Thoreau at Devil's Perch (2 page)

“Hello, Lewis,” she said.

“Hello, Clark,” I replied with a laugh. It delighted me that we had just used the secret names we'd called each other as children.

Julia remained as grave as she'd been as a girl whenever we'd made plans to follow in the footsteps of our heroes Lewis and Clark. “I have often recalled our grand adventure over the years,” she said. “Sometimes I think it was but a dream.”

“Oh, it was real enough,” I said. “And to think we almost made it to California.”

Now she laughed too. “Give or take several thousand miles. I see you have grown up very tall, cousin.”

“And you have grown up very beautiful,” I told her, for it was nothing but the truth. We stood there and took each other in until the stage driver hollered over to us to get aboard or get left behind.

And now Molly has just hollered up the stairs that dinner is ready. Hope she has prepared a dish more palatable than yesterday's mutton hash. Such hope has no basis, of course. Molly is a most inept cook. No matter. She has a kind heart, and that is the best trait a hired girl—or anyone—can have. Besides, should I crave a good meal I need only ride over to Tuttle Farm and have Gran serve me up a heaping plate of her tasty victuals. But then I would not have the pleasure of Julia's company at table. Thus I shall dine on mutton hash or worse without complaint this noon.

 

W
hat a remarkable morning I have had. It commenced in quite an ordinary manner, however, with a visit to Grandfather's chamber. Finding him awake, I changed the dressing on his leg. His wound is healing well. Brought him up breakfast on a tray, and he consumed the yolk of a coddled egg and two pieces of milk toast. His appetite is also improving. Offered to read some Poe to him, but he ordered me to take the morning air instead. After asking Molly to keep an eye on our dear invalid, I went across the road to the Green, where I settled myself upon a bench and opened my sketchbook.

Then lo! Grandfather's old gig came to a stop in front of the house, but Adam was not driving it. A man I had never seen before was holding Napoleon's reins. Fearing Adam had met with an accident, I sprang up from the bench and ran to the carriage.

“Calm yourself, Miss Bell. Your cousin has come to no harm,” the stranger told me. He jumped off the gig with the sprightliness of a grasshopper and landed directly before me. Our eyes easily met, for he was close to my own height, and his steady gaze calmed me more than his words. “Dr. Walker has sent me to Plumford to fetch the constable. Might you direct me to him?”

I automatically pointed down the road toward Mr. Beers's shoe shop. “Pray why is my cousin in need of a constable?” I demanded. “And how do you know who I am? I am sure I have never met you before.” I would not have forgotten such striking features, especially his inordinately large eyes and nose.

“No, we have never been introduced,” he replied, ignoring my first question and removing his straw hat. His thatch of light brown hair could have used a good trim and combing. “My name is Henry David Thoreau, and I met up with Dr. Walker this morning by the Assabet River. He informed me that his cousin Julia Bell was an artist.” He gestured toward the sketchbook I was clutching to my bosom. “I deduced from the way you hastened to the doctor's gig with such concern upon your countenance that you were she.” His intonations had a lofty, educated ring, at odds with his countrified appearance. “Dr. Walker also told me you were in possession of a supply of plaster of Paris you might put at my disposal.”

That Adam would suggest such a thing rather astounded me. “For what purpose?”

“One that need not concern you, Miss Bell.”

“On the contrary, anything to do with my cousin concerns me, Mr. Thoreau. And if you want me to give you the plaster, you must tell me why he wants Constable Beers.”

“The reason may distress you.”

“You are distressing me far more by keeping me ignorant!”

“Yes, I believe that I am.” He gave me an appraising look, his orbs like luminous convex lenses. “You seem a stable enough sort,” he concluded. “Therefore I will be frank with you. Dr. Walker and I discovered the corpse of a young black man at the foot of a local cliff he referred to as Devil's Perch, and I have come to fetch the constable.”

“But why the plaster of Paris?”

“To make casts of footprints we observed on the top of the cliff. We believe they were left by the murderer.”

“The
murderer?
” I took a step back. My foot landed in a rut in the road, and I stumbled.

“Hold on if you feel faint,” Mr. Thoreau said, extending his arm toward me.

Ignoring his offer, I regained my balance and gave him a level look. “I am not in the habit of fainting, I assure you. Tell me more about this murderer.”

“I have already told you more than your cousin would care to have you know. Now I must go inform the constable. Might I pick up the plaster of Paris upon my return?”

