At the Saltonstall home, Doctor Graysmith was ushered quickly into the back parlor, while a household functionary barred entrance to Thomas, and somewhat haughtily thrust a coin at him.
“You can go now, boy,” said the man, his head resting unnaturally upon his stiff collar as if were being squeezed from his uniform.
Thomas threw the coin aside. “I want to know how she is . . . the little girl.”
“Don’t concern you,” the man replied, and without further argument, stepped inside the house and shut and bolted the brass locks of the shiny black door.
Thomas was about to knock, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. “Good thing you’re a terrible thrower,” said Sadie with a grin, opening her palm to reveal the coin he’d so dramatically discarded.
He slapped at her hand, but she’d already closed her fingers around the silver dollar. “I don’t care,” he said. “I want to see Katy.”
“I’ve got’n idea,” said Sadie, tugging almost imperceptibly at his sleeve. “Whyn’t you an’ me go an’ get summat to eat. Then we’ll come back ‘ere an’ fetch ‘er if that’s what you want to do.”
“Of course it’s what I want to do. There’s no way I’m goin’ to leave ‘er with strangers! She’s my sister!”
“‘Course she is,” said Sadie. “That’s what I’m sayin’. We’ll come back an’ get ‘er when we’ve ‘ad summat to eat. That’s fair, ain’t it?” He looked over his shoulder at the Saltonstall house as she pulled him gently down the hill. “Ain’t nothing we can do f’r’a now. That doc, ‘e’ll set ‘er right.” Tug, tug, tug. “Ain’t like we don’t know where she is, is it? Now, I’d like to wrap mesself ‘round a nice bacon butty? How’s that sound? Maybe a nice bit’ve fish pie . . . ”
“There you are!”
Quiggly’s voice was unmistakable. Thomas’s neck snapped reflexively to attention, nearly choking him on the beef stew that was half-way down his throat. “Cap’n!”
“I been to hell an’ Connaught lookin’ fer you boy. An’ ‘ere y’er feedin’ y’er face while I been worrit on ye.”
In fits and starts between mouthfuls, one taking up where the other left off, like a husband and wife long married, Thomas and Sadie sketched recent events.
Quiggly ordered a beer and sat down. For a long time he stared at the table, following a blotch of sunlight on its slow progress through the comestibles. Thomas and Sadie just watched and ate and waited. At last, leveling his gaze at Sadie, the Captain spoke. “You done right, lass.” Of all the possibilities he’d considered regarding Katy, her rescue by a wealthy family had not occurred to him. He’d heard of the Saltonstalls, as he’d heard the names of most of the Brahmin families of Boston’s Back Bay. It was a good name. A civic-minded family with several members prominent in local government. “Katy’s best off where she is.”
“But . . . !”
“But nothin’,” said Quiggly, dropping his tankard loudly to the table in emphasis. “You got nothin’ f’r that child but to share your sufferin’s. Is that what you want f’r’a? You got a brother to bury already. Are ye not goin’ to be ‘appy ‘til she’s aside of ‘im in the grave?”
Thomas felt as if he’d been stabbed in the heart; he was scarcely able to breathe, let alone speak.
“You want what’s best f’r’a, don’t ya? Ain’t that the job you took on?”
Thomas stirred himself enough to nod.
“Well, seems she’s got a mistress . . . and a high-priced doc to tend ‘er, and food and shelter, I ‘spect. That’s one side the list. Now let’s run it up against your side.” He held up his fingers and ticked off his points one at a time. “No money. No prospects. No food. No home. No clothes. Nor even sense to come out’ve the rain . . . ” he looked at Sadie. “An’ ‘er to take care of in the bargain.”
“I can take care of . . . ”
Quiggly held up his hand, its nautical authority not diminished by being ashore. “Now, I found a nice patch of ground for Tiffin.”
Thomas glanced up hopefully. “In a church yard?”
“Aye. An’ surrounded by some folk ‘oo’re famous ‘erebouts to keep ‘im comp’ny.”
One little thing was going to turn out right. One sad, pathetic, sorrowful little thing. Tiffin would be properly buried in hallowed ground. “He’ll have to have a stone.”
