Sword Stone Table
Page 17
At approximately seven o’clock on the morning of June 2, the Stationmaster’s wife, Mrs. Jane Simpkins, in the act of bringing her husband his cup of tea, was startled to see this same baby swimming for the dock. “It was like a dream,” states Mrs. Simpkins. “A baby boy he was, in blue woollies, not above four weeks old, but swim he did, and quick!” Mrs. Simpkins dropped Mr. Simpkins’s tea and ran to meet the baby, gathering him into her apron and delivering him, with the utmost courage and haste, to the station.
The beneficent office of supplying the victim of the shipwreck with succor has been undertaken by the Women’s Relief Association of Cleveland. The unidentified infant passenger was provisioned at the new Coast Guard Station, Cleveland Harbor, Lake Erie. Thanks to the Association for diapers, woolens, baby bottles, and fostering. The baby is now in safe hands.
Malory was constructed in 1857 and is owned by the Pendragon Company of Cleveland. Of its declared cargo—$50,000 in Montana silver ore—no trace remains. Mr. Uther Pendragon, Chairman, maintains that the vessel was stolen, its infant cargo unknown to both himself and to his son, Mr. Arthur Pendragon, the company’s President.
22. A clipping from the Chicago Record, April 16, 1894
A March of Destitutes & Demons
FOURTH INSTALLMENT
Somewhere in Maryland. And so, the next morning, the assembled marched into the wilderness. All of us, this reporter and thousands of men, some on horses, some with brass instruments strapped to their backs, some playing as we went. The nights were starry, and the fields were green, and the onset of Spring brought dogwood, cowslip, and blooming Judas trees. This reporter began to feel, in spite of some concerns and suspicions, as though perhaps he’d joined up with something possible, an Army that would indeed bring good to the nation, rather than with a ragtag band of propagandists and performers.
Even as Arthur’s Army progressed, and the Demons’ shoe leather wore thin, even as journalists shivered in city suits and replaced them with corduroy, wool and rolled blankets, the press corps universally agreed—with benefit of the unlimited whisky provided—that we were in the service of change, good change. We watched trains pass, whistling through the wilderness, the passengers gawking out the windows, and not a one of the Demons, including this reporter, longed to board them.
Pendragon and Ambrose rode ahead of the Army, negotiating toll fees on the pikes and insisting upon passage when toll keepers and city officials were disinclined to allow the march into the borders of towns, for fear of large populations of hoboes stationing themselves to stay. Time between dispatches may be attributed to lack of telegraph facilities while marching in deep woods, across muddy flats, and indeed, through thigh-deep waters. The roads, as if to bolster the point of Pendragon, were nearly impossible to traverse in some areas, and at one point, in the vicinity of Cumberland, Maryland, the Demons were forced to charter a canal boat to carry the press. It was that or join the rest of Arthur’s Army, in various barges being transported as cargo for 52¢ per ton, billed as “perishable freight.”
A circus tent was hired and transported on the backs of the Army’s horses, and Pendragon and Ambrose preached and provoked nightly for the benefit of reporters and ticketed locals. This reporter was always in attendance, becoming entranced, in spite of himself, by the sheer certainty of success these men carried with them. Ambrose, in particular, was convinced that his man would rise into office, mentioning to this reporter that he’d already had a suit custom-made for Mr. Arthur Pendragon for speaking on the steps of the Capitol and from the steps to the Oval Office. Pendragon, Ambrose informed me, was already in possession of a custom-made desk meant for the position, one commissioned by his father, a round table at which all his loyal men would have a seat.
This reporter was reminded of Miss Moony’s recommendation, and went seeking the senior Mr. Pendragon, who’d begun the march riding along behind the Army in his own carriage and, when the roads betrayed that tactic, being carried in an improvised litter of Hudson’s Bay blankets and slender tree trunks personally felled by his son.
Mr. Uther Pendragon, who was seated in his litter, somewhat inebriated and nevertheless continuously sipping whisky, looked pained when this reporter found him. He wished to make complaints about the lack of respect afforded a man of his position.
