Cordelia Underwood, or the Marvelous Beginnings of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  “We first heard the breakers, almost gentle, against the Black Rocks. It was good to hear those waves—silent ledges are the killers, but noisy breakers are like a rattlesnake’s warning. Here was another landmark passed safely. But then the fog parted and a cry of terror reached our ears that, even now, freezes my blood to think of it.”

  There was a silence among the listeners as the captain drew his pipe back to life with several deep puffs. There was a crafty look in his weathered face of which Mister Walton alone took note. Captain Pinkham might feel a chill in recalling that cry of terror, but he rather enjoyed giving a chill telling about it.

  “I have seen curtains upon the stage part with less effect than did that fog,” he recommenced. “It fell aside from those black crags and hovered like a frame upon a startling scene. Two women clutched for life upon the rocks, burying their heads against the roar of the breakers, and raising their arms and voices between times for help.

  “Now there is a good deal of superstition among sailors, and a man need not be book-learned to know of the Sirens who lured ancient mariners to wreck and doom. On any coast there are tales of spirits and merfolk drawing incautious men to their deaths, even appealing to one’s sympathy with cries of helplessness and distress. Our first emotion, I must tell you, was fear.

  “But the cry of help at sea cannot be ignored; there is no plainer symbol of life’s troubles than a human creature adrift upon the waves. A sailor hears such a call for aid and thinks to himself: There but for the grace of God go I.

  “Action that follows hard on thought is another quality of the seaman’s life; before a word was hardly spoke we shortened our already meager sail, dropped a drag anchor to slow us down, and Captain Lewis put the wheel about dangerously. I myself was one of the first into the rescue boat, but if I had known what else lurked ahead, besides those water-racked rocks, I might have hid in the hold rather than tender my assistance.

  “We were bold that day, but approaching such a predicament requires consideration. We kept a line with us in communication with the ship, as much to keep us together in case the fog descended again as to serve in our rescue operation. The remnants of a boat, in which the women must have crashed, bobbed and scurried among the breakers, and the piece of a bow with the name B. Audrey bumped against us as we oared past the terrified women. We could hear their voices, but not their words as they shouted and waved—warning us, we thought, of such dangers as we already well understood.

  “There were four of us in the longboat, and we made plans as we rowed against the waves. Could we bring ourselves up against the lee of the Black Rocks in these relatively gentle seas? Could we prevail upon these poor women, already exhausted, to swim some short distance to us? Could we reach them a line or one of us swim himself with a rescue rope?”

  Captain Pinkham stepped away from the wall and moved among his listeners, gazing out the windows of the passenger cabin as if he could see the scene even then. “A renewed cry of horror sharpened our attention,” said he, “and we stout men joined this particular chorus as we watched a long suckered arm rise out of the waves and grope searchingly only a foot or so from one of the women.”

  “I will never forget her face. She and her companion were dressed in white, their hats long lost to the sea, their hair and clothing soaked and disarrayed. Her face was gray with fear and disgust as this slithery arm—no less than thirty feet in length—felt its way to within inches of her clutching hands. She was near to casting herself to the mercy of the cold sea rather than suffer the touch of that pink tentacle, and we were frozen in abject horror hardly less than hers.

  “We saw then what had not been plain to us before. Several powerful tentacles clung to the dark formation, and when the waves dipped into a trough, a single unblinking eye briefly surfaced.

  “It was the Kraken! How often had I heard of her, of the great battles that men had fought against her—won and lost—of the terrifying struggles men had watched between her and the mighty killer whales of the northern seas! How little had I believed in her until that horrible moment!

  “One of our crew was standing in the longboat, raising the line from the Windward above his head to clear the Black Rocks as the waves rose and fell. Another shipped his oar and brought it up like a club, his face rigid with the sort of detestation such fear can boil within the human breast.

  “The scene was clear to us now—the two women clutching the safest ground against the breakers while shifting their place upon the crags as several snakelike limbs crawled along the jagged rocks and barnacles, searching for them. Up from the seaward side of the rocks a single arm lifted like a great worm above their heads.

