The Dark

by Claire Mulligan

  “There shall be a small ramble,” Elisha announces as the hired carriage passes the gatehouse of the Laurel Hill Cemetery. The main of the cemetery is carved out of a vertiginous hill that overlooks the broad and abiding calm of the Schuylkill River. They walk down and down, and then along a cat-scratch path. Statuary blends into the ashen sky. Neat rows of evergreens alternate with wild groves. A crow caws and a woman in mourning black kneels at a plot of four small graves.

  The tombs and cenotaphs are of modest size and are over-clasped with hawthorn and ivy. Elisha explains to Maggie how there is room aplenty for many more dead, of any religious persuasion. For this cemetery, unlike the old-fashioned churchyards, welcomes all and sundry.

  Maggie replies, “How interesting,” and “How modern.” She is sincere. Because it does sound as new information when Elisha tells of it. She certainly doesn’t mention how she spends time aplenty in cemeteries and graveyards studying the epitaphs scripted on gravestones and the like, and has done so ever since Leah took her and Katie to Rochester’s Hope Cemetery and bid them make a game of recalling dates, names, beloved remembrances.

  Elisha halts them up before a tomb that boasts Grecian columns, a cartouche of flying doves, a statue of a woebegone cherub. “Of what are these monuments made?” Elisha asks.

  Maggie taps the cherub’s stunted wings. “Granite?”

  “Forgive me, I didn’t mean what material of the gross earth, my pet, but rather what ideals.”

  “Of course. I see. It’s just that I remember my pa talking about granite. Where he came from in Rockland County there was such a bucket-lot of it. I recollect him saying that if you dug anywhere you’d ring into it straightaways. He said Rockland was a fine-all place for a gravestone carver to live, but no one else.”

  Elisha chuckles. Was what she said so humorous? With Elisha, when she attempts wit he looks displeased. When she attempts gravity, he laughs.

  “A monument crumbles to dust, Tuttie. And when it does, all that remains are the remembrances of a man’s valiant deeds. Valour, mind, is not enough in these modern times. A man must invent, discover, reveal! A man must leave a legacy to be immortal. These stones—which are marble, actually—are naught but dreams made manifest.”

  Maggie looks again at the cherub. He is grey and coarse-grained, but, ah, Elisha must be correct. Marble he must be. But would Mother think so? She does know her rocks, Maggie recalls, and even had a collection of “curiosity” stones lining her herb garden back in Hydesville. At this thought, Maggie looks down to where Mother, escorted by Morton, pauses to rest on a grave slab some distance behind. Elisha follows Maggie’s gaze and then makes a complicated gesture that would not be amiss in charades. Morton nods and sits aside his charge and directs her attention to where a barge endeavours to ford the distant river.

  Elisha whispers into Maggie’s hair, “Close your eyes, my pet. Open them only when I give word.” Maggie obliges, and then allows him to steer her over the path. She hears the seep-seep of a winter bird, the rustling of Elisha’s trousers, the squeak of his boots, the creak of her corset, the thud of her heart, and another thud-thudding—an inconstant, palpitate sound. The heart of Elisha? It must be so. Her attenuation to this sounding world happens in a nonce. And if she waits, and if she strives, she can become as one blinded at birth. Listen: the funeral monuments are slowly crumbling; the worms are moistly chewing; the wind is sawing at branches, and that, in the far-off, is the ring of the gravedigger’s shovel finding stone, frozen ground. Maggie squeezes her eyes shut even tighter. Surely below these soundings are murmurs, whispers, sighs.

  “Open your lovely orbs.”

  She does and the soundings cease, as does the sense of solid ground. She looks down. Gasps. Her shoes are halfway over the edge of a small ravine. She gives a little shriek and clutches onto Elisha.

  “I was holding your skirt, my dove, I’d not ever let you fall. Now, look there.”

  Across the ravine a small vault protrudes from the hillside. The roof is thick with brambles, the sides heaped with cut stones. “It is yet in the process of creation,” Elisha explains.

  “What a handsome thing,” she says. Because it is: inventive and elegant and welcoming in its copse of trees.