“That son of mine,” said Mr. Pendragon, “was a mistake. His mother was a whore.”
“Where? What was her name?” this reporter queried, making notes. The official story of Mr. Pendragon’s lineage was significantly different from this account.
“She ran off somewhere,” said Pendragon, and waved a hand toward the dark forest. “Thirty-five years ago now. But her son takes after her. No sense. He’s made his own mistakes. Took care of those, though. At least he knew enough to listen. Got him married, too, to a good girl from a good family.”
“Can you tell me anything about a shipwreck in 1875?” this reporter asked him. “I read about it in The Plain Dealer. I just want to check my facts. The SS Malory?”
“Ships are built to sink,” said Mr. Pendragon, and spat tobacco over the side of his litter, narrowly missing this reporter’s shoes. “Storms rise, and ships wreck. It’s a fact of life, boy, though you’re too young to know it. Everything that seems sound has got a hole in it somewhere.”
Ambrose rode up at that moment and interrupted the interview, pointing at the dark sky, in which commissioned fireworks were bursting, and giving a recitation of his own poetry, which the Demons wrote down and the marchers, for the most part, ignored.
This dispatch was composed from notes several days later, from the back of a buggy in which several Demons were conveyed to the telegraph office. It was revealed midway through the journey that the plan from Ambrose was that each reporter would climb a pole like a Western Union lineman and tap out their tale, all while being photographed for the local press. This reporter declined, and thus this dispatch is a day late and 70¢ short.
To be continued…
23. A letter from Arthur Pendragon to Gwinn Ever-LeGrande
Handwritten confidently in dark purple ink.
Cleveland, Ohio
July 1, 1882
Dearest Gwinnie,
I have nothing to hide. I am an open book.
With love,
Your Artie
24. Harper’s Illuminated and New Pictorial Bible, 1846
A richly appointed illustrated leather-bound first edition of a Holy Bible belonging to the Pendragon family, the full book version published by Harper & Brothers in 1846.
Underlined in this Bible: Deuteronomy 24:16*6 and Ezekiel 18:19–20.*7
In the back pages of the Bible, a family tree is rendered in watercolor. Both the Uther and Arthur Pendragon branches have been altered and annotated in dark purple ink. The Arthur branch includes a marriage to Gwinn Ever-LeGrande (1864– ) with three sons, none named, all dead within the month, and crossed from the ledger.
The connection between Arthur Pendragon and Margaret Lake, who have the common mother Rain Lake/Pendragon but different fathers, is done in shaky burgundy ink and yields a son, █████████, on May 1, 1875. This name of the son has been scratched out and restored several times, and at some point ███████ was declared dead by the annotator, but that too has been edited, repeatedly, and ultimately left as follows: ██████████ (1875– ).
In addition to the annotations, the Bible contains memorabilia, to include a lock of white hair, braided and contained in a vellum envelope.
25. An envelope labeled CONFIDENTIAL: Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency, containing:
• Daguerreotype #1
A black-haired woman and man stand with three adolescent girls. A gum label on the reverse reads: Rain Lake & Family. West Sister Island, 1850. Photographer: M. Ambrose.<
br />
• Daguerreotype #2
The woman from Daguerreotype #1, now posed beside a tall, white-haired Caucasian man, significantly older than she is, a rifle in his hand. She appears stricken. A gum label on the reverse reads: Rain Lake & Uther Pendragon. West Sister Island, 1850. Photographer: M. Ambrose.
• Daguerreotype #3
The woman from Daguerreotype #1, now depicted in a wasp-waisted silk gown, her hair parted in the middle and coiled around her ears. There is a wicker baby carriage beside her. A gum label on the reverse reads: Rain Pendragon & Son, Chicago, 1851. Photographer: M. Ambrose.
• Daguerreotype #4
The three adolescent girls from Daguerreotype #1, standing before a building with the signage St. Mary’s Orphan Asylum for Females. A gum label on the reverse reads: Lost Girls, Cleveland, 1851. Photographer: M. Ambrose.
