by Darryl Brock
I’d anticipated that. “No, I’m afraid it’s impossible,” I broke in. “You see, in all candidness, he was more to her than a mere cousin. They were lovers. She yearned to marry him when he returned. Now she’s betrothed to another, and—well, you can see that discretion is called for. She simply wants the ring as a token of all that was dear to her before the cruel conflict.” Not bad, I thought.
“A number feel the want of that,” he said dryly, rising from his chair. “But you appear to be asking us to disinter a corpse in order to examine its fingers, without any sort of identification or proper authorization. That, sir, is stretching sentiment.”
I pushed an envelope onto the edge of the desk. The small eyes fastened on it. He sat down again.
“More than sentiment is involved,” I said. “The lady realizes this is irregular and is quite prepared to offer compensation.” I slid the envelope across the desk. He picked it up. Four of Le Caron’s fifties nestled inside.
He said quietly, “This is a good deal of money.”
“Absolute discretion is required,” I said, and explained that I wanted to handle the disinterment myself—the lady’s wish—and that I hoped to accomplish it that very night. For the sake of all involved parties, of course, no one must ever know. I finished and waited, holding my breath.
For a long moment he sat stolidly. Calculating the risks, I guessed. He must have figured they were minimal. How could I ever prove anything against him? He tucked the envelope in his breast pocket. I breathed again.
“I believe I understand the delicacy of the matter,” he said. “Which is the grave in question?”
I hesitated, then showed him the sexton’s sketch.
“Hmm.” He stroked his whiskers. “Not much traffic on that road at night, but a lantern would show a fair distance. I think you’d better do your work between, say, three and four, to be safe.” He looked at me for confirmation; I nodded. “I’ll have the boys off duty early. That’ll agree with ’em, you can bet. Now then, you keep that site in good order. I’ll send a man out early to touch up, but don’t leave more signs than you have to.”
I gave him my assurance. We stood. Neither of us offered a hand.
“All this for a lady, you say?”
“That’s right.”
He was silent for a long moment. I felt uneasy.
“Will you be staying around here afterward?”
“Leaving tomorrow.”
He nodded judiciously. “Good idea.”
“There can be another hundred,” I said, worried suddenly that he held all the cards and I none, “if this goes right.”
“That would be generous compensation,” he said. “Most generous.”
“You’ll get it first thing in the morning.”
“Fine.” The small eyes roamed over me as if filing away every detail. “And let’s not forget our rule of discretion.”
I wanted badly to be out of that stifling room, away from his scrutiny.
“Certainly not,” I said.
I spent most of the afternoon sitting among the tall reeds on the western bank of the Chemung, pondering and planning. I dangled my feet in the water and surveyed the site of the prison camp. Several dilapidated wooden barracks remained; they looked long deserted. An encircling fence with guard walks and a tower had collapsed at several points. Even in bright sunshine the place had a melancholy aspect. I tried to imagine myself held prisoner here in this shallow valley with its low rim of forested hills, struggling to survive blasting summer heat and winter freezes, knowing that any day I might fall to lethal fever or virulent pox.
I pictured the card games: soldiers and prisoners hunched over plank tables, faces intent, coins glittering. Did a fortune actually lie in that grave? If so, I’d be a rich man. I’d help Andy’s mom. And what then?
Evening fell and the air began to cool. I wandered around town. On Baldwin Street, a half block above the river, I saw a brass business plaque: J. LANGDON, COAL DEALER. I asked a passerby where the Langdons lived and was directed to 21 Main Street, across the street from Park Church. Livy and Twain would be wed there, I remembered.
The mansion sat back from the street among tall elms. The grounds covered an entire block. The dwelling itself was enormous and spare, with a dull brown stone facade and narrow windows. I wondered if Twain were inside writing just then, or courting Livy in some obscurely romantic Victorian way. I liked that idea. Not least among the things I envied in Twain was his helpless submission to his sense of love.
