would bring her back, why can’t you at least tell me what to do? he prayed.

  She’s cold. The thought came gently to Cap, floating inside his head.

  Cap moved swiftly. He placed the baby in the warm water and rubbed her tiny limbs, her stomach, her back. He trickled water over her head, washed her face clean with gentle fingers; her nose, her mouth.

  “Boy, what on earth are you doing?” Jardine asked. She dropped her basket of soiled linens and hurried to his side.

  Cap lifted his sister from the water. He placed the dripping baby onto the towel and swaddled her within its soft folds.

  “She’s cold,” he said. “She has to get warm.” As he spoke, his foot bumped against the very first warming box he’d fashioned for new chicks. It was still where he’d left it, shoved under the table, ready for its spring occupants. His heart leapt as an idea came to him. The chicks would have to wait.

  Kneeling, Cap laid his sister inside the box and covered her with another towel. He hurriedly filled one of the thick rubber bottles with steam
ing water from the basin and placed it into the space below the main chamber. The metal base of the box heated up quickly. Cap added one more bottle for good measure, tucking it this time right beside the tiny infant. He ignored Jardine’s fretful sounds as she watched him.

  “Child,” Jardine said. She knelt beside him. “I understand. I truly do. Let her go.”

  Cap squeezed his eyes shut and placed his hand upon his sister’s tiny head.

  Please.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw something he didn’t quite understand. Two tiny spots of pink dotted the baby’s cheeks. He stroked her soft skin with a trembling finger. The sensation of warmth startled him.

  He gasped.

  “What is it?” Jardine asked. She leaned down and peered into the box.

  The baby’s eyelids fluttered. It was a slight movement, no greater than the beating of a moth’s wings; the merest flicker.

  And then she opened her eyes.

  July 11, 1876

  An advertisement appeared in the pages of the Columbus

  Gazette, the Philadelphia Herald, and the New York Times:

  Cooper & Son present their invention: The Grave Torpedo. Worried that grave ghouls might disturb the peaceful rest of your dearly departed? Sow this handy gadget above the final resting place and have no fear of robbers!

  “Sleep well, sweet angel; let no fears of ghouls disturb thy rest. Above thy shrouded form lies a torpedo, ready to make minced meat of anyone who attempts to convey you to the pickling vats.”

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Dear Reader,

  In 1875, Cap’s world was one of complicated social issues, much like our time. But many things were very different. People of African descent were frequently described as “colored.” This word can be found often in Ohio newspaper articles from Cap’s day, and I used it in order to remain true to the time period. Some other issues include the fact that people of color could not vote, and in some states, children of different races did not attend school together. American women (of all races) did not have the right to vote until 1920, and it was very unusual for any woman to consider attending medical school. Many people had fewer rights and opportunities during Cap’s time, compared to what we’re used to in our modern world.

  Finally, body snatching really happened in the United States, even into the early part of the twentieth century. After passing laws to make it easier for schools to obtain cadavers legally (they were allowed unclaimed bodies and those of executed criminals), along with advances in refrigeration, body snatching thankfully became a thing of the past. But it was a real issue in Cap’s time. Newspapers often advertised items such as “snatcher proof” cast-iron coffins and even grave torpedoes designed to foil unsuspecting robbers. In fact, an 1879 newspaper advertisement for a grave torpedo invented by Circleville resident Thomas N. Howell contains the very lines that begin with: “sleep well, sweet angel, let no fear of ghouls disturb thy rest…” which I used at the end of the story.

  During this time period, inventors like Cap kept busy coming up with ideas for new products they thought would be useful. Some inventions, like incubators such as Cap’s “warming box,” became commonplace. Others, such as grave torpedoes, remain odd reminders of a very different time.

  Rebecca Bischoff

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’ll never forget the experience I had at a writing conference several years ago. Every participant was given the same picture—the painting of a young fairy. We were all given time to come up with a story idea. For whatever reason, a scene popped into my head that seemed to have nothing to do with the picture. In my mind’s eye, I saw a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, digging up a grave (I wasn’t even sure why). I clearly saw the boy’s shocked expression when he uncovered the face of someone he recognized. I don’t know how the image of a fairy sparked such an odd idea, but The Grave Digger came into being after that conference.

  Every book is, of course, a group effort, and this story would not be the same without the support of many people. A number of friends, some who are members of my writing group, have given good advice. These include Spring Paul, Amber Buckley, Kristina Ursenbach, Gaby Thomason, and Lars Christiansen. I’m grateful to all of you for listening to my ideas. I’m especially grateful to those who took the time to read through various versions of my story and shared invaluable suggestions and feedback.

  The team at Amberjack Publishing has been wonderful to work with. Rayne Stone was a patient and very perceptive editor. Tambe provided artwork with a wonderfully spooky feel. I was thrilled to know there were others who cared as much about my story and characters as I did. I’ll always be grateful to everyone who helped create this book.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Rebecca Bischoff lives in Southern Idaho with her family. Her debut novel, The French Impressionist, was published in 2016. It received an Idaho Author Award in the Young Adult category.

  Rebecca loves to read everything from mysteries to paranormal to historical novels. She has a special place in her heart for stories that are a little creepy, and is fascinated by real events from history that are less well-known (and a little on the dark side). Visit her website at www.rebeccabischoffbooks.com.

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  Tambe is a children’s books illustrator from Italy.

  He loves to work with pen and ink on atmospheric tales of mystery and monsters, but also to spend hours in old bookshops and creepy woods. He works under the close supervision of his cat, who sometimes also takes care of replying to emails.

  He recently illustrated a series of short stories by Terry Deary published by Bloomsbury UK.