George lowered his head to her lap and let her stroke his curls.
On an October afternoon, Cordelia Edwards wrote a letter:
Dear George:
Thank you for your letter of the 3d instant. I am back from Europe near a month, first visiting the Massachusetts troops near Washington, now at my father’s Brunswick house. I send my condolences at your mother’s death. Had we but known, my father and I would have come with all speed to Portland to comfort you in your time of bereavement.
It is well that you have found something to occupy yourself, now that your mother has passed. The search for your personal grail would seem just the thing. I applaud you and urge you on, for it is the nation’s grail, too.
I wait avidly for news of your success. And yes, you may bring it to show us when you find it. Visit even if you do not find it. Perhaps my husband will be here to meet you.
She scratched out that last sentence, then rewrote the letter without it. Some things were better said in person.
Just then, Professor Aaron came into the room, the newspaper in his hand and a solemn look on his face.
“My dear, news from the South … the Twentieth Massachusetts—”
Cordelia’s thoughts left the young man who had always loved her and went to the young man she had married in a burst of wartime passion.
SIXTEEN
“ ‘PLEASE, WILL YOU TELL your daughter of my quest. I go in search of my personal grail, as I promised her. And in this election year, it may become the national grail….’ “
“Wow,” said Evangeline. “In a letter from George Amory to Aaron Edwards?”
“That’s what it says,” answered Antoine. “ ‘The national grail,’ “ said Peter. “The Holy Grail.”
“Holy shit,” said Evangeline. It was seven o’clock in the morning. They were driving north along the Housatonic River, which flowed from the Berkshires of Massachusetts into the Litchfield Hills. And they were talking to the office with the cell phone on walkie-talkie.
“Where did you find the letter?” Evangeline asked. Antoine was on the other end. “Bowdoin College Web site. A link to their rare book department. They’re promoting a digitizing project. They use the letter as an example.”
“Or as bait,” said Peter.
“Bait?” said Evangeline. “It’s a college library.”
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence,” said Peter. “If it’s bait, are you biting?” asked Antoine.
“What else is on the Web site?”
“It says the letter is from the Edwards papers. Aaron Edwards was a professor who graduated in the famous Class of 1825, along with Hawthorne and Longfellow. He knew a lot of the big names who passed through Bowdoin in the era—Franklin Pierce, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain….”
“Quite a bunch,” said Peter. “What else does it say?”
“ ‘The digitizing of the Edwards papers—letters, diaries, and ephemera—will provide insight into college life during the mid-nineteenth century. For the time being, however, this extraordinary trove of information must be viewed in person, except for a diary page, reproduced here below.”
“And?” said Peter. “The diary page. What does it say?”
“ ‘Sunday, November 14, 1861: Dinner this afternoon: President Woods, Professor Smithson, the Chamberlains, and the Stowes, which was an honor. Cordelia invited George Amory, who proved amiable enough when keeping to mundane conversation. Then he sought attention with a fantastical tale of his grandfather, demonstrative of his flighty personality….’ Then the page ends.”
Peter and Evangeline looked at each other and said, “Bowdoin.”
THEY DROVE OVER four hours that morning, from the inland hills to the cold water coast, through a dozen microclimates, and they barely saw a cloud. When the October weather was good, it was very good: cool nights, low humidity, and bright blue days warming into the seventies. High pressure spread its wings across all six states.
By eleven o’clock, they were in Brunswick, Maine, where the Androscoggin River reached Casco Bay.
Once men had built ships in the river and run mills at the powerful falls. Now Brunswick was a commuter town for Portland. And it had been a college town since the founding of Bowdoin in 1794. The working part of the town was joined to the college by a tree-lined stretch called Park Row, which rose toward a statue of Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, who stood like a sentinel at the entrance to the campus.
“One of the giants.” Peter gazed up at the Union hero.
“He looks like he’s staring off toward Freeport,” cracked Evangeline, “to see if there are any sales at L.L. Bean.”
