Cordelia Underwood, or the Marvelous Beginnings of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  “Easy there, Ollie,” said another fellow. “He’s a good friend of the boss.”

  Ollie stared down the length of his finger, then slowly dropped the threatening digit.

  “Why do you think Ben just left?” wondered Sundry. “Where do you think he went?”

  “The seminary, he said,” said one of the younger men.

  Sundry raised an eyebrow. “Did he? I thought, when I first met him, that he had a certain theological inclination.”

  “He got a message from the boss,” said another.

  “Did you see it?” asked Sundry.

  The members of the gang inquired silently of one another.

  “He only showed it to Samuel,” said someone.

  By now Sundry, the members of the gang, and the members of the club were conspicuous for being the only people on the platform (save for the sheep farmer), and Ollie and his fellows were beginning to feel the heat of scrutiny, real or imagined.

  “I think we should wait till dark,” said someone.

  “I think you should,” said Sundry. “And that will give Hasson and his cronies a good long time to get there before you.”

  The paralysis of indecision hung over the gang members. The farmer paced the platform. The sheep bleated in the afternoon heat, glad perhaps for the river breeze. Thump read aloud from the article concerning the abduction of the young woman.

  “Good heavens!” said Eagleton suddenly. “And we left Mister Walton in Millinocket.”

  “And Mr. Benning!” added Ephram.

  These pronouncements induced a series of nervous flinches from the small crowd.

  “Hey, be careful there,” said Ollie.

  “I told you they were cool,” said Sundry. “Just the men for the task ahead. You’ve gone this far in secret and under cover of night; let’s finish the job in broad daylight and under the nose of the law.”

  “That sounds like the boss,” said one of the men.

  “It was the last thing he said to me before I boarded the train.”

  The door to the freight car swung wide on grumbly hinges, and the walls of the car vibrated like simmering kettledrums. Several members of the gang cast discomfited glances about the freight yard. “Don’t look so mysterious,” said Sundry to one of them. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Ephram?”

  “Hmm?” said that man, looking up from the paper. “Oh, yes,” he said, remembering now. “Act mysterious and you will appear mysterious.”

  “A very wise man said that,” informed Sundry.

  “I’m still not sure why you’ve changed your plans,” said the railroad man who had opened the door. “Mr. Benning said expressly, ‘After dark.’ ”

  “We’re not entirely sure ourselves,” said Ollie, his voice growling on a note in sympathy with the complaining hinges. He climbed into the car with the railroad man and waited for his eyes to adjust from the brilliance of the day. “Someone climb up and help us. And bring that wagon closer.”

  Sundry was among the three men who pulled themselves up into the shadows. Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump (who had experienced some trouble crossing the tracks while reading) took note that something was happening and looked up in unison from their newspaper.

  Ollie loomed like a bear when Sundry stepped into the dark. He leaned with both hands on a large trunk, the whites of his eyes showing as he studied Sundry. “That was a very good act, letting Ben take those fellows at cards . . . I think.”

  “I take no credit,” said Sundry truthfully.

  “Well, take warning, then,” said the black-bearded fellow. He glanced from one to another of his comrades and back to Sundry. “I am watching you, and those three out there.”

  “You know, the boss wasn’t too sure about you, either,” said Sundry.

  Ollie looked daggers, then barked, “Lay hold of her!”

  Sundry was astonished at the weight of the chest, and conscious, as they moved that a certain degree of care was warranted. He felt a weakness in its sides, as if it might break in half as they slid it across the floor of the car. Once it stood in the light, its age became apparent to him; and what felt soft and leathery he found to be a thick and ancient coat of tar.

  And he realized that this was not some bit of stolen luggage or a recently purloined cache of valuables. The wonder of the chest was that it looked so exactly like its fictive counterparts—a pleasing vision to the average observer, but worrisome to anyone hoping to secret it past the rest of the observing world.