“Have you ever made casts before, Mr. Thoreau?”

“No, and I would much appreciate instructions from you before I depart.”

“Better yet, I will accompany you to Devil's Perch and make them myself,” I said. “I am proficient at it.”

“I have no doubt you are. But this is no job for a young lady. Just ready the supplies for me if you please.” After issuing this curt directive, he turned and walked off in the direction of Constable Beers's shop.

A short time later he came back to the gig and did not look too surprised to see me waiting in it, reins in hand. Neither did he look too happy about it. “I would prefer that you did not come with me, Miss Bell,” he said.

“And if I preferred that you did not come with
me
, Mr. Thoreau,” I countered, “I could have driven myself to Devil's Perch without you.”

“So you could have,” he allowed. “I suppose there's no need to waste time discussing it further.”

With that, he climbed into the gig so quickly I barely had time to make room for him on the seat. I handed over the reins to him, for in truth I was not sure how to get to Devil's Perch, much less how to drive a carriage. “Huddup!” he told Napoleon, and off we went. A short time later, after taking a meandering country road and then a narrow cart path that wound round and up a steep hill, we arrived at the top of the cliff. Adam was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is my cousin?” I demanded.

“He is with the body below,” Mr. Thoreau said. “It would be best if you did not venture to look down there.”

Ignoring his advice, I alighted from the gig and went as close to the edge of the precipice as I dared to. Looking down from such a great height made my head all swimmy, but I quashed my qualms as my eyes searched for Adam. When I spotted him I felt the urge to cry out to him, but it did not seem fitting to break the almost palpable quietude. Sunlight lay over the scene below like a glaze of varnish, making the river shimmer and Adam's bared head of auburn hair glow. He was kneeling before the corpse, his broad back blocking my view of it, except for the legs. The sight of the dead man's boots, shiny as seal skin, made me exceedingly sad.

I wondered if Adam was praying over the body. I still do. How odd that I do not know what beliefs my cousin holds concerning God and the Afterlife. As close as we were as children, now we are almost strangers. Even so, I feel as though I know Adam to his marrow and always will. He is, after all, my nearest and dearest kin, and nothing can ever change that.

I left the bluff, and Mr. Thoreau and I unloaded the supplies I had brought: a large bag of gypsum powder, a jug of water, a bowl and mixing spoon, and a small shovel. I then commenced mixing the plaster, stirring the gypsum with water until the composition became as thick as cream, with nary a lump in it.

“I wager you make excellent pancake batter,” Mr. Thoreau said.

Had the circumstances been less somber, I would have laughed. “I have no culinary skills whatsoever,” I admitted, carefully pouring the mixture into four footprints. “It will take a while for the plaster to harden.”

As we waited I attempted to engage Mr. Thoreau in polite conversation. “Where do you reside?” I asked him.

“By a pond,” he said.

“You are being very mysterious, Mr. Thoreau.”

“I do not mean to be.”

“Then pray tell me the name of this pond of yours.”

“Walden Pond is not mine, Miss Bell. I do not even own any land surrounding it. I built my cabin on a friend's woodlot.”

“I have never heard of Walden Pond,” I said. “Where is it located?”

“In the township of Concord, only a few miles from the railway depot.”

“Ah, that I am familiar with. I debarked at the Concord depot less than a fortnight ago,” I said. Mr. Thoreau did not ask me what brought me to the area, but I told him anyway. “When I received a letter from my cousin Adam informing me that our grandfather had been seriously injured, I immediately set forth from New York City to help nurse him. Have you ever been to New York, Mr. Thoreau?”

“Yes, a few years ago,” he said. “I did not think much of it.”

“Most people find it a most impressive metropolis. But I am inclined to agree with you. Too much bustle, too little charm. I prefer Paris. Do you know it?”

He shook his head. “I have never traveled abroad.”

Since he did not appear to be more than thirty I ventured to say, in perhaps a slightly condescending tone, “Well, you have time enough ahead of you to do so.”

“But not inclination enough,” he said. “For me, it would be a wretched bargain to accept the proudest Paris in exchange for my native village. As much as I might gain from going abroad, I would lose far more from being away. The sight of a marsh hawk in Concord meadows, for example.”

