by Van Reid
Years ago, standing on Munjoy Hill with his grandfather, Nicholai Bergen had wondered aloud if the old man could still revel in a summer’s day. Nicholai had been a pup then, and sassy to boot; but old Tor Bergen had given his grandson a droll glance and said, “An old man might know what a young man only feels,” and turned his face to the sun.
“Summer comes again,” said Nicholai to no one, or to himself, or to the room. He went out and closed the door behind him and inside the blind, if not deaf, room there was pitch dark and the sounds of locks and bolts being turned and thrust and then Nicholai’s footsteps in the hall. There were the smells of books and perfume and bleached garments and silky fabric redolent with summer.
Outside Bergen’s place, in the alley behind, Skelly Wilson stood and shivered. He had places he could go, a fire at the hearth of some saloon where he might warm himself and dry the muddy water from his clothes, and even a flophouse down by the waterfront where he could find a hammock. But he stood in the alley behind Bergen’s place for an hour or more, shivering and feeling another unfamiliar sensation. One, of course, must first be informed of something to know its loss.
BOOK ONE May 7, 1897
1. The Propitious Preservation of Thaddeus Q. Spark
The resemblance was remarkable, but beyond the immediate results of that first meeting too much should not be made of it. Perhaps the waning light of day—shadows cast eastward toward the waterfront—increased the potence of that initial glance by hiding the distinctions between them, distinctions that were, admittedly and according to those who knew both men, subtle. Beards, of course, like a forest, might hide a particular landscape, and we are, in this instance, dealing with two exceptional beards.
Thaddeus Q. Spark had worn a beard for many years, and few remembered him without it. He had been married in his beard. His wife Mable Spark (née Hicks) had never seen him without it, unless one counts the brownish tin-type (which still survives) of a cherubic babe in his mother’s arms. Thaddeus Q. Spark was of less than average stature and of more than average breadth of shoulder and depth of chest. His exceptional beard, as well as the thatch upon his head, was of a brown that showed the slightest hint of red when exposed to the summer sun; it protruded from his chin in a manner that some might have deemed pugnacious.
Resemblance ended when it came to their two voices, for Thaddeus Q. Spark spoke like the high end of a flute, and the man he was about to meet (while standing across the street from the Shipswood Restaurant, in Portland, Maine, some minutes after 7:30 of a Thursday evening in May 1897) gave forth with the tone of a double bass.
It was a pleasant evening, following a pleasant day, though a little breezy by the water. Characteristically dressed in the habiliments of the laboring class, Thaddeus looked more pugnacious than usual as he watched the traffic on Commercial Street; the fractious nature of his appearance was a little amplified by profound concern and a hint of annoyance. He was waiting for someone, and his wife and family would not have liked him to be standing there alone waiting for this particular someone, in the particular light of recent circumstance. He watched the street while patrons of the Shipswood Restaurant came and went and the day failed. Electric lights came on with the gloaming. Pigeons cooed from their perches along the waterfront roofs. Thaddeus had never been inside the Shipswood. He ran his own establishment some blocks to the west—the Faithful Mermaid (of which more anon).
For most of his life, the waterfront had been his close companion, and he hardly noticed the sights and smells and sounds—the scent of the water, the creak of the wharves and ships, the great prows looming from between shoreline buildings. With his hands behind his back, he paced a small portion of the sidewalk and nodded to folks as they walked by. One odd figure turned to walk backward as he passed—a wild-haired fellow whose clothes had not been laundered nor chin shaven very recently. He waved a hand as he receded with his reversed gait.
“Timothy wants to know what happened after Daniel Boone went up the Amazon,” Thaddeus called after the man.
“He’ll have to read it from someone else’s pen,” said the fellow.
“Oh, you must write it!” called Thaddeus a little louder to make up for the increasing distance between them.
“I’ve been fired! I must find other heroes to laud!” He almost tripped but continued to walk backward till he disappeared behind a group of men standing in front of a shop a few doors east on Commercial Street.