  There was no way for Sundry to know the history of this artifact—that it had sailed upon the Adventure with Captain Kidd and been buried on an island off Nova Scotia; that it had been dug up by a crew of American adventurers more than a hundred and fifty years later, but that honor and war had led to its reburial in the heart of the Maine wilderness—there was no way for Sundry to know these things, but he could easily construct something like them while his palms rested upon the time-cracked surface of tar and his eyes scanned its black, burly, and mysterious bulk in the light of day. The chest was consecrated, not just with age, but with human effort and motive, and perhaps with human blood as well.

  “The boss didn’t tell you everything, did he?” said Ollie, the look of wonder was so clear upon Sundry’s face.

  The chest had drawn the interest of everyone; even Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump allowed themselves to be distracted from their newspaper.

  “Gentlemen,” said Sundry. He had no idea how to proceed, and hoped that his three companions, at least, might understand the necessity of paying attention. A horse and wagon was drawing up to the freight car and from the plank seat the man driving spat a streak of tobacco juice to punctuate the fact of his arrival. “Perhaps you would help lift this into the wagon,” said Sundry to the club members, hoping that some inspiring plan would occur to him.

  There was a general milling about; some of the gang wished to put their hands upon the object of their labor, some did not trust the newcomers with it, and others had no desire to heft that great weight again.

  Thump seemed the most game of the club members; he endeavored to climb into the wagon but found that the newspaper hindered him. He passed it from hand to hand, lifting first one leg, then the other, and looking somewhat like an instructor of calisthenics. Finally, he handed the paper to Eagle-ton, who thus burdened found it difficult to help his friend into the wagon. The problem was studied, and it was agreed upon that Ephram should hold the paper while Eagleton lent his assistance to Thump.

  “What are they doing?” asked Ollie.

  “There is no quick way to explain it,” answered Sundry. Any advantage he had hoped to gain by filling the wagon with his supposed accomplices was undone by the delay; three of the gang had climbed up and hoisted the chest down before Thump had even gotten to his feet in the conveyance.

  The wagon shivered with the weight of the box, and the horse jerked ahead a foot or so, throwing the men in the back off balance and Thump onto his seat. Somehow he had contrived to land on his hat, and he was pulling it out from under him when Ephram let out a cry of amazement.

  “Good heavens, gentlemen! The object of our admiration is to be in our own fair city!” It was difficult for those outside the club to interpret Ephram’s words, but the subject was somewhat clarified as he read aloud.

  “Those fortunate enough to have attended the ascension and parachute jump of the lovely Mrs. Roberto at the Freeport Fourth of July Festivities this season will be disappointed, no doubt, that a pair of politicians is not scheduled to box in the vicinity of her landing path when she repeats that brave performance at Portland’s Deering Oaks on the thirty-first of this month. It must be agreed, however, amongst those who have seen her famous descent that she makes a picturesque figure in her attractive suit of tights, and that the promise of this remarkable act will make the trip to the park well worth anybody’s while.”

  Indeed, all the men did agree that this last assertion had some merit to it. Several were familiar with Mrs. Roberto’s act, and the d
river of the wagon (smiling mysteriously) expressed knowledge of the woman.

  Thump was taken with the paragraph, and rose to his feet with an expression of inspired abstraction. “You’ve met the lady in question?” he said to the driver.

  “Questionable might be the better way to put it,” said the driver with a friendly wink.

  While the other men climbed down from the wagon, Thump approached the driver. “You do say.” It was clear that the fellow was ready to impart some important information. The driver waggled a finger to indicate the need to communicate in a whisper, and Thump eagerly leaned forward.

  Nobody actually saw which portion of Thump struck which portion of the man in the driver’s seat; but there was the sound of a blow from the former and a colorful expostulation on the part of the latter, who fell against the horse’s flank on his way to the ground. The horse, taking this blow as a signal to move, broke into a slow trot, and the driver was barely pulled away before the wheels of the wagon rolled past.

