We Hear the Dead (26 page)

Dr. J. B. Ferguson, the Presbyterian minister who sponsored the boys, introduced the demonstration. “What you will see here tonight is no trickery but a true manifestation of beings from another realm,” he assured us. “These innocent boys are only the channel through which the spirits touch our world, and to prove to you that there is no collusion here, we shall ask two strangers from the audience to assist us.”

Kate released me and leaned forward in her chair, thrusting her hand in the air and waving like an overeager schoolgirl. Dr. Ferguson could not resist her charms and motioned her to come forward, then chose one of the journalists as well. The two Davenport boys seated themselves on the benches in the cabinet while Dr. Ferguson gave Kate and the other gentleman each a rope and pantomimed how they should secure the mediums. While Kate wrapped her rope round and round William Davenport's legs, I searched for some sign of subterfuge, but I could not detect a thing. Impulsively, I leaned across Kate's empty chair and whispered to Leah, “I miss Calvin.”

My sister turned her head to regard me impassively, then looked away without comment. After all this time, I still did not know what depth of feeling she'd had for her second husband, or whether she had married him, as she did so many other things, to further her own purposes.

Kate, meanwhile, was laughing, casting flirtatious glances at the audience while twining the long length of rope through the bench and around the arms and torso of the elder brother. The gentleman from the newspaper finished securing Ira Davenport and came to assist her, taking the rope and giving several sharp tugs before tying it off across William's shoulders. If Kate had been a planned distraction, she could not have done a better job. All eyes were upon her, and even William Davenport seemed taken with her, gazing at her foolishly with his mouth agape. Dr. Ferguson took her hand and thanked her, holding onto her fingers just a moment longer than he needed to, and she saucily swept her smile across the audience before returning to her seat beside me.

“Nothing in the boy's hands,” she murmured to me, settling back in her chair. “And nothing up his sleeves.” I just stared at her, astounded at her boldness and audacity.

Dr. Ferguson, with the assistance of Mr. Partridge, closed the three doors to the cabinet and locked them. He turned down the gaslights in the room to the merest flicker of illumination, scarcely enough to see the person seated beside us. Apparently, the Davenport boys would perform their miracle not only while locked in a cabinet and concealed from our sight but in darkness as well.

For the next quarter of an hour, we were treated to a variety of perplexing phenomena, including the clamor of a badly played trumpet and an off-beat tambourine, a clatter of bells, and luminous hands that appeared from the sides of the cabinet making strange, meaningless gestures at us. After a time, all fell silent, except for the murmurs and whispers of the audience. Dr. Ferguson rose from his seat and gradually turned the lights up to their full strength. Then he made quite a show of unlocking the three cabinet doors, finally throwing them back to reveal William and Ira, still seated on their respective benches, trussed from neck to feet in ropes as before.

The audience broke into applause, which I joined wholeheartedly, while Dr. Ferguson selected two other persons to come and untie the boys. “Please indicate whether you feel they are sufficiently restrained,” he asked them, and the two chosen assistants agreed heartily that the boys were still tightly bound. The young man releasing William's feet even complained, “Miss Kate Fox ties a devilish knot!” bringing a surge of laughter from the assembly.

Finally, when the boys were free, Mr. Partridge thanked the assembly for attending the demonstration and smoothly informed the journalists and other sundry guests that the event was over. The mediums who had gathered to participate in next week's examination were all invited to a late evening supper at the Partridge home, but everyone else was subtly encouraged to depart.

The audience broke into applause. The two Davenport boys scuttled over to their father, who ushered them to the side door, where supper would be waiting. As the company began to disperse, some to the street and some to Mr. Partridge's dining room, I asked Kate whether she had figured out how the boys had escaped their bindings and gotten back into them so neatly.

“I do not know,” she admitted, “but I am going to do my best to find out!” With that, she sashayed off in pursuit of William Davenport, a predatory gleam lighting her eyes.

I gathered my cloak and picked my way through the scattered chairs. When I reached the point where I would have to choose my path, toward the front door or toward the dining room, I looked up to find Leah observing me curiously. I paused, and she raised one eyebrow significantly, a knowing smile on her lips. There was no doubt she knew exactly how much I would rather attend Mr. Partridge's supper than return alone by taxi carriage to Mrs. Walters's house.

But I had given my word to Elisha that I would not allow my name to be linked with spirit rapping anymore.

And so I turned away from her, walking with dignity toward the street door, grateful only that she could not see my face.