“I think that can be arranged,” said Quiggly.
“Where is it?”
Posting Sadie to keep an eye on the Saltonstall home and let him know if they moved Katy, Thomas spent the next day overseeing Tiffin’s burial in Copp’s Hill Burying Ground. True to his word, and at his own expense, Quiggly had had a stone made, a small rectangle of unadorned slate bearing an epitaph. When it was anchored at the head of the small mound of freshly turned earth. Thomas painfully sounded out the words:
‘Here lies Tiffin Conlan, aged 12, died aboard H.M.S Crimea from dysentery. Buried this 17th day of October, 1879. A noble soul and a scholar.’
“Scholar,” said Thomas, forcing a bittersweet smile through the tears. “He’d’ve liked that.”
Quiggly nodded and let silence conclude the service.
“God keep his soul,” Thomas said at the end of a long unspoken prayer.
“Amen.” Quiggly slipped his hat on.
They turned from the grave and into the liquid golden drapery of days’ end.
“Where you goin’ now, boy?” Quiggly asked.
“West.”
Quiggly laughed through his nose. “West is a pretty big place in America.”
Thomas, his gaze on the ground, looked at his father’s boots. “I’m goin’ as far as these boots’ll take me. When either one of ‘em gets a hole in it, that’s where I stop.”
After they’d walked a while, Quiggly spoke. “I wish I was goin’ with ‘ye.” He held out his hand. “But it’s back to Ireland for me.”
Thomas shook his hand firmly. “Thanks, Cap’n. For . . . ”
“Think nuthin’ of it, lad. I figure I owe you for takin’ the skin off y’er back. An’ f’r savin’ me ship.”
Thomas smarted a little at the reminder. “I did what I ‘ad to do. You did what you ‘ad to do.”
Quiggly was burrowing through his pocketbook. He removed a ten pound note and held it out. “Seaman’s wages. You earned it.”
“If y’er waitin’ fer me to say ‘no’, you’ll be here a while,” said Thomas with a smile. He took the money and tucked it in amongst the folds of his coat, unaware that it was twice a seaman’s wages. “What about you? Goin’ back f’r another load of passengers?”
Quiggly shook his head. “Steam trade’s takin’ over,” he said, sniffing loudly. “The screw propeller an’ triple expansion engine’s put paid to my career. Besides, lately I’ve felt like that fella on the River Styx, good fer nothin’ but ferryin’ the dead across.” He was talking more to himself than Thomas. He shook off the reverie. “The wife’s folks left us a nice little farm down Gallaway. Near the sea. I ‘spect I’ll make a proper gen’lman farmer.”
“Don’t grow potatoes,” Thomas advised with a distant smile.
“If y’er ever in Ireland, look us up.”
“An’ if y’er ever out west of America, you do the same. Just ask f’r Conlan. Everyone’ll know the name.”
“Aye. That I’m sure of,” said Quiggly, patting him on the shoulder.
“Tell the mistress . . . tell ‘er there ain’t words to thank ‘er for all she done f’r us.”
“I’ll do that, lad.”
The two men, who in so short a space of time had gone from master and servant, to captain and crew, to abiding friends, took their separate ways. Thomas, as was his practice, never looked back.
Many of the streets of Boston had simply been laid over ancient cow paths and as a result, they twisted, turned, and wandered off in painful contortions in every direction, and many a newcomer quickly found himself lost beyond hope. But the way to the Saltonstall’s house on Beacon Hill was easy, and Thomas
knew it by heart as he knew the great, drooping maple tree under whose translucent autumn canopy Sadie had taken up residence. She was waiting for him, her mouth encrusted with charcoal from the roasted chestnuts she’d been eating.
“It’s done, then?”
“Aye.”
“With a stone?”
“Aye. A proper one.”
“An’ a priest?”
Thomas nodded. “Quiggly worked it all out.” He still felt the dry, course, sea-hardened hand of the Captain in his own, and the indefinable look in the old man’s eyes – something akin to sadness – when they parted. “He’s a good man.”
“F’r all ‘e near killed ya.”
“He couldn’t have treated me any different than anyone else,” said Thomas, sitting on the stone wall beside her. “Or there might’ve been a mutiny.”