  Thump stood, looking triumphant . . . or, rather, he would have stood looking triumphant if he hadn’t been so indignant . . . or, rather, he would have looked indignant if he hadn’t been so puzzled by the fact that he was in the back of a moving wagon, watching his friends and associates dwindle with distance.

  Several of those associates (the more recent ones) were chasing the wagon. “Pardon me?” inquired Thump, who had difficulty making sense of their cries over the rumble of the wheels. The wagon hit a bump and he disappeared briefly behind the chest.

  The reins had been looped over a hook at the side of the driver’s bench and they hung loosely over the horse’s back, occasionally and lightly slapping the animal with the jogging of the wagon, so that by the time Thump’s head reappeared from behind the chest, the creature had increased its speed to a fast clip.

  “What is this?” demanded Ollie. He made a grab for Sundry, who stepped back and threw his hands up in honest (if pleasantly surprised) confusion.

  “I only said . . .” the driver was saying, but the remainder of his complaint was lost in the chorus of angry shouts.

  “I am a bit taken aback,” admitted Ephram.

  “I didn’t know Thump could drive,” said Eagleton.

  Passing the station house, Thump found that several people were watching him with a very polite sort of attention, and he waved to them. It occurred to him then that no one was piloting the vehicle, and he was put in mind of Mister Walton, who had experienced a similar sort of adventure. He felt a touch of apprehension mixed with a degree of pride (in being so connected with their grand chairman), and he decided that he should sort through these emotions before acting upon the situation.

  Before this task was accomplished, however, the shrill whistle of a train, coming from behind, encouraged the horse to still greater speed, and with the wagon’s sudden surge forward, Thump performed something like a somersault over the chest and struck his head. His hat flew from the wagon.

  The horse, in its dedication to confusion, crossed the railroad tracks and entered Bangor’s infamous Devil’s Half-Acre, where illegal liquor was peddled, where sailors and coarse landsmen and hard women caroused, and where well-meaning people did not linger.

  Sundry’s long legs brought him to the head of the pack, where he was one of only half a dozen able to cross the tracks before the oncoming train swept by in a frenzy of its screaming whistle and clanging bell. The street beyond the station house was busy, but the horse and wagon had sped through a break in the traffic and was now charging down the Half-Acre’s main thoroughfare, which commanded the right-of-way.

  The Half-Acre (which, in fact, covered several acres) was not a thriving place by day; some stray characters populated the streets and alleyways, a woman of suspect virtue might pace a few hundred yards of territory, but the streets themselves were not busy, since the sort of business most commonly taking place upon them was best conducted under cover of night. The street turned to the left and dipped so that Sundry lost sight of the wagon. He glanced over his shoulder at the other runners closest to him and wondered if his own designs were better suited the farther the horse went. If he outstripped the gang, he could simply leap aboard the wagon, once he did catch it, and be gone.

  But further back than anyone else were Ephram and Eagleton, holding their hats to their heads, their free arms swinging and their legs stiffly pumping as if they were in a walking race. Sundry knew he could not abandon them.

  Sundry ignored the people who peered from their rooms or stepped out onto front stoops to see what the commotion was about. He imagined that certain denizens, fearing a raid, were retreating through back doors. Then he did catch sight of three policemen, arriving by a side alley.

  “Run, kid!” someone shouted; another offered a side door to duck into, sure that he was running from the law.

  Cresting the small rise in the street, he was surprised and distressed to find the horse and wagon (and therefore Thump) to be nowhere in sight. He pulled up gasping, heard the sound of running footsteps catching up with him, and sprinted forward again.

  “What are you running from, young fellow?” asked a gray-haired man on a little ragpicker’s cart.

  “I’m chasing after a runaway wagon,” gasped Sundry, his lungs burning with the unaccustomed exercise.

  The old man looked a little worse for wear, leaning from the seat of his cart, but he smiled cordially; his nose was red and his eyes were nearly squinted out of sight by his large red cheeks. “Oh, that,” he said. “She went roaring down the street just a moment ago. Someone stopped her and pulled her into an alleyway down yonder.”