• A wedding portrait in a velvet presentation folder
A woman, one of the girls from Daguerreotypes #1 and #4, now perhaps in her early 20s, in a white wedding dress, standing beside an older white man in a suit. A gum label on the reverse reads: Mr. Jerome & Mrs. Margaret Lought, 1861. Beneath Mrs. Lought’s name is written, in a different hand: Deceased, 1875.
• A photograph
A black-haired woman, one of the adolescent girls from Daguerreotypes #1 and #4, now perhaps in her late 30s, poses in a painter’s smock beside a canvas depicting an island with a lighthouse on it. She’s smoking a pipe, and another woman is beside her, laughing, wearing a silk dressing gown. A gum label on the reverse reads: Elaine Lack & Companion, Paris, 1878. Beneath her name is written, in a different hand: Untraceable.
• A photograph cut from a United States Geological Survey internal report
The woman from Daguerreotype #1, now perhaps in her 50s. She’s smiling, her arms full of plants. Beside her is a young girl, also smiling. A gum label on the reverse reads: Botanist & Daughter, West Sister Island, 1882. Beneath this is written, in a different hand: Untraceable.
26. A clipping from Cleveland’s The Plain Dealer, April 22, 1894
The “Hard Times” Ball
Cleveland. The Chairman Emeritus of the Pendragon Company of Cleveland, Mr. Uther Pendragon, has opted to host a “Hard Times” ball on the first of next month, in Brightwood Park, a suburb of Washington, D.C., from which it is possible to see the roof of the White House. It is a known fact that Mr. Arthur Pendragon, the Chairman’s only son, is planning a campaign to unseat President Grover Cleveland, and that at the culmination of his march of unemployed men, he will present a Roads & Highways Bill upon the Capitol steps.
The Chairman Emeritus, who, despite his recent centenary, is traveling the open road with his son, queried the members of his company for recommendations on the throwing of a gilt-edged ruckus. The boys of the Pendragon Company have planned the ball in defiance of the caption “Hard Times”—no expense will be spared to make this ball a top-notch affair, including the expense of hiring Merle Ambrose, Master Magician, with his assistant Miss Moony, to perform a one-time-only stunt. As for get-up, they say, “Leave your silk dresses and tuxedos at home—a halt has been called on swell harness. Wear your working man’s attire, your bum dungarees, your rag-picked gowns! You’re requested to come in old togs brought from the Old World, or new togs borrowed from the butler, the driver, the children’s maid and the cook. ’Nuff sed.”
27. A clipping from the Chicago Record, May 2, 1894
A March of Destitutes & Demons
FIFTH INSTALLMENT
Washington, D.C. A “Hard Times” ball had been announced in all the local and hometown papers as a celebration to welcome Arthur’s Army to Washington. This reporter, having doubts that the Army would, in fact, be welcome in the Nation’s capital, interviewed Merle Ambrose, who, when questioned, insisted that the ball would draw D.C.’s finest not to arrest Mr. Pendragon and his assorted hoboes, but to join in the quest of Pendragon and his Army and remake themselves.
“We got invites out to all an’ sundry in the Senatorial and Congressional arenas,” he said, “and to President Cleveland hisself.”
The theme was meant to be a mockery of the poor, or so it seemed to this reporter, who did not wish to dignify it with the requested costume. Instead, this reporter donned a tuxedo brought from Chicago and set off to the tent erected for the purpose, a new tent, star-printed, requisitioned from a local circus. Those tents that’d traveled with the Army were undeniably pungent.
Upon arrival, this reporter was offered a coupe of French champagne and a seat. As he sat, he noticed police officers stationing themselves outside the tent, some mounted, some on foot, all armed. Ambrose and Pendragon, as was their way, paid the police little mind, though this reporter witnessed Ambrose passing a sheaf of silver certificates to one of the officers.
These denizens of D.C. were interspersed with members of the Army itself, and of the Demons, each ready to transcribe the proceedings, be they a serious campaign speech or a lewd magic show—it was distinctly unclear which would transpire.
