“Oh, Uncle Horace!” she bubbled. “I am so glad to see you! Am I much changed?” She preened herself, expectant.
“Not a bit, thank Heaven!”
“You wouldn’t notice, anyway,” she pouted. She felt for the pimple, but it was, unfortunately, gone. Her skin was like the inner curve of a roseleaf. “Are you going to the ball?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought.”
“Do,” she urged. “Think about me. too. You could invite me to dance.”
“Wouldn’t that make young Mr. Marcus Dillard jealous?” he teased.
“Oh, Mark!” She tossed her head. “Two young gentlemen from Albany of the highest respectability have come up on purpose to attend Wealthia and me,” she said complacently.
Picturing the highly respectable young gentlemen as callow schoolboys, Horace smiled indulgently.
“You will come, won’t you, Uncle Horace?” she pleaded. “I’ve got a mint-new frock, all frills and fluffs and flounces. It’s as costly as Wealthy’s. You’ll see her, too. Maybe you’ll become enamored of her. She’s more beautiful than ever. There will be many a shattered heart in the path of those dainty feet.”
“Dinty,” said Horace earnestly, “if you don’t quit talking like the poetry corner in the Advocate, I’ll smack you.”
Dinty pouted. “I worked so hard at school on Elegant Conversation, and now you don’t like it. You’re mean to me, Uncle Horace. Anyway, you must wear your elegantest coat to the ball. I do think you look so nice when you’re dressed up in your dinktum best.”
Accepting her as his social arbitress, Horace arrayed himself in the lastest masculine confection from the shop of Tailor Burr Butler, paid his half-dollar at the door, and entered the specially decorated Big Room of the Eagle. His first impression was that the assemblage was portioned into two groups of masculine youth. The one nearest the door centered upon Wealthia Latham, of whose dark, imperious and animated beauty he caught a glimpse as he passed. The other circle, quite as large and equally devoted in attitude, opened up to disclose Dinty Jerrold.
She waved a languid fan at him. He proceeded to the platform to pay his respects to the Lady Members of the Committee. A young stranger, detaching himself from Dinty’s entourage, approached and stood, waiting for Horace to finish his polite and weatherish conversation with Mrs. Macy. He was not at all the callow youth of Horace’s expectations, but a fine, upstanding young elegant with a promising whisker, in the glittering uniform of the Albany Riflemen.
“Are you Dr. Amlie, sir?”
“I am.”
“My respects, and I am instructed to say that Miss Jerrold would like a word with you.”
Misunderstanding him, Horace looked about in surprise. What could Mrs. Dorcas Jerrold want of him? Was this a gesture preliminary to peace between them? And where was she?
“I don’t see Mrs. Jerrold present,” said he to the messenger.
“Not Mrs. Jerrold. Miss Jerrold.”
(Miss Jerrold? Miss Jerrold. Well, good God! Dinty!)
Horace composed his face to solemnity.
“My compliments to Miss Jerrold and I will have the honor of waiting upon her shortly.”
Upon his arrival Dinty gave him a smile which she had been rehearsing all afternoon before her looking glass.
“I thought you were never coming,” said she in her best party accent.
Horace said, looking about him, “You seem to be pleasantly occupied.”
“Well enough,” she answered complacently. “Aren’t you going to offer me refreshment? Why are you looking at me so queerly?”
“Nothing,” said Horace hastily. “I mean, I’m not. Refreshment? Yes, by all means. What shall it be? Shrub? Lemon syrup? Prepared soda water?”
“I should prefer,” said Dinty with decision, “a glass of the elderberry wine punch.”
Rising, she took his arm with the aplomb of a dowager and passed through the lowering circle of youths. There was a commotion at the door. A rough voice vociferated.
“I ain’t a-goin’ to pay no four shillin’. I want Doc Amlie.”
“Here,” called Horace.
The woodsman, in his crude and stinking leathers, pushed past the pay-table and strode up to them.
“Sam Bowen’s been clawed by a she-bear.”
“Bowen up on Paddy’s Nose?”
“Yes. How quick can you git there?”
Horace hesitated, glancing at his partner. “Is it bad?”
“His belly’s ripped open.”
“I’ll be there inside the half-hour.”
“Oh, Uncle Horace!” Dinty was a little girl again. She looked as if she were going to cry. “Do you have to go?”