It was a shade after 7:30 when a cab pulled up to the curb, and even as the driver hopped from his seat, Thaddeus quite naturally stepped forward and opened the carriage door. A portly and bespectacled gentlemen of middle age began a happy “Thank you” as he stepped down, then stopped short at the sight of Thaddeus. The portly man had been in the process of lifting the hat from his balding head, but he lowered it again, said “Oh, Mr.—” and stopped short again.
“Evening,” said Thaddeus, but his high-pitched voice only seemed to heighten the portly fellow’s confusion.
“Good evening,” said the man from the carriage. He held out his hand. “Tobias Walton.”
Thaddeus shook the man’s hand and said, “Thaddeus Spark.”
“I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Spark.”
“Have a nice supper,” said Thaddeus. “Come by the Faithful Mermaid some night for a bowl of chowder and a bit of something to wash it down.”
“Perhaps I will do that,” said Mister Walton. He glanced toward the head of the horse, where stood the driver and a young man of tall and lanky build. The young man was interested in Thaddeus as well, as was the handsome middle-aged woman who stepped down from the carriage on Mister Walton’s hand. “Mr. Spark, Sundry Moss,” said Mister Walton, indicating the young man. “And this is Miss Phileda McCannon.”
“Thaddeus Q. Spark,” said that man, his hat in hand.
“Mr. Spark,” said the woman.
“Happened to be standing here,” said the bearded fellow, still holding the carriage door.
“Thank you,” said Mister Walton again. “Have a good evening, Mr. Spark,” he added just as an unexpected gust of wind swept the street and his hat was lifted in the air.
The impish breeze did not reckon with the quickness of Miss Phileda McCannon, however. For one brief instant Thaddeus saw the fading light of day reflected upon Mister Walton’s balding pate, but Miss McCannon’s hand came up, swift as a cat, and gently fixed the homburg to its proper seat.
“Tobias Walton,” she admonished with a smile that reached to her fine blue eyes. “You are not to lose your hat and instigate an adventure while my appetite is roused.” She shook a finger as she said this.
Thaddeus chuckled, the familiarity between these two was so agreeable. The young man (had the portly fellow really said Sundry Moss?) joined the older couple and went with them into the restaurant. The driver climbed back to his seat and nickered softly to his horse. The cab rattled off and Thaddeus watched it rumble down the street; he turned his head and caught sight of his quarry coming toward him unsuspecting.
“Everett Darwell!” he called. “Where have you been this past week, and how do you expect a man to survive if he hasn’t a pint of brew to sell?”
Everett Darwell came to a halt and looked in all directions, as if other folk might spring out of the shadows and demand answers. He was a small, wiry fellow, with a billed cap and no coat. “Blame it all, Thaddeus!” he shouted. “You know how it is!”
“No, I don’t!” insisted Thaddeus Q. Spark. “Maybe you perhaps could tell me.” He advanced on Everett.
“It’s Fuzz Hadley, you know,” said Everett warily. “He’s taken a dislike to you since you and Jefford Paisley tossed his men out last month.”
“Well, we didn’t toss you out,” said Thaddeus. He was almost within arm’s reach of the man now, and Everett was looking for a place to bolt.
“No,” admitted Everett. “But Fuzz takes exception to my selling to you, and I’m not of a mind to cross him.”
Traffic
on Commercial Street had slowed with the onset of evening, but those who did drive past or walk around them took note of the indignant man with the beard and the nervous fellow gesticulating as he talked.
“Well, if no one crosses him,” Thaddeus was saying, “we’ll just all knuckle under and he can do what he pleases.”
“It’s not for me to change things,” said Everett quietly. “I’m just doing my best to make a living myself, Thaddeus.” He looked up and caught sight of something that disturbed him greatly.
Thaddeus glanced over his own shoulder and saw Fuzz Hadley and several of his cronies coming up the cobbled sidewalk; he recognized Jimmy Fain and Peacock Hope, and there was little Skelly Wilson skulking in the rear. Thaddeus had anticipated this possibility, but that did not mean he liked it any better. He took a deep breath, and Everett might have heard something like a small oath come out from beneath that beard. “It’s all right, Everett,” said Thaddeus. “You go about your business. “What business Fuzz allows you.” He turned to face the approaching men, knowing that a moderately busy street would not put Fuzz off from making his point as he saw fit.