  “That is our family crypt. That is where my beloved brother Willie rests. I should be resting there instead of him, so our mother said. She was quite correct. I’m the one who was prophesied to die young, after all, and thus she had expected my death. Indeed, she was quite prepared for my death, but not for his, no. God, but her grief was terrible to see! She blamed me, of course, for not saving him. And Willie was brave, just as you envisioned, Maggie-pet. He wanted to know if he bore the sick-pains as well as I had my own wounds. He even managed to compose his own funeral music. He was a talented musician for his fifteen years. My mother loves music, too, you see, but this exploring and discovery business … well, she considers it a ridiculous occupation for a grown man.”

  Elisha falls quiet, and studies her face. Maggie regards him back, her expression grave, unflappable, and deeply interested—the same expression she uses to entice her clients to speak further. This time, however, she is deeply interested.

  “I tried every remedy I knew,” Elisha continues. “But at times it seems these physician’s hands aren’t even mine, but those of a puppet who is being worked by some other agent.”

  “I know the sense of that,” Maggie says, and leans her head on his shoulder as he likes her to do.

  Elisha gathers himself. “Ah, but mothers always love one child more than another.”

  Do they? Maggie has seen no evidence of this with her own mother. Her father clearly loves Leah best, but that hardly signifies: men’s hearts are known to be conditional. Of a sudden Maggie appreciates her own mother very much.

  “I didn’t mean to speak of all that,” Elisha adds. “But then you make me talk, a talent needed I should think in your, hmm, profession. But I brought you here, Miss Maggie Fox, not to grouse on about mothers, but to tell you … to ask you, rather, if this might be your final resting place. Do you take my drift?”

  Maggie, dizzied with joy, says she does.

  “Capital! Splendid! But first you must devote herself to an education, so as to fit an entirely different sphere.”

  “Sphere?”

  “Yes, my dove, a sphere, a round … Anyways, after you are educated, then I shall be proud to make you my heart’s eternal keeper.”

  “But I’m educated, I read. And I—”

  “And you must resolve to leave all that surrounds you, to forget the past, and think only how you can become worthy of one whose existence shall be devoted to you.” He speaks of Maggie’s need to sacrifice and strive as he does. Looks for once uncertain. “I need tell you of a slight difficulty. My mother has threatened … that is, has chosen an Intended for me already.”

  “An Intended?” Maggie’s breath draws tight. “But are we not now—”

  “Hush. Yes. We are. And I shall forthwith inform my mother that my heart is bound with another’s.”

  “But when do we—”

  Elisha hushes her again, then indicates Mother and Morton, who have just hoved up.

  Mother, ignoring Morton’s gentle protests, says, “But I didn’t want to sit on that bench all the square day, did I? Oh, is this where we’re to picnic? What a lovely crypt over that ravine. Don’t you think, Maggie-lamb?” She taps a nearby statue of a weeping angel. “Oh, and I do so like all the lovely granite.”

  CHAPTER 21.

  “Kat was soon calling Elisha ‘Mr. Intrigue,’ and not without cause.” At that my patient put down a ten of clubs (we were playing cards, but a game of our own invention, with our own rules). “He ever wanted to avoid talk” she continued, “and so he used Morton, his valet, for an intermediary. I had to fold my letters this way or that according to our agreed upon meanings. I had to recall the blinking light codes he, or more often Morton, made with a carry lantern at night outside my window. Two blinks meant
he was arriving soon. Three blinks meant he was feeling poorly. He often did, poor Lish, a result I suppose of all those exotic fevers he suffered when discovering abroad.”

  “I’m sure,” I said, and put down the King, which was a wild card, as we had agreed. “Your go, duck.”

  “Oh, and I had to learn little code words. And I had to pretend, oft-times, that we were minor acquaintances.” My patient finally looked at the fan of cards in her own hand. “You’ve won again!”

  “Well, I do play often. Many of my indigents like to play. It helps pass the time before, that is, the final time.”

  “Of course.”

  “I would not otherwise play cards.”

  “Well, no.”

  “Although I cannot imagine why it’s considered unladylike; it’s merely a game, and enjoyable, to be frank, when one wins.”

  “Hah! You sound like Leah. She played cards like a regular blackleg. Few people knew that. Chauncey never did, unfortunately for him … ah, might you hand me the box, Mrs Mellon?” My patient shuffled her cards back into the deck as she said this (and without ever showing me her hand I should add).