“I can’t leave the man to die, Dinty.”
“No. It wouldn’t be you if you did.” Not so much the little girl now. “Will you come back?”
“As soon as I can.”
“I’ll wait till the last candle.”
The last candle was long snuffed out when Horace left the dead man’s bedside and wearily remounted Fleetfoot. He had made a good fight for it, but Sam Bowen was too badly mutilated. The best he could do was to assuage the pain of the passing. He was profoundly dejected. Not yet had he achieved the immunity to emotion which is the armor of the experienced physician.
The darkened windows of the Eagle contributed to his gloom. What could he expect, he asked himself reasonably. Here it was, three o’clock in the morning; for a ball to continue after midnight verged upon indecency. Dinty would have been long abed and asleep.
Dinty. Confusion beset his tired mind at the thought of her. She had left for Albany, a stubby, chubby hoyden, little different from the child who had broomed out his dingy office, traded his barter fees for him, marched beneath that ghastly placard which blatantly advertised Dr. Amlie to be the best doctor in Palmyra. And now, this bewildering changeling, fined down to gracious slenderness, flushed and laughing and lovely within the crescent of her admiring swains.
Horace’s peculiar reaction was dismay.
– 21 –
Passion is a Hidyous Monster but cruel Interesting.
(DINTY’S DIARY)
Because Dinty wished a redwing’s plume to furbish up her bonnet, Tip Crego took her on a daylight prowl. First they climbed the hillock behind the Latham pasture lot, where from the hollow of a dead white-oak the boy brought forth his small-game equipment, a six-foot, hollow reed, fashioned as a blowstick, with a half dozen darts, steel-tipped and daintily feathered.
By this form of venery he added to his small income; blackbirds, crows, and woodpeckers, being reckoned as vermin, fetched a two-cent bounty. The marsh on the far side of the rise yielded five birds, a satisfactory day’s return, before the young hunters rounded the hill and took a short cut to the crest. As they skirted the brink, Dinty’s shoulder was sharply gripped.
“Hist!” warned her companion, in a dramatic whisper. “The foe!”
This was formula, a familar signal of the woodcraft wherein he had tutored her. Dropping flat on her stomach, she writhed noiselessly forward to the brink, parallel with his stealthy movement. Peering out and downward she could see a figure, a few rods below. It was Wealthia Latham, walking along the dim trail on feet that hastened. And coming to meet her, with swift, springy step, was Captain Silverhorn Ramsey. The pressure of Tip’s hand across Dinty’s mouth stifled her gasp.
Wealthia moved straight and silently, like a creature fascinated, into Silverhorn’s arms. When she lifted her face from his kiss, it was so mazed, so lost, so heavy with frightened passion, that the eavesdropper flushed and shivered. It was a revelation which made her, in some mysterious and ugly fashion, feel shamedly older. The canaller’s gay voice said,
“Little darling! I knew you’d come.”
“I couldn’t help myself.”
“Now that I’ve got you, I shan’t let you go.”
A strangled sob was her answer.
“What is it, my sweeting?”
“That woman!
The widow. They say you’re going to marry her.”
“Listen, little one. Say the word and I’ll hand her the key to the berm tomorrow.” Seeing that she did not comprehend, he laughed and explained, “That’s what we say on the canal when we jounce a man out of his berth. It means I’ll give her the mitten. It’s you I want to marry.”
“Oh, Captain Ramsey!”
“ ‘Captain Ramsey,’ ” he mocked. “Wait till you’re Mrs. Ramsey!” He drew her back into his embrace. His voice became tender and impassioned. “Nobody ever comes here. We’re safe.” The rest was a whisper.
She swayed back from him, her hands pressed to her breast. “I couldn’t! Oh, I wouldn’t dare!”
He answered her with a confident laugh. “There’s nothing to be afraid about. Witch Crego will tell you what to do. And when I come back next week, everything will be settled and we’ll cut our twig and be married.”
Her head drooped in helpless surrender. He was leading her toward an alder thicket a few paces away. At that the spell of terror and distress in which Dinty was bound, broke.
“No!” she screamed. “No, Wealthy! No!”
The couple sprang apart. Silverhorn’s hand jerked to his belt. His face was dark with fury.
“God damn you for a sneaking little bitch!” he snarled. “I’ll strangle you.”
