Barkskins (45 page)

Saul Fleet blurted, “Charlotte's brother! He come in from the old place, brought word the old man been found dead. Layin on the porch floor. Strangled or choked looks like. Said his neck all crooked, color a rhubarb stalk.”

Mrs. Gildart brought her husband a new bowl of coffee and the magistrate continued his questions. Saul answered eagerly: No, he didn't think the old man was given to falling down. No, his mother-in-law slept in the house. Had done so for many years, after a dispute over Mr. Taunton's snoring, which shook the house timbers. Mr. Taunton slept on the porch in good weather and on the kitchen daybed in winter. He, Saul Fleet, had no idea why anyone would harm Mr. Taunton, a hardworking inoffensive man who did some blacksmithing on the side, was a regular churchgoer and neither drank nor smoked. His turnips were much prized.

The magistrate sent for Charlotte Fleet and her young brother William, who had brought the news. Charlotte knew nothing except what she had heard from William, and the magistrate turned to him.

“Well, boy, I have a few questions. You are William Taunton, the son of Jeremiah Taunton, is that not correct? Good, good. Now, what family members were sleeping in the house last night?”

“My mother, sir. My sister Abigail, me, and T-T-Tom.” He stuttered and mumbled.

“Who is Tom?”

“He is my big brother.”

“Were there any servants in the house?”

“Only Sarah Whitwell. She helps Mother with the washin and comes after prayers Sunday night to be at hand early on Mondays. She sleeps in the little bed in Mother's room.”

“Did your father allow any vagrants or strangers to sleep in the barn last night?”

“No sir, he never lets them sleep in the barn. Unless they pay. In New England money.”

“And were there any of these paying strangers present last night?”

“Only Mr. Brandon, sir.”

“And who is Mr. Brandon?”

“He is a preacher sir, but is funny in the head from lightnin. He shows a gret big scar on his face. Mother cared for him and Mr. Duke paid Father. He stayed with us since two months or more. Father give him the good front room.”

“Who is Mr. Duke?”

“I don't know, sir, but Father said he was a rich man. He drives a gig with two greys. Very good horses. I thought I heard them horses last night but it was a patridge in the woods.”

“And was Mr. Brandon in the house last night?”

“Yessir. Dr. Hudson said he was some better and could go home soon. He felt very well yesterday and wanted to sleep on the back porch for the fresh air. Pa said he wished Mr. Brandon could stay on as he was a good boarder and the money helped us.”

“And did Mr. Brandon sleep on the back porch last night?”

“No sir, he did not. Father's bed is there and he said he would not be turned out of it for any man.”

“Did Mr. Brandon like your father?”

“Most times. But then he said he was sick and tired of bread and milk, which was what we fed him. Pa said, ‘Eat it or go hungry.' And Mr. Brandon squinched up his eyes very fierce.”

“And where is Mr. Brandon now?”

“He is helpin Mother and Tom lay Father out. He's mighty heavy, is Pa.”

The magistrate exchanged significant glances with two men who had come in with Dr. Hudson and dismissed the boy.

“It may be—” said the magistrate, “it may be that we must look at this fellow Brandon. Doctor, what can you tell us about him? Is he sick or well, what is the nature of his illness, is he strong, what is his disposition, does he have a grudge against Mr. Taunton?”

“He has been suffering from the effects of a lightning strike he sustained two years past and has certainly been much disturbed in his mind, babbling and confused and plagued by suspicions. But yesterday he appeared to be a little better and said he wished soon to go home.”

“In your opinion, Doctor, is it possible that this preacher nourished a hatred of Mr. Taunton on account of the bread and milk or whatever reason, and gripped by a mad fit in the night crept in and strangled him?”

“He was given to fears, that is true, but I never heard him say anything against Mr. Taunton. Except the bread and milk, which was being fed him on my orders. Of course he may have been overcome with jealousy over the porch bed. I gave him leave to sleep there but the boy says Mr. Taunton denied permission.”

“Could he not, in his disturbed mind, have laid the blame for the repetitive comestibles on Mr. Taunton? And the sequestering of the porch bed?”

“Yeee-es,” said the doctor reluctantly. “Of course it could have fallen out that way. But I do not think he is strong enough to strangle a man.”