  “A wraith of fog obscured the rocks for several terrible moments, then the crack of a rifle was heard, and the mist behind us was parted by the bow of the eighty-six-foot steamer the Sasanoa. I have never seen a vessel arrive with such heartening effect, for her purpose was immediately clear. Captain Lowe himself stood at her bow, levering round after round into the chamber of his rifle and shooting toward the shadow of the beast beneath the water.

  “It is dangerous to fire over water; a bullet striking the surface can as likely come back and split your skull for your troubles, and even cannonballs have been known to double back upon the ship that fired them. To boot, a bullet is a poor thing once it pierces the water, and quickly loses its lethal energy. But we cheered, nonetheless, as the Sasanoa came as close as her pilot dared while Captain Lowe peppered the water with his fire.

  “Our presence had been unknown to the crew of the steamer until she emerged from the haze, and as she was brought about her wake impelled us closer to the rocks. Some providential combination of wake and wave bumped us gently against the perilous island, and the man in the bow of our boat simply leaped ashore with the line in hand, and held the bow firm against the rocks while the women fell into the boat in their hurry to join us. Then he shoved us away just as one of those tendrils curled after him.

  “The man with the oar nearly pitched out of the boat as he leaped forward and swatted the arm away. The fleshy suckers gripped the oar and ripped it from his grasp. The oar flailed above the water, then disappeared beneath the surface. When it bobbed into sight, shattered into several pieces, we shuddered to think that one of us or both our passengers might have been dragged to our deaths in just that manner.

  “The crew of the Sasanoa drew the creature’s attention with a hail of fire, and we made the best use of this borrowed time by rowing with our remaining oars back to the Windward. We had nearly reached the ship when a horrifying roar came across the water, our heads wheeling about in time to see a jet of water rising from the waves and the great tentacles disappearing.

  “It was a nerve-torturing trip to the ship, knowing that the Kraken lurked somewhere beneath us, wounded perhaps, certainly enraged. I bent to my oar, fearing with each stroke to strike some large form beneath the water. That awful roar, which I learned later was the result of its form of locomotion, echoed through the drifting fog.

  “Once aboard, our spirits were greatly improved. The women were remarkably sturdy about their ordeal and effusive in their gratitude. They had been traveling between Salter Island and Todd’s Head when an odd current caught them and dragged them away from land. No amount of rowing would alter their unwanted course, and soon they discovered that something more sinister than a simple riptide was dragging them to wreck upon the Black Rocks.

  “The Sasanoa, heading from the Kennebec to Boothbay Harbor on its daily run, caught sight of the marooned women just ahead of us and was slowed in her rescue by a sudden thickening of the fog in the mouth of the Sheepscott as she turned about.

  “The haze lifted while we pieced together this story and we saw the figure of Captain Lowe as he called out to us to ask if all was well. The Sasanoa steamed past us and we hollered back our thanks.

  “The afternoon conjured a breeze from the south and with it we took into Five Islands. The Kraken—whose tentacles had each measur
ed the length of five tall men, whose eye we had seen staring balefully from the waves, and whose incredible proportions we could only guess at—was not seen again, to my knowledge, until recently, perhaps.

  “And here are the Black Rocks, my friends, the very scene of my tale.”

  All eyes came about, and the craggy outcropping of rocks rising from the sea was greeted with a respectful silence. The scene was simple enough, and innocent (if nature can be considered innocent), and yet their perception was suffused with Captain Pinkham’s remarkable story, and seasoned (no doubt) by its three final words: until recently, perhaps.

  Mister Walton was impressed with the tale, but also amused. The image of those two women, scrambling upon the slippery rock, the horrible tentacles groping for them, the longboat rowing in amongst the waves, the Sasanoa bursting from the fog—perhaps, he thought, he should be writing some of these tales down.

  The Winter Harbor turned away from the Black Rocks, which was a relief, if any of the passengers had admitted it. On their return, however, Captain Pinkham took the wheel and brought them closer to the scene of his story. The breakers crashed, the foam glistened. Again Mister Walton’s imagination was able to conjure shapes beneath the water.