He started to claw his way up the shifting, sliding rubble, clutching here at a bush, there at a fixed rock. Pausing for breath, he raised his head. Tip Crego stood above him.
“What do you want, bastard?”
The boy made no reply. He set the mouthpiece of the blowpipe to his lips.
Silverhorn let himself slip slowly back to the level. Well enough he knew the deadly accuracy of that weapon in the hands of an expert. He had no wish to lose an eye. Wealthia stood, tremulous and poised as for flight.
“Don’t be frightened, little darling,” he bade her. He made a gesture to the others. He had mastered his rage without apparent effort.
“Come down,” he invited smoothly. “We’ll parley.”
Dinty jumped and coasted under escort of a small avalanche. She rushed upon her friend and clasped her. Tip had picked an easier descent and now stood apart and on guard. Dinty panted out,
“Oh, Wealthy! You mustn’t. He’s a wicked man. Uncle Horace says he’s bad.”
“Uncle Horace, eh?” put in the canal man’s suave accents. “That’ll be the conscientious Dr. Amlie. You’ll go to him with this, I reckon.”
“Yes, I will,” replied Dinty defiantly.
“If you do—if you ever say a word of it to anyone, anyone on this earth, I’ll never speak to you again,” cried Wealthia passionately.
“I’ll do better than that,” said Silverhorn, speaking quietly. “If you tell your doctor friend, what will he do? Go to Genter Latham.”
“I hope he will,” declared Dinty.
“You’d better not. Because if he does, I’m going to kill him.”
“Kill him? Kill my Uncle Horace? You—you wouldn’t dare. You couldn’t.” Her eyes were great with terror.
“Wouldn’t I?” Silverhorn smiled. “Ask your half-breed chum there.”
“He’s a killer,” said Tip dubiously. “He knifed a man to death on the Lakes.”
“In fair quarrel,” qualified the canaller. “I’d scorn to kill any other way. But I never miss.”
Wealthia began to sob. “I want to go home. I want to go home.”
“So you shall, little darling,” said Silverhorn in so tender a voice and gentle that Dinty almost stopped hating him.
The pair drew aside for a moment, whispering. Silverhorn waved a hand, and slipped into the thicket as snakily as Tip, himself, could have done. His voice came back to Dinty’s ears,
“Remember—Silverhorn never misses.”
All the way to the village, Tip walked back of the girls, vigilant for an ambush. When they reached the Latham gate, Wealthia asked her companions inside. In the safe retreat of the garden, she turned to them and said,
“Let’s make a swearing.”
“What about?” asked Dinty.
“You know.”
“Silverhorn?”
The older girl nodded, looking fearfully about her. “If my father ever knew, I don’t know what he’d do to me. And if you tell Dr. Amlie, Captain Ramsey will kill him.” Dinty shivered. “Will you swear never to tell about today?”
“Yes,” said Dinty.
“Tip?”
“Yes,” he replied.
All of them knew the formula. One after another they repeated it with uttermost solemnity.
Swear by earth;
Swear by sky;
Cross my heart and double-die.
As they parted, Wealthia whispered to her chum, “I’m scared, Dinty. I never want to see him again.”
“It’s a good thing you’re going back to school,” said the sage Dinty.
Driving westward, the canal was now draining the local labor camps of all but a few spademen who remained to do patchwork and occasional repairs. When, at long last, the Middle Section was joined to the Western for through traffic and the roystering fellowship of the towpath flooded the towns, replacing the labor squads, Silverhorn Ramsey was heard of here, there and everywhere, a leader in the frequent battles which broke out between the townsfolk and the brass-buttoned captains, swollen with pride and their princely wage of fifty dollars a month.
Now was decreed the mightiest glorification in Palmyran history. There would be a water pageant; there would be a platform in the Square with eloquent speakers exhibiting orations; there would be a banquet, and finally there would be a ball which, for splendor, was to outshine anything previously attempted in Western New York. Two of the Canal Commissioners had signified their gracious intention of being present. In view of this honor, the committee, under the chairmanship of Mr. Genter Latham, met to consider an innovation. Would it not be well, in order to conserve the dignity of the occasion, that attendance be restricted to a carefully winnowed list?
Such was the contention of Squire Jerrold, Mr. Levering, Deacon Dillard, Col. Macy of the hemp fields, and the rest of the element which felt bound to uphold the tradition of aristocracy. Mine Host St. John, who saw his ballroom profits menaced by such limitations, headed the opposition. Representatives of the smithy democracy backed him up on broader grounds.