“I better stick and see what he wants,” said Everett, but he was shaking.
“Mr. Spark,” said Hadley; he’d been known along the waterfront as Fuzz for so long that people had forgotten why. Fuzz was not a tall man—in fact, only an inch or so taller than Thaddeus—but he was narrow and wiry, blessed with a natural muscularity that had only recently gone past its prime. He had retained a mean eye, however, and the loyalty of several fellows younger than himself. He wore no coat but sported a dark, striped vest with a gold fob dangling from the lower pocket; his round hat was pushed back like a kid’s. Fuzz Hadley was not yet a waterfront boss, but he was acting the part.
“Fuzz,” said Thaddeus. “Everett claims you object to his doing business with me.”
“Everett?” said Fuzz. “He just thinks something might happen to him up that way, as you haven’t put yourself under proper protection, Thaddeus. There are some chancy folk about. You might even say dangerous.”
“You must be talking about Mrs. Kipply,” said Thaddeus, speaking of one of the older laundrywomen that patronized his establishment.
Fuzz showed no signs of finding this humorous. His eyes went dead and all expression left his face. Thaddeus did not view this as a propitious signal. “Maybe you and the boys here,” said Fuzz quietly, “ought to go down the wharfside and talk it over.”
“Maybe they would like to come by the tavern some night and discuss matters,” said Thaddeus, speaking with more calm than he felt; Fuzz and his men stood between him and his way home, but he thought he might get the jump on them and duck into the Shipswood before they nabbed him. Traffic was all but gone from the street, though he heard a carriage coming up behind.
“Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today,” said Fuzz, which evidenced more humor and philosophy than Thaddeus would have credited.
“I was just telling him, Fuzz, how things were,” said Everett Darwell.
Fuzz and his boys turned their collective gaze upon Everett, and Thaddeus knew his best chance had come. He was halfway across the street before anyone reacted, but he heard Fuzz grunt an order, and Thaddeus would need a proper lead to outrun Fuzz’s young gang.
He hadn’t precisely judged the distance of the oncoming carriage, however, and he had to pull up to avoid being run over. The driver had been ready to stop at the restaurant and with a shout he simply leaned back on the reins; the horse reared and let out a startled snort; the passengers inside made some noises and the streetside door to the carriage flew open. Turning back to his pursuers, Thaddeus caught sight of a man half stepping, half falling from the carriage, and this person took two or three stumbling strides before he bumped into Thaddeus’s shoulder with a low “Ooof!”
The oncoming bullies stopped, and Thaddeus had the impression that they saw something that confused them.
“What?” shouted Fuzz Hadley. He had slowed his pace, but he walked a few steps more with his elbows levered out like the wings of an angry goose. “What?” he said again.
“I do very much beg your pardon,” came a deep voice at Thaddeus’s shoulder. Thaddeus could see, from the periphery of his vision (the only portion of his vision he dared consign in that direction) that the man beside him had lifted his hat. “Are you hurt, sir?” asked this fellow.
Fuzz and his boys had now come to such a complete halt in the middle of the street and they wore such expressions of confusion and, yes, alarm, that Thaddeus thought the chief of police had arrived. He dared a sidelong glance and saw something very like himself, dressed in the clothes of a wealthy gentleman with a newspaper under one arm.
“Good gorgeous George!” said Thaddeus.
The man with the newspaper returned his startled gaze, eyes widening above a prodigious beard. Two other men had climbed from the carriage and hurried to their companion’s side. “Gentlemen,” said one of these, a tall, blond, clean-shaven fellow, who himself had a newspaper in hand. “We saw it all,” he pronounced.
Fuzz took a step backward.
“Very brave, trying to stop him,” said the third man from the carriage, who tipped his own hat. He had dark hair, a handsome pair of mustaches, and also a newspaper in the crook of his elbow.