“I’d say ‘e give ye more’n the goin’ rate, if ye ast me.”
Thomas shrugged. He nodded at the house. “Anything happen?”
“The doc come in twice,” Sadie replied, holding up her fingers. “I got ‘old’ve ‘im the secon’ time an ast ‘im. ‘e said ‘oo was I as was wantin’ to know, an’ I says a frien’ wot come over on the ship with ‘er, an’ he starts astin’ me all these questions – what was ‘er name, an’ where wuz she from, and did she have fambly, an’ I says ‘Katy’ and ‘Irelan’’ and she was an orphan ‘oo’s mum and dad and bruvver died and she ‘ad another bruvver, but I din’t know what come of ‘im.” She leaned toward him. “I lied,” she added with a wicked grin that grew into a laugh and was followed by a few of the monosyllabic curses that seemed to escape her unwittingly, like steam.
“But what’d he say about ‘er?”
“Said she was de’idrated,” said Sadie, proud at having mastered the word. “That’s wot ‘appens when y’er don’t ‘ave enough water in ya. That’s why she passed out. Then she wuz ‘alf starved an’ gettin’ rickets on account of ‘er not gettin’ s’ficient sunlight, which is why she wuz so weak. An’ o’ course the fever she ‘ad wot brought it all on.”
To Thomas, all this sounded like a death sentence. “What’s goin’ to happen to ‘er?” He braced for her reply.
“‘e says as she’ll be right as rain with good food, a warm bed, an’ a turn in the sunshine now an’ then.”
He looked at the big brick house with lace curtains in the windows, louvered green shutters, and the forbidding black door with its bright brass hardware. “Will they take care’ve her?”
“Doc says she couldn’t’ve fell no better in Boston than in front’ve Eleanor Saltonstall’s coach.” She caught Thomas with her eyes. “She’s got a life ‘ere, Thomas. Might even go to school. ‘Oo knows? Leastwise, she’ll be took care of. Some day you c’n come back an’ make ‘er acquaintance.” She caught sight of a paper he’d been crumpling in his hand. “What’s that?”
“Huh?” He looked at the paper as if it was a foreign object. “Oh, it’s about a job. There was this fella givin’ ‘em out back at the market.”
“What job?”
Thomas unfolded the paper and smoothed it on his knee. He sounded out the words slowly:
“ ‘Cowboys, Indians, outlaws! Is there a Kit Carson in you? Gold, boom towns, more land than your eyes can hold. Work in the land of dreams in the world where the sun sets! Adventurers Wanted. Railroads pay top $ for dependable men to cut ties for track. Take part in taming the Wild West. Earn up to three $ a day.”
“Three dollars. What’s that in real money?”
Thomas calculated, based upon his brief familiarity with American money. “About a pound.”
“Coo! Every bleedin’ day?!
To Thomas it sounded too good to be true.
“What’s a Kit Carson?”
Thomas shrugged.
“We may ‘ave to get one.”
Chapter Ten
Los Pinos Creek, Colorado
March 5, 1957
There was a thumping on the car top. Regan jumped to his feet, nearly knocking Maryellen over backwards. “Somebody’s here!” He pounded furiously on the ceiling. “We’re in here! We’re in here!”
A series of irregular, muffled thuds resounded through the car, followed by a voice.
“What’s he saying?”
“Shh!” Regan pressed his ear to the cartop. “I can’t tell. Louder!” he yelled. “We can’t hear you!”
The voice continued. Regan tried to quiet his heart. He held his breath, closed his eyes, and concentrated. When he heard what the would-be rescuers were saying, he jumped down from the seat. “It’s not good news, I’m afraid.”
“What did he say?”
“I couldn’t make out why, exactly, but I gather they’re having to call it off ‘til tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “Four-forty. It’ll be dark soon. I expect they want to make it to shelter before they lose the light.”
Maryellen shivered. “We won’t freeze to death, will we?”