“Is this America, the land of the free and the home of the brave, or ain’t it?” demanded O. Daggett.
Horace Amlie made a temperate speech supporting the broader basis. He got unexpected backing from the chairman.
“What about the canallers?” asked someone.
“They’ll be soft as boiled pease, with the commissioners looking on,” returned Mr. Latham confidently. “Any that ain’t will be taken care of. There’ll be no trouble.”
Ten days before Canal Week, he had reason to doubt his judgment. Three captains swaggered into the Eagle taproom where he was talking over details of the cotillion with L. St. John. All were of the rougher element. The hefty Bull Horgan pounded on the bar, ordered a round of drinks, and thus addressed Host St. John.
“Heard tell you was talkin’ of barrin’ the canal from your shindigs.”
“No,” said the host.
“Lucky for you. We’d-a tore your goddam shack down.” He turned to the quiet figure at the end of the bar. “Jine us,” he barked. It was more a command than an invitation.
“No, thank you,” said Mr. Latham civilly.
“Too high an’ mighty, huh?”
The other looked him over with a cold eye. “That’s it,” said he.
“Think poxy well of yourself, don’t you!”
“Mind your manners, Horgan,” warned the proprietor.
“Don’t you?” persisted the captain, edging along the rail.
“Yes,” said Mr. Latham.
“Well, who yeh shovin’?”
The thick shoulder, thrust smartly at the quiet man, was not intended to hurt, but merely to show
who was who. It met nothing. Swerving lithely aside, Mr. Latham caught the assailant in a grip only less powerful than a bear’s. With two motions he ran the astonished mariner across the floor and heaved him through the window. He landed on a manure heap, stunned and cut.
“Bill me for the glass, St. John,” said Mr. Latham, dusting his hands.
The two others, after a hesitant consideration of Mr. Latham’s alert readiness and the baseball bat which had materialized in L. St. John’s nervous hands, decided upon the part of discretion, went after their fallen champion, and lugged him away to Dr. Murchison for repairs. His last word was a yelp over his shoulder,
“I’ll be back.”
Being on a short, neighborhood run, Captain Horgan reappeared in public after a few days, but without overt menace to the peace and stability of the community. He did nothing worse than parade Main Street with that blowzy belle of the Settlement, Donie Smith, conscientiously treating her to drinks at decorous intervals. Their romance was the talk of the waterfront.
Horace had it from Unk Zeb Helms. Long enamored of the burly captain, Miss Donie had received only the most transient patronage from him until she repaired for aid to Mistress Crego. The reputed witch compounded a love potion of widely bruited efficacy, which the girl secretly administered to her hero. The results were all that could have been anticipated. Abandoning the promiscuity of his attentions, Captain Horgan thereafter cleaved only to his wench and bought her a four-dollar Leghorn flat. Mistress Crego’s reputation and trade were notably enhanced by this success.
“Evva month,” said Unk Zeb, rolling his eyes, “dat gel pay Mis’ Crego a dollah. Dat gel put de witchery in his drink unbeknownst an’ now she got dat big man hitched to her skuttstrings lak a calf to a tent-peg.”
Encountering the pair on the street, Horace noticed that the canaller’s wrist was still swathed. To his practiced eye, the bandage looked foul. If that was Murchison’s doing, it reflected little credit upon his medical standards.
The great fete was a three-day celebration. On the last morning schools closed, merchants shut up shop, Main Street emptied itself toward the canal, and the populace lined bank, lock and bridge, cheering and firing small arms. At ten o’clock a blare of military music floated downwind. Along the towpath pranced two mettlesome steeds. Plumes tossed on their heads. Beside the lead horse their hoggee marched like a drum-major, his beaver decorated with the national colors, his very whiplash gay with a braided rosette. One hundred feet back the elegant and superb packet-boat, Western Trader, clove the waters, followed by the Starry Flag, the American Spy and the Gypsy Maid, with three of the humbler Durham freighters in their wake. On each foredeck a captain stood stiffly to the salute, his gilt buttons gleaming in the sun. Abaft, the helmsman, heavy with the responsibilities of his position, gripped the tiller and kept his weather eye alert for emergencies.
Canal Town Page 26