“Don’t be irreverent.”
“I hear a lecture coming on.”
“When you stand on this spot, in this out-of-the-way Maine town, you stand between the alpha and omega of the Civil War.”
“If this is good, it’s going into an article.”
He pointed to the north side of the street. “There’s the First Parish Church, a handsome example of Carpenter’s Gothic—”
“—which means they didn’t have stone so they called in the carpenters and built it of wood.”
Then he pointed to the south side. “There’s a Cape Cod-style house expanded into a Victorian with arched windows and high ceilings—”
“Carpenter’s Gothic on one side, American Gothic on the other. So?”
“In that church, Harriet Beecher Stowe was inspired to write Uncle Tom’s Cabin. When Lincoln met her later, he said, ‘So you’re the little woman who wrote the book that started this big war.’ “
“And the house?”
“After service at Fredericksburg, Gettysburg, Petersburg, and a lot of other burgs, Chamberlain had the honor of carrying the flag at the end of the last parade of the Grand Army of the Republic. He was the last man to march past the reviewing stand in Washington. Then he came home and moved back into that house.”
She thought a moment and said, “That is the most interesting bit of useless information you’ve ever told me.”
“In this line of work, nothing is useless. You stand in places like this and try to hear the ghosts. Sometimes they tell you about their friends. And sometimes their friends lead you to what you’re looking for.”
“AND WHY WOULD you wish to see the Edwards papers?” asked the librarian, a slight woman in owlish glasses and pageboy haircut. The name tag on her sweater said REBECCA SOLOMONT.
The archives were in the Hawthorne-Longfellow Library, a modern building on the east edge of the campus, a discreet distance from Bowdoin’s ancient brick and granite.
Peter said, “I’m researching the relationship of Professor Edwards and Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain.”
“Are you a writer?” Mrs. Solomont smiled, as though she were making conversation.
Peter knew that her question was meant to be more pointed. “No.”
“A genealogist, then.”
“Sort of.”
“Well, Mr.”—She looked down at the call slip—”Fallon. These papers are very fragile. If you have some scholarly purpose, we’re happy to let you see them, but—”
“I don’t need to see the originals. Are they on microfilm?”
“No. We hope to digitize them after our next fundraising drive.”
“I’ll contribute”—Peter tried to keep the impatience out of his voice—”if you’ll just go and get them.”
“This is a library,” said Mrs. Solomont, still smiling. “Please keep your voice down. Just tell me what you’re looking for, and I might be able to help you.”
“He’s sorry,” said Evangeline. “Are the documents indexed?”
“What names would you be looking for?”
“Aaron Edwards, Cordelia Edwards, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, George Amory.”
Mrs. Solomont’s expression did not change as Evangeline spoke. “Edwards.” Smile. “Cordelia.” Smile. “Chamberlain.” Still a smile. But “George Amory” made the smile flicker. The face p
owder at the corners of the mouth cracked. The eyes narrowed behind the glasses. Mrs. Solomont said, “You saw the material on our Web site?”
“We’re very interested,” said Peter innocently.
Mrs. Solomont excused herself, retreated to her office, and picked up the phone. A moment later, she was back. “Mr. Fallon, phone call for you.”
“For me?” Peter looked at Evangeline and mouthed the word. “Bait.” Then he stepped into the inner office, took the receiver. “Hello.”
A deep voice rumbled. “Mr. Fallon?”
“Who is this?” asked Peter.
“An admirer.”
“Another one?”
The voice laughed, low and easy. “They said you were a smart-ass.”
“Whoever they are. I’m busy here at the Bowdoin Library, but … you knew that, whoever you are.” Fallon gave Mrs. Solomont a glance.
She was sitting down at her desk, pretending to check her e-mails.
“We need to talk,” said the voice.
“So talk.”
“Face-to-face. About Professor Edwards. I asked Mrs. Solomont to post a bit from his diary, just to see who might be looking. Draw you out of the woodwork, so to speak.”