  Sundry was already on board the ragpicker’s wagon. He took the reins, saying, “Take me there” and proceeded to carry out the directive himself. The pony was hardly in better shape than the ragpicker, but she made better time than Sundry could have after running so far.

  He cast his eyes from side to side, glancing down the lanes and alleys leading to darker and less reputable places; and just as he began to fear that horse, wagon, and Thump had been spirited away altogether, he caught sight of the three of them resting peacefully in the shadow of a stairway; or horse and wagon were resting peacefully, at any rate.

  Sundry leaped to the street, barely waiting for the cart to draw to a halt, and dashed up to the wagon, where Thump was sleepily rubbing the back of his head.

  Besides that honorable soul, the wagon was empty.

  The chest was gone.

  It seems the season for rampant vehicles [read the Portland Daily Advertiser two days later]. Last week we were interested to inform you of a runaway horse and wagon, which traversed our city from end to end under full steam, only to disappear from public sight and slip from the long reach of authority.

  It seems, however, that the problem of precipitate conveyances is not limited to our own city limits.

  Word from our sister-city on the banks of the Penobscot has it that a similar incident occurred on the 12th of this month. Chief Constable Alfred Creamer of the Bangor Police Department was apprised of some possible rascality occurring near Bangor’s South Station, and had dispatched himself with two subordinate officers to that district, when the sight of a recklessly charging horse and wagon drove away all other considerations.

  A substantial body of men was already in pursuit, but the fugitive conveyance vanished within that section of Bangor commonly known as the Devil’s Half-Acre. As if this were not enough to raise Chief Creamer’s constabulary suspicion, the wagon produced, once he and his men caught up with it, a hatless and semi-conscious fellow who proved to be a member of our own community.

  It was Mr. Joseph Thump, of the Exeter Thumps, who recently has been connected with the chartering of a new club, dedicated we trust to something other than runaway wagons. Mr. Thump’s presence in the wagon has not been explained, nor was the attendance of two fellow club-members pursuing him with the large body of men on foot,

  The affair deepened in mystery when a man who remained
unidentified declared that something was missing from the wagon, but beyond the fact that it was a large chest, Chief Creamer could elicit no further details. It was imagined that a denizen or denizens of the Half-Acre kindly relieved the wagon of said item for the purpose of safekeeping, and that Mr. Thump, in his dazed state, was unable to recall the address to which said item had been taken.

  A great deal of emotion was exhibited regarding the lost object, which one suspects might have been in the form of a barrel rather than a chest, but as the participants in the little drama seemed unwilling to burden Chief Creamer with further information, he declared the case closed and escorted Mr. Thump and three of his companions, upon request of one of them, to less precarious surroundings.

  EPILOGUEJULY 27-31, 1896

  JULY 27, 1896

  Dresden Scott’s deliberate progress on horseback along the forest path was instinctive rather than intentional—he was neither hunting nor tracking this day—and the crow that had been heralding his movements to the surrounding woods all morning was more like a fellow traveler than a nuisance. The bird was often out of sight, but would inevitably return to flicker among the trees, or goad him from a safe branch, peering down with strange intelligence.

  Some time near mid-morning, the sky appeared from behind a screen of oak and maple, and he broke from the trees onto the prospect that overlooked the now familiar lake and Minmaneth Rock. He drew the mare up and regarded the rise of land about him. The mare nickered, as if in recognition.

  It was a warm day, with little wind; the trees were still, the lake glassy. There was nothing to stop him here except the memory of Cordelia Under-wood running to the brow of the hill, her back to him, her red hair brilliant against the blue and green of the sky and the trees.

  Though alone a good deal of his life, Dresden Scott had never (or seldom) been a lonely man. His only family had been his mother, and he had known loneliness after her death. Often he missed her still, though the woods filled him as conversation might other people. He had always enjoyed his life, enjoyed the work to which he bent himself, and enjoyed the people for whom or alongside whom he worked. His bachelorhood had grown around him till it had become what he was and how he accepted himself.