After an early supper I set out to make the preparations I’d formulated. At a livery stable on the edge of town, near Elmira Female College, I arranged for a team of horses and a flatbed wagon. Then I asked about a driver. The proprietor brought forth his son, a pimpled lout who struck me as stupid and avaricious, a combination perfectly suited to my purposes. Telling him I’d pick the boy and the rig up later, I rented another horse, a small mare. I mounted unsteadily, feeling their amused looks, and rode from the stable. At first I felt very awkward, but my confidence grew as we moved along at a steady canter. Woodlawn was not far distant.
Sketch in hand, I examined the Confederate graves. A wooden marker near the end of the second row read:
CORP. K. O’SHEA
CO. F
25 N.C. REG
C.S.A
I stared at the sod below with a thrill of excitement. So far everything had matched Twain’s story. Was the money really only a few feet away? Part of me was repulsed by the idea of digging up the grisly remains. Another part wanted to begin the job right then and end my jitters. The profits might be great, but so were the risks. I turned away reluctantly, impatient for darkness. Glancing upward—and wishing I had not—my eyes encountered the gloomy monolithic hulk of the federal facility on the hill above.
Chapter 11
A new moon limned the trees but seemed to penetrate no lower. We bumped and jolted over a road that looked like a channel of ink. The boy’s name was Seth. He’d evidently been thinking.
“Ye’re robbin’ a grave, aint’cher, mister?”
Since the road went past the cemetery, and since we carried shovels and a lantern, and since I’d given him twenty dollars to keep mum about our night’s work, it wasn’t exactly a brainstorm on his part.
“We are salvaging” I corrected.
He sniffed. “Paw guessed it, soon’s you hired the wagon team this time of night.”
“Did he tell anybody?”
“Paw’s closemouthed when it comes to others’ business. That’s ’cause he’s a businessman.”
It was too dark to see the boy’s expression. Was he being subtle? “There could be a little something for your pop too, in that case,” I told him.
“Paw’d like that.”
We drove through the cemetery gate. It was about one-thirty. I’d come out an hour earlier to make sure the guards had gone. Now I had Seth stop the wagon while I climbed down and listened. Crickets chirped. An owl suddenly said, “Hoo-hoo, ho-hoo,” sounding like, “Who cooks for you?” It startled me, even as my mind framed the answer: Nobody. Few lights still shone in the town below. I was deliberately jumping the gun on Costigan.
There was a bad moment when we reached the graves and lit the lantern. I was convinced that everybody for miles could see it. The owl hooted again, mocking. I saw lurking shapes in surrounding shrubbery and trees.
“You gettin’ nerves, mister?”
I took a breath and commanded myself to relax. Weren’t the guards’ lights visible each night? Why should ours cause suspicion?
“No way,” I said. “Let’s do the job.”
We dug at opposite ends of the plot. The sod came up easily. Mounds of black loam began to encircle us. The blade of my shovel cut into the earth with a “shoosh,” then dumped the soil with a “plup.” I tried not to think about the blade going through into the corpse, maybe its face. Christ, what a thing we were doing. I thought of the fortune lying only inches away. I dug faster, my labored breathing m
ixing with the boy’s. I began to sweat, a clammy sensation in the coolness.
Seth’s shovel made a dull “plunk” against something solid several feet down. We worked harder. In a few minutes we had exposed the top of a long wooden box.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s pry it off.”
But the badly rotted lid crumbled. We had to scrape it away. Underneath lay more dirt.
“I don’t fancy this part, mister,” said Seth. “What is it yer looking fer?”
“I’m not paying you to fancy anything,” I snapped. “Dig around the edges—and be careful.”
We exposed rotted fragments of canvas. Had everything been wrapped in a tarp, or just the body? We scraped gingerly. Once my shovel went too deep, and a fragment of something that might have been discolored bone appeared in the lantern glow. “Damn,” I breathed, and covered it up. Seth swallowed nervously and said nothing.
Then there was a clink. My blade hit something that sounded like glass. At almost the same instant a shrill cry sounded overhead.
Seth jumped backward, whispered, “What’s that?”
“Owl, I guess. C’mon, this is it!”
“Weren’t no owl.”