  “There it is!” cried out one of the younger men, pointing. He led the wave of nervous laughter that followed, and those who had been most startled joined in at their own expense.

  “Why did the captain refer to the monster as a she?” wondered one of the young women.

  Her beau let out a puff of smoke from his cigar. “Predatory, grasping, unpredictable.”

  “The male sea monsters are apparently minding their own business at the bottom of the ocean,” said Mr. Berkeley.

  “The female of the species is more deadly than the male,” said the beau.

  “Then you had better be careful how you respond to such a query,” said Miss McCannon, setting off another wave of laughter.

  Several passengers, feeling brave, stepped out to the rail to watch the Black Rocks go by. The light of day began to evaporate Captain Pinkham’s tale. Mister Walton accompanied Miss McCannon to the stern of the boat and they listened to the jovial conversation.

  “Sea serpents!” said one fellow. “It’s all rather silly, really.”

  “It wasn’t a sea serpent; it was a giant squid, you know,” said another as they neared the northern end of the rocks.

  “Yes, well, while I was in Greece I got a taste for squid—calamari, they call it. I find it difficult to be in awe of anything that I have eaten.”

  The sudden explosive roar that emanated from the vicinity of the northernmost rock set them on their heels, brushed their hair back, and shivered the very deck they walked upon. Miss McCannon let out a whoop and retreated into the arms of Mister Walton, who was not adverse to the unexpected comfort imparted by an adjacent body. The company froze in their startled attitudes and, as one, let out a second cry of alarm when a crew member appeared to tell them that Captain Pinkham was going to run full steam ahead and would they please not fall overboard.

  A babble of chatter and speculation rose, and it was generally agreed that something had roared—almost angrily, according to the young beau who had expressed such caution regarding females.

  “Thank you, Mister Walton, for your support,” said Miss McCannon. She pulled away from his arms and brushed at a stray lock, her smile quiet but becoming. “I was rather startled, really.”

  “As was I,” admitted Mister Walton. “I can’t imagine what it could have been.”

  She held a hand to her bosom, took a breath, and laughed. The steamer was making some headway now, and the Black Rocks were dwindling from sight. “Yes, well . . .” she said, feeling awkward now that the brief crisis was done. She reached out and patted his hand gently. “I best go in and see how the rest of the party is doing.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Mister Walton, blinking behind his spectacles. “Oh, dear!” he said. “Poor Mrs. Eccles! She must have been frightened to death!”

  Mrs. Eccles was only just waking up. It was a great tree-felling snore from her own self that rattled her bony frame to the point of coming to. “Gnnnnng! . . . What, what?! . . . Oh, folderol!” She swayed in her seat, so that her attendants, who had been gawking through the window, were startled into action and jumped to catch her. “Get away! Get away!” she shouted, swatting at them. “What’s to drink? Where am I? Good heavens, I’ve been transported!”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Eccles,” explained Mister Walton. “We are on an excursion, looking for sea monsters.”

  “Yes, yes, of course! What do you think I am, dotty? What a lot of folderol! Did we find one?”

  “Not exactly,” said Mister Walton with a smile.

  “Not exactly? How do you not exactly find a sea monster?”

  “You are right, of course.”

  “It’s like more or less fighting a war, or sort of being kissed! Some things just aren’t done by half measures!”

  Mister Walton bowed to her wisdom, and she laughed.

  “Did we hear the Bull?” asked the elderly woman.

  “The Bull, ma’am?” He leaned closer to her to be sure that he had heard correctly.

  “Yes, the Bull. Did we hear it?”

  “I’m not sure. What does it sound like?”

  “I heard it most of my lifetime ago, when I first met my husband. He took me in a sloop one summer’s day and brought me alongside those Black Rocks outside Sheepscott Bay. Filled me with all manner of stories to get my nerves up. I had been cagey with him, you see, all season long, and he’d pressed himself fervently.