“Bait,” said Peter.
“Perhaps. So nibble on this: ‘Saturday, September 12, 1861: George Amory seems altogether too interested in Cordelia, too much the bright-eyed boy in a world where a man of stature guarantees a young woman’s future. Young love is fine, but a life of reliable solidity is what she needs. Pity that Chamberlain is married.’ “
“Are you reading this, or making it up?” asked Peter.
“I’ve memorized it. Here’s more from Sunday, November 14, 1861. The page reproduced on the Web site, about the dinner. It goes on: ‘Imagine, a first draft of the Constitution, annotated with insights into the Bill of Rights and the meaning of slavery, as if it were something to answer our questions in a vexatious time.’ “ After a long pause, the voice said, “Now do I have your attention?”
“Who are you?”
Mrs. Solomont looked up from her computer. “He’s Carter Trask, Bowdoin alumnus, retired judge, member of the Federalist Society, the NRA, and a man of principle.”
The voice on the phone said, “Mrs. Solomont will give you directions.”
ABOUT TWO HOURS later, the BMW bounced to a stop on a rutted road in the deep pine woods northwest of Bangor. A small sign—hand-carved, brown with golden letters—hung by the side of the road: ALGONQUIN ROD AND GUN CLUB. MEMBERS ONLY.
“Not too friendly,” said Evangeline.
“Relax. We’ll meet the judge, squeeze off a few rounds, bond over buckshot.”
“Then what?”
“He tells us where the Constitution is or threatens to kill us if we don’t tell him”
“And I was thinking this might be dangerous.”
The gravel road soon turned to dirt and the ruts deepened into potholes. The woods pressed in on either side—thick, piney, second growth, logged-over land that had been recovering for a century or more.
“Peter, it feels like we’ve been going forever.”
“Two miles. That’s what the directions said.”
She flipped open her phone. “At least we’ve got cell coverage.”
After about a mile and a half, they saw the American flag fluttering above the trees and just beneath it, a black MIA flag from the Vietnam era.
An all-terrain four-wheeler burst from the streambed on the right side of the road and screeched to a stop in front of the BMW.
A big guy in camo was riding. He had a tattoo on his neck, an AR-15 strapped to the back of the ATV, a .44 Magnum at his hip. “This is private property.”
Peter powered down the window. “We’re here to see Judge Trask.”
“He invite you?”
“Yes, he did.”
“What’s your name?”
Peter resisted the impulse to ask, “What business it of yours?” That was not something you said to a heavily armed man wearing camo.
The guy gave a jerk of his head, then shot up the road.
They ate his ATV dust until they pulled into a clearing. In the center was a big log cabin beneath those fluttering flags.
There were a few cars, Jeeps, and pickups parked out front.
Three guys in combat fatigues were walking off into the woods to the left. Naturally, they checked out the newcomers.
The guy on the ATV said, “The judge is probably inside. If he isn’t, don’t go wanderin’ off. You’re liable to get yourself shot.”
“Thanks.” Peter pulled on his Red Sox cap.
“Nice touch,” whispered Evangeline. “But the letters NRA would get you further than the Boston B.”
“The Red Sox open doors in all six states.”
The sound of gunfire played in the woods like a strange symphony. Off to the left, a steady bupbupbupbup of a semiautomatic rifle. Closer by, at another target range, the counterpointing pop-pop-pop-pop of pistols. And every so often, like percussion, the blast of a shotgun.
“What are they all shooting at?” asked Evangeline.
“Paper targets, clay pigeons, Democrats.”
“Mr. Fallon!” The big voice boomed out of the cabin, and the judge emerged. He was short, stocky, with a fringe of gray hair, and more presence than a movie star. He also carried a flintlock rifle. “I’m Carter A. Trask, Aroostook County District Court, Retired.” He strode down the flagstone walk and offered his hand. “Thank you for coming.”
“Nice weapon.” Peter gestured to the flintlock.
The judge held it out. “I was showing it to one of the other members. One of the most important guns in American history.”