  “Careful with the weight, now,” I warned, and handed her the box as requested. Presently the bedclothes were strewn with the many clip-outs and pamphlets and dense-worded legal documents concerning this Chauncey Burr, all of which were in that bible box—or rather the lily box—that once was Leah’s, and now was hers.

  “Peculiar,” she murmured as she shuffled through the papers.

  “I don’t see how. Lawyer documents may be complex and tedious. But never ‘peculiar.’ ”

  “Not the papers themselves, but that Leah collected them at all. Or any of these letters and ephemera. What card, as it were, was she playing? I had presumed it was all for pride, as a way to gloat even, over Chauncey’s humiliation.”

  I picked up my knitting and resumed the macking. Her perception, I realized then, was not always as tack-sharp as she might think. “Tell me, duck, what is more peculiar than the heart?”

  MARCH OF 1853 AND LEAH gives last-minute advice to her sisters before embarking on her journey to Columbus, Ohio. Her sisters are to remain in New York with Mother. Someone must gratify the clients when she is gone. Still, upon departure Leah cannot deny her anxiety. It is not over the impending court case—she will see Chauncey Burr chewed up and spat out on the judicial floor, of that Leah has no doubt. Chauncey Burr with his bluster and theatrics is an adversary to be met head-on. No, it is this damn Dr. Kane who troubles her. He is another category of nemesis entirely. Has not sought out Leah, as Chauncey has, but Margaretta, the tremulous undertone of the Fox sisters three. Maggie with her doubts, her mooning over poetry and romantic novels, her diminutive size, which makes even a small man like Kane feel large as a cannon. And Burr could not convince a starving man to eat soup. Elisha Kent Kane has convinced an entire nation that he—a mere physician with no command experience, a man with a heart as unstable as a grenade, a man plagued by fevers and ill health and an overwhelming sense of his own worth—should be the one to lead the expedition to the Arctic and find that Sir Franklin basking on the warm shores of this fabled Open Polar Sea. No, against Kane, Margaretta hasn’t a fiddler’s chance in Hell.

  Leah wills herself calm. Kane is departing in a mere three months, she reminds herself. Likely he will die of starvation up there in the Arctic, or freeze into an effigy of himself, or be strung up by the natives in the nearest tree. Leah chides herself for this last thought. There are no trees in the Arctic, as everyone knows.

  Leah’s sister Maria huffs up to her. She is busy chasing after little Charlie, who is long back to health and jack-mischief since Leah’s intervention in Cleveland. Maria and Charlie are again being useful as escorts, at keeping minds from sliding into idle gossip. For here is Calvin, hoisting Charlie onto his broad shoulders. Calvin came to Leah just before they left for Columbus. He reminded her of the confection shop he would have one day, once this spirit business is concluded and all their battles won. “What I mean to say is that I intend to earn a decent income. Lizzie can return and we can regroup and be together. I can make you happy, honour bright I can. What I mean, dear Leah, is I—”

  “There are other things in life besides happiness,” Leah interrupted, but kindly.

  Happiness, Leah muses now. Never has an ambition seemed more paltry. She makes her stately way around the crowded boat. Is serenaded by the hock-splat of chewing tobacco hitting the water, the chatter of passengers and sky birds. The day is fine and many people have staked out deck chairs. She spots a rotund woman of mature years. The woman’s sleeved cloak is of richest indigo, her sober bonnet touched with sable. A doctor’s wife, Leah quickly learns. They discuss the weather and the unfortunate presence of riff-raff on board. Leah voice is as serene as the passing waters and agreeable to anything the woman has to say.

  The doctor himself joins them. He is as sheeny and plump as an oyster. He proclaims himself Mrs. Fish’s servant and prods an old-fashioned monocle onto his eye. “Look there, ladies! Aside the berm.” He points to an ordinary, white-flowered shrub. “Rhododendron oblongifolium in all its glory.”

  Leah turns to the doctor’s wife. “My heavens, but your husband is a remarkable naturalist.”