Maggie

I dragged out my stay in New York as long as possible, and in December when I had run out of excuses and reasons for delay, I returned to Crooksville. I shed tears on the journey but resolved to demonstrate an improved temperament upon arrival at the Turner house. Susannah Turner and her husband had been good to me and did not deserve the brunt of my ill temper.

Besides, I told myself, it was only for six months more.

I had latched on to the idea that Elisha's expedition would take exactly a year and had refused to entertain the possibility of it extending any longer. Thus, in May 1854 I sent a package of letters to the Grinnells for Elisha, asking to have them forwarded to his first expected contact. Then I applied myself to my studies virtuously in the expectation that I would hear from Elisha by June and spent many hours imagining how we would celebrate his return.

My patience chafed, however, as the weeks and then the months passed with no sign of Elisha's vessel. I knew very well how short the Arctic summer was and how briefly the ice floes parted to create a passage for ships. The speculation in the newspapers about the extended silence from Elisha's expedition did nothing to alleviate my growing anxieties.

Months slowly passed, and in the early days of September a package arrived at the Turner house. Seeing that the sender was Cornelius Grinnell, I tore into it with soaring hopes—only to have my heart torn out by the contents. The package was filled with my own letters to Elisha. Young Mr. Grinnell had returned them to me with a brief note explaining that no contact had been made with the
Advance
, and none could now be expected until the following spring. “Whaling vessels report that it has been a very bad year for ice,” he wrote. “Dr. Kane will have no choice but to wait out a second winter above the Arctic Circle.”

At this revelation, I fell into such a state of fevered agitation that the Turners became alarmed. I locked myself into my bedroom with the unread letters; I sobbed until I was sick and refused to eat or drink. I burrowed into my bed and would not come out, weeping for hours without speaking and ignoring Mrs. Turner's anxious attempts to comfort me. After two days, my tutor and her husband threw up their hands in surrender and telegraphed my family in New York, requesting that someone come to fetch me. Mother and Kate arrived as soon as they could, and after failing to cajole me into a functioning state, they decided to take me with them back to the city.

“Only Maggie,” remarked Kate, “needs to leave the country for the city to regain her health.”

I had come to abhor country living, and only the unwavering belief that Elisha was going to return this summer and find me hard at work at my studies had sustained me. Now that this idyllic vision of our reunion had crumbled, I fell to pieces as well.

“He is dead,” I cried piteously on Kate's shoulder during the interminable carriage ride to the Philadelphia train station. “I know he is dead!”

“He is not dead, Maggie!” my sister reprimanded me. “He knew that he might be gone two years. He said so when he talked of provisioning his ship. Did you not
listen
to him?”

“I listened. But I refused to hear anything that did not have him back in my arms in a year.” I pressed my sodden handkerchief to my face. “I couldn't bear it, Kate. I can't bear it now! Another year!”

“Does he expect you to stay in Crooksville for another entire year?” demanded Mother. “You would be happier living with us!”

“I can't live with Leah!” I wailed. “He doesn't want me with Leah!”

My mother sighed. “Those two and their silly feud!”

I turned back to Kate and grasped her hands between my own. “He could be dead, Kate!” I insisted, pleading with her. She knew what I was asking her. I could see it in the way her eyes darted from side to side, trying to escape my gaze.

Finally, she sighed and looked at me directly. “He is not dead, Maggie. I am sure of it.”

I let out a breath of relief, followed by an intake of shuddering realization. “You know!” I gasped. “You
know!
What have you seen?”

“When did you start believing I have the sight?”

“When did you start hesitating to tell me what you've seen?” I countered.

Kate shook her head at me, looking distressed and wary. “I do not believe Elisha will die in the Arctic. I cannot tell you any more.”

“Cannot or will not?” I demanded.

“My vision is unclear,” she insisted. “I only feel certain that he will return from this trip. I cannot give you any reason.”

She was lying. I knew she was, and I still did not press her. For I was wise enough to know even in my state of hysteria that if she had seen something worse than his dying in the Arctic, I was not strong enough to hear it.

***

My stay in New York was destined to be brief this time. Mr. Henry Grinnell, the sponsor of Elisha's expedition and guardian of my living allowance, liked me best in the backcountry of Pennsylvania, buried under a mound of schoolbooks. It did not take long for him to discover my presence in the city and ply his influence to reinstate my exile.

As usual, the son Cornelius was delegated to the dirty work, and it was from him that I received the first warning letter. His first sentence caused my heart to rise up in my throat with panic, but upon reading further, I realized that there was no cause for any more alarm than we already endured.