“Pennsylvania long rifle, isn’t it?” asked Peter.
“Very good. Hard weapon to load, but accurate to five hundred yards. Scourge of the king bird in 1775. We might not have won our independence without it.”
“And you intend to preserve our independence with it?” asked Evangeline.
“Some people think we’re just gun nuts, but we’re historians, too. This is a reproduction. I built this weapon myself. And I believe in the principles behind it.”
Somewhere in the woods, a tremendous volley of semi-automatic fire shattered the air and sent birds skittering. Evangeline jumped along with the birds.
“Sorry,” said the judge. “Truth is, it’s quiet here right now. A lot of members are out hunting. It’s bear season. Silly season, too, when some politician declares open season on the Constitution.”
Then he led them up the walk and into the clubhouse.
A woodstove sat in the middle of the room, as if this were an old-time logger’s bunkhouse. But this place had a cathedral ceiling, skylights, polished log walls, and a long bar.
“We built it ourselves,” said the judge. “Water from a well, electricity from a generator, ball games from a satellite.”
“Sunday night, first game of the World Series,” said Peter.
“I’ll be in Boston,” said the judge. “The Bishop Media box.”
“You, too?” said Peter.
“Charlie Bishop’s a distant cousin,” said the judge. “He wants us to reason together.”
“The liberal from Connecticut and the rock-ribbed Republican from Maine,” said Peter.
“And the document detective from Boston.” Judge Trask gave Fallon a wink.
A few heads turned as they crossed the room. Three guys were playing cards at a table beneath a skylight. Two more in camo were drinking at the bar.
The judge said to Peter. “Club rule: No alcohol till you’re done shooting. Would you like a beer?”
“I have a long drive.”
“Then some coffee.” The judge held up three fingers to the bartender.
There was a bulletin board by the door: announcements of target contests and tournaments, bake sales for the local church, game nights, the NRA poster, “Harriet Holden, Enemy of Freedom,” and a flyer from some gun-owners’ pressure group, sh
owing Ted Kennedy, John Kerry, Chuck Schumer, and Nancy Pelosi at a cocktail party, all having a fine old laugh. The caption: “These people want your guns.”
Evangeline stopped to study it all; then she followed Peter and the judge to a table in the corner and slapped a flyer down. “Is this how you see the loyal opposition?”
Peter gestured to her. Cool it.
The bartender brought over three cups of coffee in heavy mugs. The judge kept his eyes on Evangeline. “When people think about gun owners, they remember Charlton Heston holding up a rifle and shouting, ‘From my cold dead hands.’ “
“How can we forget?” asked Evangeline.
“But do we remember that the next head of the NRA was a woman?” he went on. “A Jewish woman?”
Evangeline shrugged. “There are plenty of deluded women out there, too.”
“So, Judge”—Peter tried to get back to business before they got thrown out—”why did you want us to come all the way up here?”
“To show you the grass roots, some right-thinking Americans”—the judge shot a glance at Evangeline—”by which I mean correct thinking Americans, who believe that the Constitution and the Bill of Rights mean what they say.”
“I believe that, too,” said Peter. “So why are you nosing around?” It was ATV man, coming toward them.
“Private conversation here, Mercer,” snapped the judge.
Peter noticed that the tattoo on Mercer’s neck matched the logo on the MIA flag—a man with a bowed head, barbed wire behind him. The wire wound all the way around his neck. He looked about thirty-five, too young for Vietnam, just old enough for Gulf I. He had a two-day stubble on his face, stringy hair, the bulk of a guy who spent his days lifting heavy objects and his nights lifting beer cans.
“Get over here and ante,” growled one of the card players, who did not turn around but let his voice make all the impression.
Mercer ignored him and looked down at Peter. A drop of sweat plopped onto the flyer from somewhere on his face. “No politician takes my guns.”
A poker chip clattered. “There,” came that voice. “I ante’d for you.”
The Lost Constitution Page 29