Fuzz narrowed his eyes as he sought to detect irony in this statement. He glanced from one bearded man to the other. Fuzz’s gang, and the carriage driver, too, were studying the resemblance.
“Wouldn’t want anyone hurt,” said the blond fellow brightly.
This seemed an obvious sarcasm from Fuzz’s point of view, but, more importantly, he was daunted by the very undaunted manner of these three fellows, not to say the obvious affinity between the first of them and Thaddeus Spark. “Gentlemen,” said Fuzz. He tipped his hat cautiously and backed away. “Boys,” he said to his men. They backed away as well. Peacock Hope tipped his hat. Jimmy Fain gaped, his jaw slack. Once across the street, Fuzz and the gang adopted a more usual form of locomotion and disappeared around the next corner.
Everett Darwell was long gone.
“Nice fellows,” said the blond man. “And they have a distinctive way of crossing the street,” he thought aloud. “They were abashed to hear praise, I think. Wouldn’t you say, Thump?” He turned to Thaddeus when he said this, frowned, looked Thaddeus up and down, then caught sight of the man at Thaddeus’s shoulder. “My word!” he said.
Thaddeus understood what the word was, and he took a second look at the short, broad-shouldered, bearded man beside him. The short, broad-shouldered, bearded man took a second look back. “Joseph Thump,” said the man who looked so much like Thaddeus, and he put his hand out with a noticeable quiver. “Of the Exeter Thumps,” he added.
“Thaddeus Q. Spark.” Thaddeus shook the man’s hand. “Of the Brackett Sparks.”
“Christopher Eagleton,” said the tall, blond man. “My goodness! The likeness is extraordinary! Isn’t it extraordinary, Thump?”
“Hmmm,” said Thump.
“Ephram?” said Eagleton, as he took Thaddeus’s hand.
“My goodness’ sakes!” said the third man, who had just taken note of the resemblance between the two men. “Matthew Ephram!” said this fellow. He referred to a pocket watch. “It’s eighteen minutes before the hour of eight. Brackett. Is that in Massachusetts?”
Thaddeus hooked a thumb over his shoulder while he shook hands with Mr. Ephram. “It’s a street over that way.”
“Oh,” said Ephram silently. “Nice evening,” he said.
“Increasing clouds!” announced Eagleton suddenly. “Occasional showers expected, accompanied by warmer northeast winds!”
“High water at 8:48,” said Thump.
“Gentlemen,” said Thaddeus, “you can’t know how fortunate was your arrival.”
“Goodness!” said Eagleton. “It’s fortunate we didn’t run you over!”
Thaddeus thought that being run over might have been prefe
rable to being caught in the clutches of Fuzz Hadley and his boys. Sweat stood out on his brow when he thought of it. Circumstances had grown precarious, particularly for a man with a family. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, uncertain of what to do next; Fuzz would not be far away.
“Come inside with us,” said Ephram. “You look a little peaked.”
“You must have some refreshment,” said Eagleton. Thump nodded.
Thaddeus didn’t think the Shipswood served the sort of refreshment he was in need of. “Thank you, no,” he said. “I really should be going home.”
“You shall take the carriage, then,” said Thump, and his fellows agreed. Someone put a bill in the driver’s hand and instructed him to take Mr. Spark to whatever address he requested.
Thaddeus would have protested if the plan hadn’t provided him with a means of outdistancing Fuzz. Once home, Thaddeus would have enough good company about to assure his immediate safety, and that of his family. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much. You must come to my establishment on Brackett Street, just off Danforth—the Faithful Mermaid.” The three men seemed amazed and pleased with this sobriquet. “My wife is a first-rate cook,” said Thaddeus, using the nautical turn of phrase, “and the doors will always be open to you.”
They exchanged further pleasantries, and Thaddeus and Thump took another astonished look at one another before the tavern owner climbed into the carriage and was driven off.
“What a fine fellow!” said Eagleton. “Wouldn’t you say, Ephram?”