I bent low and scooped dirt with my hands. I pulled up a dirt-encrusted jar, roughly quart-sized. Rubbing it hard, I cleared a small area and brought the lantern close. Visible were the dark notched edges of coins. I restrained an urge to leap up and yell.
“This is it,” I told Seth, still looking uneasily overhead. “Let’s get ’em all.”
We found twenty-two jars intact, one broken. Seth’s eyes widened as he watched me pick bills and coins from among the glass shards. Since he knew, I went ahead and emptied the others into the two large canvas bags I’d brought for the purpose. Even without the jars, each weighed at least fifty pounds. How much would a hundred pounds of money buy? I wondered. We began filling the excavation.
Again the shrill cry sounded above, very close. It was a chilling blend of ferocity and terror—like the scream of a predator bird intermixed with human wails. My heart froze for a split second. Then I heard a more terrible sound: a branch snapping behind us. I smashed the lantern and dove into the grave, yanking Seth down with me. I snatched the derringer from my breast pocket. Beside me, the boy shook violently and moaned, “Lord! Lord! Lord!” A glowing light appeared in the maples bordering the road. “Stay out!” I yelled. “U.S. government property!”
“Douse that, you damn fool!” came an urgent voice, and the light vanished.
We waited, ears straining. After what seemed a long interval I heard crackling sounds to our left. I raised the derringer and snapped a shot off overhead. A pathetically feeble splat.
“You’re trespassing!” I yelled. “Proceed farther and my men will open fire!”
“By authority of the Irish Army,” a gruff voice shouted, “you’re under arrest!”
That blanked me for a second. Who was bluffing here? I realized they must be Fenians.
“Whose authority?” I yelled, trying to think. One thing was clear: Costigan had set me up.
“We’re armed, Snider!” the voice said. “You can’t escape.”
Seth loosed a quavering high-pitched moan. I clamped my hand over his mouth—and had a sudden desperate idea.
“Come after me, and I finish the stable boy!” I yelled, keeping my grip over Seth’s mouth, pressing his head hard against my chest as he struggled.
“Shh,” I whispered. “Your best chance is if they think we’re not connected, understand?” After a moment he nodded; I removed my hand. “I’m making a run for the wagon. You tell ’em I headed that way.” I poked his right arm urgently. “Got it?”
He nodded, trembling. I smelled his fear, a sharp, sourish, cheesy odor.
I stood cautiously and slung the bags over my shoulders. They were very heavy. I pocketed the derringer and picked up one of the empty jars. Bending low, moving as silently as possible, I started for the wagon. After a few steps I turned and hurled the jar as far as I could in the opposite direction. It smashed against a distant tree. Immediately I heard yelling and the thud of feet. A lantern flared, then torches. I was running, pumping frantically in the darkness, tearing and crashing along the row of maples.
“He’s headin’ fer the wagon!” Seth’s voice shrilled over the noise of my passage. Christ! First Costigan, now the kid. Whatever happened to thieves’ honor?
A bullet whizzed overhead, spattering twigs and leaves around me. I heard the bird cry out again, terrifyingly loud, and felt a feathery rush. I ducked instinctively, certain it was striking at my head. At the same instant a group of dark figures rose from around the wagon, and I realized they had been waiting for me. Frantically I tried to change course, reaching reflexively for the derringer. But I knew it was too late. With sickening clarity I saw the rifles leveling on me.
What happened in the next seconds is almost impossible to describe. A roar—not exactly a roar, but a sound, an emanation, a suggestion of a massed and horrible cry—came from the maples behind the riflemen. A figure appeared there. A figure in dark blue uniform with rows of brass buttons. It was stationary, but it emerged with the force of onrushing cavalry. Even in my agitated mental state I recognized it at once: the figure I had seen, its arm raised, when I collapsed on the station dock. It brandished a weapon now, a long gun—or was it a tree branch?—that threatened swift and certain annihilation. The arm holding it pointed directly at the group near the wagon.
They saw it too. “Holy Mother!” came a cry in high tones of terror. “They’re comin’ from the rear! Shoot ’em! Shoot the blasted thing!”