Dear Miss Fox,

I am sorry to be writing you with an unhappy development that may cause you grief, but it is my sad duty to break this news before you read about it in the newspapers. Remains of the Franklin Expedition have been discovered by the Canadian explorer John Rae on the Boothia Peninsula of northern Canada, and it appears that all of the English explorers are dead. I am further distressed to explain to you that this final trace of the ill-fated group is far to the south of the route taken by the
Advance
, and it is now clear that Dr. Kane is searching in the wrong place.

As there will undoubtedly be increased speculation on the condition of Dr. Kane's expedition, I urge you to withdraw to your quiet country retreat, the better to escape the hurtful and ill-informed opinions of the newspapers.

After all, you and I are in accord regarding our belief that Dr. Kane will safely return from his explorations. When this happy event does occur, I would not like him to think that I allowed you to be remiss in your studies during his absence.

Your humble servant,

Cornelius Grinnell

I was not as ignorant as Mr. Cornelius Grinnell assumed. I knew the location of the Boothia Peninsula. The charted regions of the Arctic had long since been burned into my memory. I quite understood, from the moment I read the name Boothia, that Elisha's expedition would find no trace of Franklin in northern Greenland or any island thereabouts.

What I also understood was this: if the discovery had been made a year earlier, in time to inform Elisha before he passed beyond the areas of human habitation, he still would not have turned back. This expedition was never about Franklin, not really, no matter how the men who had planned, financed, and executed it pretended otherwise to themselves and to others. It was about competition and recognition and, as Kate had so nastily put it, about “naming frozen bits of wasteland.” And therefore, the fate of the Franklin party upset me less than Cornelius Grinnell thought it might, because I had never expected it to divert Elisha one degree from what he really wanted to do.

In my reply, I thanked Cornelius for his concern and assured him that I fully understood the implications of this discovery, but I also knew that it had no bearing on the state of the second Grinnell Expedition, hundreds of miles to the north. Furthermore, as politely as I could, I reminded him that in fifteen months I had only twice left Crooksville to visit my family. Surely, Elisha would not wish me to neglect my own mother!

A second letter followed fast upon the heels of my reply. Cornelius explained that his father was greatly concerned about the grim reports trickling into the newspapers as more details of Franklin's last days became known. Both father and son wanted me tucked away in Crooksville as soon as I could possibly arrange it, to shield my delicate sensibilities from the sordid truth about those wretched and desperate men.

In fact, I already knew that members of the Franklin crew had resorted to eating the flesh of their own dead in a fruitless attempt to avoid starvation. I had too many friends in the newspaper business to have escaped that unpleasant knowledge. I knew, also, that with Elisha's ship overdue and assumedly trapped in the ice, speculation was rife about whether he and his crew would, this winter, be reduced to the same depravity.

The Grinnells, in their paternal way, wished to shield me from this conjecture. But I was a practical girl and not given to passing judgment on people whose dire circumstances I could scarcely imagine. I am afraid my opinion on the matter was sharply divided, depending on who was doing the eating and who was doing the dying.

However, one fact was inescapable. Mr. Henry Grinnell was, for now, in charge of my living expenses, and if he desired that I return to Crooksville, then it would behoove me to comply.

Still, my willful nature led me to concoct one small rebellion. I wrote to the Grinnells that I would gladly return to Crooksville as requested,
after
I traveled to Rochester for the wedding of a dear family friend.

***

It was only a slight untruth. Although he and I had spent several years growing up together while I was a boarder in his home, I had never considered Amy Post's son Donald “a dear friend.” But I would not submit completely to these men who were trying to confine me in obscurity. Thus, I accompanied Mother and Kate to Rochester, where we watched a quiet and subdued Quaker ceremony, with the emphasis on quiet, and there was nothing that could be described as ceremonial at all.

The couple merely stood before a handful of close friends and kin and, after a suitably long and contemplative silence, expressed aloud their wish to be joined in marriage. There was no minister to sanctify the union, only the good wishes of any person present who wished to speak. This was marriage in the old way, the common-law manner, which Quakers still practiced.

It was a bittersweet event for me. Ill-complexioned Donald Post was married, and not even to a lumpish fright like Miss Clementine Walters. The sweet-natured Post bride was a lovely auburn-haired beauty, scarcely eighteen years old.

And here I was, just a few months away from my twenty-first birthday, living an enforced exile from my family, with no prospect of marriage unless the cruel Arctic ice spared the lives of its newest batch of victims.