Despite his serious expression, I discerned a twinkle in his eye and surmised he was amusing himself by pretending to be more provincial than he actually was. “Whether you are jesting with me or not, Mr. Thoreau, I am disposed to agree with you,” I replied.“I am sure I would have been content to stay in Plumford for the rest of my life if my father had not seen fit to take me away when I was eleven. I have traveled the Continent over the last ten years, on account of Papa being a portrait painter who must go to his subjects, but I have always longed to return to America. So I parted ways with him and removed to New York. I teach art there.”

“I too have been a teacher,” Thoreau said, but he did not elucidate.

Weary of asking him questions, I fell silent, much to his relief I am sure. He looked up to the heavens to follow the flight of an oriole, and I too became captivated by the gorgeous winged creature as it glided past us. Suddenly a gun bellowed, and the bird plunged from the sky, followed by a puff of bright orange and black feathers. I cried out in dismay, and Mr. Thoreau sadly shook his head.

Shortly, a hunter came up the path, clutching the dead bird in one hand. In the other he held a fowling piece. From his smooth stride, superior height, and tall beaver hat, I recognized him to be the Rev. Mr. Upson. He recognized me in return and hurried forth.

“I hardly expected to meet up with you here, Miss Bell,” he said, looking from me to the man at my side. His scowl made it clear that he disapproved of finding us alone in such a secluded spot.

I, in turn, looked disapprovingly at the dead bird Mr. Upson held by its feet. He opened the leather sack hanging from his shoulder, and I saw that it was
stuffed
with feathery carcasses and furry pelts. I gasped.

“The necessary means to a noble end,” he told me, adding the oriole to his grisly collection. “I need feathers and fur to make my fishing flies.”

“You call it noble to slay creatures out of the water to better kill those in it?” Thoreau asked him. They glowered at each other.

I quickly made introductions and gave the reverend a succinct summation of what had brought us to Devil's Perch. We then went to the summit's rim and saw that Adam had been joined by Constable Beers and members of the Coroner's Jury.

“I must go testify,” Thoreau said and nimbly clambered down the steep path to join the men below, leaving me alone with Mr. Upson.

Staring down at the group of men who had collected around the body, he heaved a great sigh. I wondered if he was recalling the day townsmen had formed such a jury to view his beloved wife's remains. I could not ask him, of course, since he has never spoken of her tragic demise to me during our conversations since my arrival in Plumford. Indeed, I would not even know of Mrs. Upson's death at the hands of a wretched tramp last summer if Molly had not told me. I glanced up at Mr. Upson's quite distinguished profile and thought I discerned a tear dampening the outer edge of his eye. My heart went out to him, and I touched the sleeve of his black broadcloth coat to comfort him. He covered my hand with his own and pressed it so hard against his arm that I could feel the heat and muscle of his flesh through the woolen cloth.

I tugged my hand free from under his and said, “Perhaps your services as a minister could be of use below.”

He looked at me in disbelief. “Are you suggesting I pray over the body of a Negro?”

“Is it not your duty as a clergyman to pray for all souls?”

“Prayer will not help those who have not been chosen,” he said gravely.

“I am sure God bestows his love on us equally, Mr. Upson.”

“Indeed God does
not
,” he replied. But after regarding me most severely for a moment, he offered me a thin smile. “Very well. I will do as you suggest, Miss Bell. My presence will give comfort to the living if not the dead.”

He went down the same path Thoreau had taken, and I remained where I was. Should I have been so bold as to join the men below, I would have been asked, politely but very firmly, to leave for the same reason I am not allowed to serve on juries. The Female Sex is far too delicate for such profane proceedings, and men are duty born to protect women from the sordid side of life. I would have accomplished nothing by challenging such humbug. Moreover, I had my own job to do right where I was.

When the casts had set, I took up my shovel, dug them out of the ground, and conveyed them to the back of the gig. My tight bodice hindered my movements, and I rent a seam in the process, but I did not care. That my efforts might help catch a murderer was far more important than a mere tear in my garment.

After the Coroner's Jury had disbanded, Adam came up the cliff trail alone. He told me Mr. Thoreau had tramped off to Concord in disgust because the jury's verdict was Death by Accident and further inquiry was deemed unnecessary.

“Then we must be the ones to probe further,” I said.

Adam gave me a look more stern than I have ever seen on his visage. His expression is usually most pleasing, but I did not much care for the stubborn set of his mouth at that moment. I am more accustomed to a smile hovering at the edges of his lips when he turns his attention upon me.