A volley of flame erupted into and through the figure. It didn’t waver, its momentum seeming to gather instead. It advanced on the frantic riflemen, and yet the figure itself was unmoving as bullets tore into it. And that was all I saw. For the bird again screamed overhead. A warning. An imperative. The sound galvanized me.
I turned and ran the opposite way along the maples, the bags banging against my ribs and back, their weight slowing me maddeningly. As I exhausted the limits of my legs and lungs, I reached the mare I’d tethered in a thicket on the other side of the graveyard, a quarter mile from the wagon. I’d dubbed her “Plan B” as I walked back to the livery stable for the wagon team. Now Plan B would have to save my ass. I knotted the bags together, slung them over the saddle, and mounted. My face pressed into her mane, I urged her forward and tried not to imagine bullets crashing into me from the darkness.
We galloped from the cemetery, bursting through the maples. Branches clutched at me. I heard shooting in the distance. I pointed Plan B toward the hills to the northwest. She kept a steady pace across open fields and wagon ruts winding through the foothills. It took more than an hour to circle Elmira and approach it again along the Chemung. Plan B’s hooves clopped on the packed dirt of Water Street. She was breathing hard, her flanks foam-lathered. My first impulse had been to make a long dash all the way to Binghamton or Corning, but she clearly wasn’t in shape for it. Still, I felt reasonably safe. If my attackers had escaped the ghost soldier and were still searching for me, I didn’t think they’d look for me in the center of town. We ambled toward Main Street.
My rapping echoed inside in the foyer as I stood outside the Langdons’ front door. After several minutes a sleepy-eyed servant peered through a peephole.
“Emergency,” I told him. “I’ve got to see Mr. Twain.”
“Missuh Twain? There’s no—”
“Clemens,” I said. “Get Clemens here!”
“I don’t ’spect it’s proper to rouse Missuh Clemens just now, suh.”
“Look, this is a crisis!” I tried to contain my frustration. “He’ll never forgive either one of us if my news has to wait for morning! Bring him down and let him decide! Go, quick, and don’t wake the rest!”
The peephole closed. I paced the long veranda in the darkness. At length the door opened. Twain appeared in robe and slippers, smelling of tobacco, hair disheveled, squinti
ng at me.
“Sam? What in thunder are you up to?”
I drew him close. “I’ve got it!”His face changed. “The money?”
I told him what had transpired at the graveyard.
“Holy Jupiter!” he breathed. “They were laying for you. Costigan leaked the scheme, sure as perdition. How’d you get out?”
I told him of the apparition. “Is that place haunted?”
“Wasn’t till now.” He regarded me from hooded eyes. “I’d be some worked up in your shoes, too.”
“No, I really saw it. So’d the Fenians, believe me.”
He nodded, unconvinced, and looked at the street. “This town’ll be on its ear in the morning. Anybody see you come?”
“I don’t think so. Help me with just a couple of things and I’ll be on my way.”
We walked Plan B to the Langdon stable at the far end of the grounds. Twain didn’t seem much more at home with livery tasks than I, but between us we managed to wipe her down, provide her water and a bit of grain, and transfer her saddle to another horse.
Twain said, “I’ll give Robert—he’s the one who answered the door—a princely amount to fetch the nags back here. He’ll let on he found yours in the hills south of here. Robert’ll keep his lips tight.” We shook hands. “You’re cut from different cloth, Sam.”
“That’s what I tried to tell you,” I said, mounting.
“See you in California,” he called softly as I started off, Plan B in tow.
Riding through the darkness I occupied my mind with visions of the uniformed figure. I couldn’t help thinking that it had intervened deliberately, to spare my life.
The station in Chemung, a hamlet fifteen miles north, was little more than a shack. I cinched the horses behind it according to Twain’s instructions and used the money sacks as pillows to bed down in an old wagon. I slept until wakened by sunlight on my face and the chuffing of an approaching locomotive. I edged cautiously around the building. Nobody was in sight. I hoisted the bags and stepped onto the platform. Moments later I was aboard.