The audience began to arrive, dressed as the wealthy might dress when pretending to be impoverished. This reporter counted several velvet gowns that’d been doused in mud, and at least one sandpapered suit on a Senator, as well as plenty of guests dressed according to the mandate. One guest in particular caught this reporter’s attention, a woman who’d seated herself in the front row, her white braids stretching to her knees, her costume a man’s oilcloth coat. As well, and in contrast to the other women in the crowd, who wore silk and velvet shoes beneath their gowns, this woman wore thick boots, of the sort more typically worn for mountain climbing.
Mr. Arthur Pendragon, accompanied by his wife, Mrs. Gwinn Pendragon, appeared on the platform at last, dressed in a tuxedo, his white hair a corona about his face, lit by footlights procured by Mr. Ambrose for the occasion. He looked down and into the audience for a moment, and his jaw slackened. Then he shook his head furiously and looked at Mrs. Pendragon, instead of at the woman in the front row. This reporter resettled himself in his seat, feeling a chill coming off the grass. Mrs. Pendragon, attired in a rose-colored silk gown with significant décolletage, noticeably shivered.
The handsome couple stood before the audience in uncomfortable tableau for at least 3 minutes, and while they did, the audience deliberated audibly on what exactly they were looking at.
“He’s a straight shooter,” a man beside this reporter whispered. “He means to bring the working man back to life.”
“He’s a union buster,” a man behind this reporter muttered. “He means to sell out the working man.”
“He’s a square meal,” a man in front of this reporter said, “and that’s all that matters to me and my boy. He’s fed us all the way from Cleveland.”
Merle Ambrose appeared at that moment, decked out in his usual costume, and stood behind Pendragon, raising a distinctive wooden walking stick in the air.
“Ladies and Gentlemen!” he shouted. “Watch closely!”
With that, he and his assistant, Miss Moony, raised an American flag to conceal the Pendragons from the assembled. The two of them made an exuberant gesture and then drew the flag away to reveal the Pendragons reattired, their costumes shifted entirely, his to a threadbare suit and bindle, hers to a gown made, or so it would appear, of several appropriately weather-torn iterations of Old Glory. The gown possessed a lengthy train of star and stripe, which coursed over the lecture steps and into the grass itself. In Mrs. Pendragon’s hair, several feathers were visible. If this reporter were forced to guess, he’d identify them as the former possessions of a bald eagle.
Mr. Pendragon cleared his throat and stepped to the lip of the stage.
“We’ve marched here,” he said, “to change the way Washington works. We’ve marched, risking our lives, over dangerous roads and through dark lands, to make t
hose who’ve always lived in privilege hear the pain of the working man, to bring change and justice to the masses, to employ those assembled in honest work, making strong roads through the wilderness, bringing commerce to the lonely places. We’ve marched to show the country that we exist, to show America that we’re here, we’re hungry, and we’re strong, that we are as much Americans as any rich men are!”
“Ain’t you one a them rich men?” someone shouted from the back of the crowd.
Pendragon paused for an uncomfortable moment, and then concluded: “We’ve marched here to bring good to the country, to ensure respect for the working man! We’ve marched here to be redeemed for our errors, to confess our secrets, to shed our sins. Let he who is without sin—”
Mrs. Pendragon gave her husband a sharp look, and Mr. Pendragon ceased speaking, choosing instead to cue the band. Ambrose and Miss Moony began the first dance, a kicking step of possible Russian derivation, and the crowd cleared to watch them.
From the stage as she spun, Miss Moony caught this reporter’s eye.
A ring of keys rattled loudly in this reporter’s ear, and he turned to find Mr. Uther Pendragon, dressed in a tuxedo and ready to give an interview.
“That’s my son,” the aged Mr. Pendragon said, poking this reporter in the chest with his pen nib and leaving an ink stain on his coat. “That’s my son, Arthur Pendragon, and he’s clean as a whistle, because I got him that way. He’ll be king of this country. Write that down.”
This reporter wrote that down. And then, having noticed dangling from the senior Mr. Pendragon’s clenched hand an artistically embossed brass key tag labeled Malory, this reporter politely excused himself from the crowd and walked out of the tent.