“But it has been known, has it not, for insane persons to exhibit great strength in their fits?”

“It has been
known,
certainly. There are many mysteries associated with insanity.”

“So you knew him to be insane?”

“I knew him to have been deranged by a lightning bolt. He did have fits and temper tantrums. But I was quite sure he was mending well and soon would be as sane as you or I.”

“ ‘Soon would be' is not the same as ‘was.' And if there was no one there but the family and this Mr. Brandon, subject to fits of insanity, I put it to you that it was he who strangled Mr. Taunton. Gentlemen, I ask you to go out and return with Mr. Brandon, who must be examined and stand trial.”

Mr. Brandon was incarcerated and relapsed into fulminating babble of his innocence. His loyal flock stood in vigil outside the gaol singing hymns, and later, outside the court, when, after a speedy trial he was found guilty and a date set for his hanging.

A
ll through a hot damp Boston summer James Duke courted Posey Breeley Brandon. He knew that no one could ever grasp what she meant to him. He had been sent away as a boy, passed over for promotion, he had been poor and crushed. And then how everything had changed. The crown of joy was Posey. He knew also that his cousins would be scandalized by the age difference between them, for he was now fifty-five and Posey twenty years younger. She was his constant visitor. In the evenings, when a cooling sea breeze moved inshore, they walked in the rose garden, around and around the sundial, talking of lumber and true love's knot, her silk skirt rustling, her great dark eyes cast low. They walked from the first leaves on the roses to pink buds, to opened petals, to drowsy full-blown lush blooms, to faded blossoms, frost-nipped browning leaves. He would do anything for her, had already done so without regret. She asked him for nothing except his company and his conversation. She paid rapt attention to everything he said, he who all his life had been ignored. But the getting of Posey was hard, and as long as Mr. Brandon lived (he had escaped hanging) she was not gettable. Not only did the minister's congregation include two members connected to important Boston families but Brandon himself was the nephew of Judge Archibald Brandon, who moved silently behind the closest circles of power. The judge would not see his unfortunate relative, a man whom he believed had been the innocent victim of an evil marriage and a lightning bolt, hanged as a murderer.

“I almost understand why God laid this affliction on him,” said the judge to Dr. Hudson, whom he had discovered after a short search. “The city has become a stinking mire of corruption and evildoing. I see this as a sign of God's punishing vengeance. And yet I cannot feel my nephew was guilty of strangling this farmer over disagreeable suppers. He was ever a gentle man.”

“There may be a way for him to avoid that—that end,” said the doctor. “I think we must appeal to the Williamsburg authorities at the Public Hospital for Persons of Insane and Disordered Minds. There was some indication earlier that he might be harbored there.” The weight of the judge's name, the pleas of Mr. Brandon's flock and Dr. Hudson's carefully composed essay on the felon's gentleness secured him a room at the Virginia retreat. In the company of others with disordered minds Mr. Brandon shone out as a model inmate.

•  •  •

Freegrace called the October business meeting of Duke & Sons. As always James felt the significance of being a voting Board member. He dressed carefully: tan wool pantaloons with a narrow fall and instep straps, tan vest piped in black, single-breasted cutaway coat. He carried Sedley's gold watch, and to its chain he had attached Posey Breeley Brandon's gift, a gold-wreathed fob that enclosed a miniature painting of her beautiful left eye, for intimate eye paintings were all the rage. Beautiful the subject was, but it had a certain fixing quality not altogether pleasant. Beside him Freegrace and Edward seemed drab in their old-fashioned knee breeches and pale silk stockings, the backs spotted with mud.

Freegrace introduced a cadaverous man with eyes like candles in a cave as Lennart Vogel, who had missed the last two meetings as he was traveling. He was Doortje Duquet's only child, and so a cousin of Sedley Duke, James Duke's hard-hearted father. After a cosseted and overeducated life, Lennart eventually came to Boston and made the acquaintance of his Duke relatives. No one was more fastidious in his dress and on this day he wore pearl-grey pantaloons buttoned four inches above the ankle over white silk stockings, his shoes the merest slippers, replaced every fortnight. He had made himself into an indispensable walking encyclopedia of figures, trends and innovations affecting the timber trade. His greatest value, Edward whispered to James, lay in his fluent command of seven languages. Lennart had another side. For two months every year he put away his town clothes, donned heavy bush pants and logging boots and went into the woods, sometimes with an Indian guide. He said he was fishing and visiting subcontractors' logging camps. He seemed unusually cheerful when he returned to Boston.