Regan forced a laugh. He was thinking of the wreck of the San Juan, about the same time of year, back in ‘48. She’d been crossing Phantom Curve, a narrow strip of rail bed between the mountain face and a sheer drop of several hundred feet, when she was broad-sided by an avalanche that sent several passenger coaches sliding off the side of the canyon. Bill Holt had been the engineer that night. Ben Hindelang, whose acquaintance Regan had made during previous trips, was the engineer tonight. “Of course not. We’ve got the lanterns. If we’re careful, we should be able to make them last the night.” He resumed his seat beside her. “Meantime, I think we should stay close together . . . as close as possible . . . to conserve our body heat.”
“You didn’t set this all up, did you?” Maryellen laughed.
Regan smiled warmly. “Well, I may be desperate for female companionship, but I’ve never resorted to wrecking a train! However . . . ”
The steam of their laughter hung in the air, a cloud of cold foreboding.
“We can take the curtains down and use them for blankets. Better than nothing.”
While Maryellen unfastened the brackets holding the rods in place, and slipped several curtains off, Regan flipped the bolt toggles that held the soft, plush chairs in place and pushed two sets of them together for makeshift beds. “We’re fortunate to have this car,” he said, groaning slightly as he shoved one of the chairs into place. He explained about the car.
Dust filled the air as Maryellen shook out some of the curtains for their bedclothes. “I must say I was surprised to find this kind of luxury . . . out here. Even the Pullman from New York to Chicago isn’t this nice.”
“Well, the normal passenger train is a good deal more rustic. Plenty nice for a scenic ride from Antonito in the springtime, but for an overnight stay in a snowdrift . . . ” he gestured widely, “I’ll take this anytime.”
The first lantern began to gutter. Regan lit the second. They settled in their seats and made themselves as comfortable as possible.
“Where did they go, do you think?” Maryellen asked through the curtains she’d pulled up around her nose.
“The crew?”
Maryellen nodded.
“We’re near a place called Los Piños Creek, about two miles from Cumbres. I expect they’ll make their way down there, if they remembered to bring their snowshoes.”
“Is that a town?”
“Not really. A few buildings; a post office. Not much else. But there’s coal there for the train. And water.”
“But I can hear the locomotive running.”
Regan heard the low rumble. “That’ll keep the engine from freezing.”
Conversation flagged for a moment as they settled into their seats.
“Can you read me some more from Tiffin’s journal?”
“Sure. But it’s Thomas’s journal from here on out.”
“Thomas? Why?”
“Apparently Tiffin didn’t make it.”
Maryellen sat bolt upright. “Didn’t make it? How do you mean? Didn’t make it where?”
>
Regan waved the journal. “Thomas says they buried him in Boston . . . at a place called Copp’s Hill.”
“Buried him! You mean he died of that fever?”
“Seems so.”
Maryellen sank back in amongst the curtains that made her bed. She felt as if she’d lost a part of herself. She was afraid to ask the next question. “What about Katy?”
“Apparently they left her in Boston.”
“Left her? A five-year-old girl?”
“With a family called the Saltonstalls.”
Maryellen sat up again, draping the curtains around her shoulder. “Wait a minute. I know the Saltonstalls.”
“You do?”
“Well, not personally. But I know of them. They summer on an island not far from ours, in Maine. And they’re pretty close to the top of the pecking order in Boston social circles. In fact, one of them was Governor of Massachusetts.”
“Really? I’m not much up on recent New England history, I’m afraid. I wonder if he’s any relation.”
“Must be. It’s not a common name.”
It had been a long day, and Regan was beginning to feel its effects. He pulled himself to his feet and was about to stoke the fire for the night when the world suddenly, silently, slid out from under him.
“What’s happening!?” Maryellen cried.
Regan braced himself against his chair, but as it was unbolted it simply threw him back toward the window. He threw his hands up in front of his face just as his head fractured the glass. The snow bank on that side of the train, which he’d assumed to be many feet thick, fell away before his eyes. Just like with the San Juan, an avalanche had slammed into the car, nudging it half off of the track. Now the rear wheel carriage, at least the part that was visible, hung limply over a steep slope that terminated, about a quarter mile away, in a sudden drop of several hundred feet to the wild Chama River. Only a scattering of Ponderosa pines intervened between the train and the cliff.
Silence the Dead Page 11