  The doctor flushes with pride and scrutinizes the dull shrub until it passes from sight. In every congregate of human souls, Leah discovers people who are respectable, upstanding, reputable. Such people might not wear the latest fashions; they might not be well known in society, nor even speak with much eloquence. Still, Leah recognizes them. She feels safe when they are near, as if their reputations are a fortress. Leah has never yet unwittingly made the acquaintance an adulterer, a liar, an embezzler, a drunkard, a gambler, a charlatan or quack.

  Leah thanks the doctor and his wife and excuses herself. She beckons to Maria, who is helping Charlie dangle a makeshift fishing line over the low rail, and then to Calvin, who is promptly at her side. “This air, ah!” he proclaims. “It’s like a good slap in the face. Or a dawn revel. Leah, would you object if I volunteered my assistance at the approaching locks? The captain is short of hands and—”

  “No need to shout, Calvin, and if you must go jumping about you need eat more. Honestly, you’re thin as a beanpole.” She offers to cook him lunch on their portable stove. He looks at her in admiration, as if offering lunch were a great talent. Dear, loyal Calvin. He is the only one of their intimate group who is helping her to face Chauncey Burr. She puts her hand on his gangly arm. He covers her hand with his own.

  “Darling Leah, I—”

  She pulls her hand out from under his. Cocks her head, looks at the sky. “Shhh. Listen.”

  “I don’t hear … ah, yes!”

  Excitement shifts down the boat. A crewman demands quiet. Another calls out that there is some time yet. He is ignored. Men search their rucksacks and valises. The ruffian sorts merely reach under their coats. Soon the boat bristles with pistols and rifles, and hums with talk of strategy.

  “Damn, I’ve nothing to fire,” Calvin says.

  Leah gasps.

  “I shouldn’t have cussed. Forgive me for it, but gosh!”

  Leah’s doctor friend appears at her elbow. He has an extra Colt.

  “An actual Colt,” Calvin whoops, and proclaims he now has a sporting chance.

  Maria tries to quiet little Charlie, who hops about with expectation. The crew primes lanterns and hangs them in readiment. Children gather at the prow. On the canal all boating traffic slows. On the berm the hoggees tether the mules. On the road aside the berm, all conveyances halt. And in the fields the farmers wait, inert as scarecrows, armed to the teeth.

  The lamps are lit.

  The children yell and point to the south. A tattered blackness ridges the half-world. The muffled sound becomes a deafening cacophony.

  “Ready your fire!” shouts a crew member.

  “Ectopistes migratorius!” shouts the doctor. “In all their glory!”

  T
he pigeons are overhead now, are as dense as a thundercloud. The sun is eclipsed and a weird grey light falls. The birds have come on faster than any horse could run or any train could steam. Millions upon millions. Their droppings fall like a rank snow. Their wings create a whirling, agitated wind. Skirts sashay. Hats tumble off heads. The air shakes with gunshots, thickens with gun-smoke. The flock splits into immense, conjoined coils, becomes a writhing hydra, glinting purple and green. The children scream in delighted terror. The shot birds rain into the water and trees and fields. Many plunge onto the deck, where the children crush the birds’ skulls with their little heels. One bird falls stunned near Leah. She kneels to pick it up, holds it gently. A male. Red feet. Red eyes. He stabs vainly at her with his slender black beak. No other pigeons are so large, nor so beautiful. His belly is rose and white. His throat and neck an iridescence of purple and bronze and green.

  Leah tosses the bird over the side. Prays he escapes to the trees. He does not. A shot and he plummets into the canal waters. Leah snorts in anger and yanks on Maria’s arm and then on Charlie’s. “Below! We must below. This is no place for us.”

  They come reluctantly, but Calvin stays for the sport, slip-sliding in blood and bird droppings.

  Leah stretches in her bed slot. Charlie pouts and counts out his fingers. Maria lights their portable stove, making tea at Leah’s behest. No soporifics. Leah must remember that, because her head-pain is returning with the retort of the pistols and rifles and the reek of gun-smoke. She wads her ears with cotton batting. She has a strange and fierce affection for birds in general, but for the passenger pigeons in particular. So many shooting at them, so few to protect them. Their passing is not as it was; will only take a day and not three, as it had when Leah was a girl and she waited for their arrival with greater anticipation than her siblings awaited Christmastide.