•  •  •

The meeting room was warm with a fire to spite the autumn chill. Freegrace said, “Let us begin.” There was a great scraping of chair legs and a rustle of paper.

“This year the Maine drives got under way late, all was delayed, with the contractors hoping for rain to raise the rivers,” said Freegrace. “We hear from those jobbers that it was only a fair winter, not at all like the snows we had here. Meager snow forced the men to resort to dams to get the sticks down feeder streams and into the river—much labor and time. The jobber is demanding recompense. He won't get it. I do have some figures for the previous year, which should cheer.”

James interrupted in a low voice. “Excuse my ignorance—how many men do we employ in the woods?”

Lennart Vogel answered, the figures ready in his mouth. “Better than one thousand this year for six to eight months. At ten dollars a month and their bed, board and tools. Ridiculous as it may seem, we've increasingly had to hire well-known cooks as other camps will get the better men by dishing up fancy vittles. Vittles!” He clearly relished the slangy American word and thought of himself as an adept slang slinger. “We figure twenty cents a day to board each man, which is a great deal of provision. We are forced to hire cooks who might command the kitchens of elegant restaurants save for personality blemishes.”

Edward spoke up. “But victualing is not the greatest expense. Corn and hay for the oxen. Hay is almost twenty dollars a ton and we last year used more than five thousand tons. Corn is a dollar a bushel and the oxen will gorge on four thousand bushels the season. The oxen are dear and so are the drivers—twenty thousand dollars in costs. Then there are timberland purchases and palms to be greased, especially in procuring the so-called Indian lands that the idiot Congress strives to keep from us with its ‘Nonintercourse Act.' ”

Freegrace muttered, “In what other country must businessmen trouble with murderous barbarians coddled by the government?”

Edward continued on his set path. “We have high survey expenses, and though we have been cutting most on our own lands and have our own mills and so have few stumpage or mill rent costs, there are a hundred other expenses—axes and tools, grindstones, oil, iron, blacksmiths and their forges, log boomage and lockage.” The clerk's pen scratched violently as he tried to keep up with Edward's rapid speaking.

Cyrus thought James looked puzzled and said, “Sir, boomage is the cost for making booms to hold the logs in a body and lockage—” But Edward disliked being interrupted and said curtly, “Cyrus, you may please save your explanations for later. I am sure James understands the terms. What we need to discuss today is first, the precipitous decline in large, first-rate white pine, and second, the persistent problem of timber thieves plundering our holdings and other cheatings and malfeasances. And among the thieves those who manufacture shingles and clapboards are the most terrible dishonest. The thieves are worse on the public lands, but they show no hesitation in cutting Duke trees. New Brunswick loggers are the bane of the forest. Wherever they see it they cut it and then run with it. New Brunswick has no thriving farms nor vigorous towns. Its residents are the locusts of the forest. We regard New Brunswickers as our enemies.” He stopped to draw breath, reviewed what he had said and allowed that “the problem might be somewhat ameliorated if ever the boundary lines with Canada were clearly drawn.” He was stuttering a bit, uneasy with James Duke's presence—the man too closely resembled his dictatorial father, Sedley, who had made Edward's life miserable with harping and picking. And James's awful watch fob flashing its censorious stare rattled him.

James leaned back. He had planned to tell his cousins over the evening dinner that the widow Posey Brandon had accepted his proposal of marriage and that they had set the wedding date for May. After news of Mr. Brandon's death from pneumonia in Virginia he had waited a decent interval—twenty-four hours—before proposing to her. She had accepted on the spot and he had embraced her and tried to seal the betrothal with a tender kiss. How surprised he had been by the fierce and spitty ardor with which she returned his dry kiss. Later, much later, he was to think back on it and interpret it as a warning, a warning he did not—could not—heed. But now his brain whirred with alarming scenarios of how his cousins would take the news that he was marrying the daughter of David Breeley,
a New Brunswick logging contractor.
He had not yet met his future father-in-law, but from what Posey told him he had no doubt that Mr. Breeley flourished a free hand with the ax, damnation to any damned border.