  “There is a hole in one of those rocks, you see—worn there by so many years of waves driving upon them—and when the tide is right and just coming back in, a certain sort of wave will drive through that hole and roar like a bull. Of course, I knew all about it, but I liked him by then and jumped right into his lap when that thing set off. He was so startled, he didn’t even know enough to kiss me!”

  “Gran!” said Miss Bishop, who had entered the pilot house.

  “Well, it is true! And if I hadn’t been smart enough to instigate that kiss, your mother might never have been, nor you, either.”

  “Well, Mrs. Eccles,” said Mister Walton, giving Captain Pinkham a sly look over his spectacles. “I think we did hear the Bull.”

  “Timed it rather nicely, I thought,” said the captain without turning from his wheel.

  “Oh, folderol!” said Mrs. Eccles.

  45 Caught in the Act

  FOUR PRESIDENTS, TWO ROYAL PRINCES, NUMEROUS STATESMEN, FAMED sportsmen, and dignitaries had stayed at the Bangor House, so Grace considered the establishment suitable for their patronage. The only blight upon the hotel’s reputation was that Oscar Wilde once lectured in its ballroom, but Grace was of a forgiving nature and considered this to be an anomalous factor in the building’s history. She did ask, however, which had been his room—only to be sure that none of her party was to be placed in it.

  The hotel manager was familiar with this particular concern and he assured Grace that she would not so much as share a floor with that infamous bit of real estate. He had quieted many an anxious heart with this same assertion and, indeed, was so solicitous of his customers that he willingly shifted the location of the Oscar Wilde Room from moment to moment to benefit either their curiosity or their peace of mind.

  The Underwoods and their party arrived in time for lunch, after which they found themselves with an afternoon to do with as they pleased. The young people were up for a tour of the city, and Grace felt it necessary to accompany them, since James and Mercia did not volunteer and Aunt Delia had gone to her rooms to rest from her travels.

  A carriage was hired, and John Benning sat with Grace, opposite Cordelia and Priscilla, as they took in those instructive sights listed in the older woman’s guide book. When they returned two hours later, Grace was weary from the ordeal and insisted that her daughter and niece must be as well; Cordelia and Priscilla were d
uly ordered to follow her example by retiring to their rooms till supper. John Benning bade them good afternoon and was glimpsed, from the stairs, sitting with a newspaper in the foyer.

  Neither of the young women had any intention of resting in the next few hours, and they were planning to join forces in Cordelia’s room when James appeared in the hall and asked to speak to his daughter.

  “Did you have a nice jaunt?” he asked when Cordelia stepped into her parents’ rooms, but the question was merely polite and required nothing more than the simplest reply. James nodded toward the door to signal that she should close it after her, and he drew up a chair so that they formed an intimate circle. He looked reflective as he asked her to sit; Mercia sat by the window, and Cordelia could not read her mother’s expression. Cordelia was convinced that John Benning was to be the subject of their conversation, and her stomach tightened uncomfortably.

  “I met an old acquaintance when we arrived at Ellsworth the night before last,” began James without ceremony. “A man under whom your Uncle Basil served during the war. Captain Coyle—you may have heard me speak of him . . .”

  “I don’t think so,” said Cordelia quietly, her raised eyebrows indicating both curiosity and trepidation.

  “He thought highly of your uncle, and in discussing him I spoke of your bequest. One particular detail of the story rather surprised him, and he told me something in return that surprised me at least as much.” James took a slip of paper from his coat pocket; he looked at it briefly then passed it to Cordelia. “I wired Maurice, who worked for me at the firm, asking him to seek this matter out.”

  Cordelia took the telegram and read it.

  PORTLAND TELEGRAPH COMPANY OFFICE

  54 KENNEBEC STREET

  JULY 9 AM 11:00 BANGOR, MAINE

  MR JAMES UNDERWOOD III

  BANGOR HOUSE

  TRACKED COYLES SHIP BETHEL TO CHARLESTON. CHARLES STIMPLY ABS LISTED DEAD BURIED AT SEA 17 DEC 95 OUT OF ANTILLES. WAITING FURTHERS.