We Hear the Dead (30 page)

He was pushing his recovery, anxious to complete his writing. There were deadlines to meet, he insisted, and cash advances to earn. His family, worried about the reckless way he was driving himself, entreated with him to come home to Philadelphia. He would not—not without me.

Therefore, it was Morton and I who watched over him, making certain that he ate decent meals and slept enough. To the both of us, it seemed like a task of holding back the sea with a broom. The more Elisha poured his soul onto paper, the less of it there was to sustain his physical body.

Maggie

Elisha delivered his completed manuscript to its publisher in the early fall of 1856. “This book, poor as it is, has been my coffin,” he said gloomily as he packed it into a leather valise.

“Oh, Dr. Kane,” protested Mrs. Walters, who had accompanied me on a visit to his lodgings. “You mustn't tempt fate with such utterings!”

He looked up sheepishly, caught my smothered smile. “My apologies, Mrs. Walters,” he said. “I have been depressed by illness, and I'm afraid I am poor company. It is hard to believe, but I think I was healthier in the Arctic—if you do not count the scurvy.”

“And the frostbite,” I added.

“And the chafing and the itching,” he continued, winking at me while Mrs. Walters fluttered her handkerchief in front of her face in distaste.

Although it was easy enough to tease poor Ellen Walters, the fact remained that Elisha could not conquer this latest attack of rheumatic fever. Many years after the original infection that had nearly killed him as a youth, this persistent affliction had disabled him once more. Frustrated by his lack of vitality, Elisha had decided to consult his private physician in Philadelphia and hand-deliver his manuscript to the publishers at the same time.

I was unhappy to see him return to Philadelphia and into the clutches of his mother, but I could not say this, of course. I had to appear cheery and content to send him off to his family and his doctor, and I did hope, of course, that the latter would have some miraculous cure.

On this particular day, the afternoon before his departure, he had a special surprise to cushion the sadness of his leave-taking. I recognized the gleam in his eye when he handed me the velvet-wrapped box, and so I knew that he expected to enjoy my reaction. Even thus warned, I could not control my gasp.

“It is from Tiffany's,” he said, lifting the bracelet from its silk-lined bed, the diamonds winking brilliantly. “I ordered it weeks ago, but I was afraid it would not be ready in time.”

“Elisha! What have you done? I couldn't possibly accept such a gift!” Nonetheless, my arm rose of its own accord, and he wrapped it around my wrist. “You cannot afford this; I know that, Ly.” I tore my eyes away from the dazzling diamonds set in gold and met his affectionate gaze.

“You cannot turn it down, Maggie,” he said. “Are you saying you will not marry me?”

“What?” I murmured breathlessly.

“No promissory ring this time,” he assured me. “An engagement, truly.”

“Another secret one?” I asked, unable to bite it back.

He paused, wincing. “Discreet, at least. Unless you want the newspaper reporters at your house again.”

“No, I do not care to relive that nonsense,” I said.

“Will you marry me, darling spirit?” he asked again. “I would get down on one knee, but I am afraid I would embarrass myself trying to get up again. Still, if you would prefer it…”

“No, no!” I exclaimed, gripping his arms when he made as if to kneel.

“No, you will not marry me?” But he was grinning, teasing me.

“No! I mean, I will! You know I will!” Somehow I found myself in his arms, and he kissed me possessively, even in front of Mrs. Walters, who, for her part, blushed and cried out, “Oh dear, whatever is your mother going to say, Maggie?”

“My mother,” I moaned, pulling my lips back from his. “
Your
mother! You must tell her, Ly. You must tell her during this visit, or I swear I shall break the engagement myself this time!”

“I will tell her,” he promised. And he kissed me again.

***

He was gone for some weeks, although he wrote me every few days. His publisher held him up for a time, demanding changes in his manuscript, and his doctor prescribed an abrupt change in climate that necessitated an extended overseas voyage:

As fond of travel as I am, the idea does not appeal. If I must lie limpidly anywhere, I would rather it be by your side, with your gentle hand upon my fevered brow. However, my physician is sending me to a spa in Switzerland where the high altitude and cold air may alleviate my symptoms. Additionally, my publisher has agreed to foot some of the costs if I will divert first to England, there to meet with Lady Franklin and the British Admiralty.

They have proposed another mission of exploration and have suggested me as commander, hoping for a collaborative British and American achievement. Do not worry, my darling. I am in no fit condition for such a venture, and besides, I have my obligation to you now, as well. My publisher wishes me to make the trip only to support the great Lady's cause. Thus, a brief stay in England, a recuperative visit to Switzerland, and then home to you, my love. My mother is resigned—or at least I have told her that she must be, by the time I return, for that is when we shall be married.

I admit I despaired to read those words, knowing that I would again have to await his return from a long voyage for the redemption of his promise. To be true, England and Switzerland were not as deadly as the Arctic, but he was not so ill when he left me the last time. It seemed folly to send a man in his condition on such a long trip.

And of course, the last time he left me, I did not know that he would come back and forsake his vow. It seemed a faithless thing to doubt him now. But I did, and it proved impossible for me to hide this from him.

He called upon me as soon as he returned to New York, turning up on Mrs. Walters's doorstep a day before I had expected him. With a cry of joy, I pulled him into the foyer and covered his face with kisses before I had even closed the door. He laughed and caught my hand, turning aside my sleeve. “You are wearing my bracelet,” he observed with some satisfaction.

“I never take it off,” I told him proudly.

He paused then and looked up at the stairs. We were accustomed to sitting in my private parlor on the third floor during his visits, and the look on his face tore at my heart. I could see that he dreaded the climb.

“We cannot go to that parlor,” I said then. “Mrs. Walters has decided to have it painted, and the fumes are unbearable. For my sake, let us sit downstairs.”

“Maggie, I always know when you are lying,” Elisha said reprovingly. “Even on the day I first met you, I thought to myself, ‘This angel, with her luminous eyes and her perfect lips, is deceiving me.' Oh, I was truly consternated that I could not figure out how you were doing it!”

“Then I shall be relentlessly honest with you,” I said, standing very close to him. “I do not wish to climb to the third floor, because I want you to save your breath for other things!” I slipped my arms around his neck, pressing my lips against his and thoroughly distracting him from thoughts of staircases and foolish pride, until he came with me to the ground-floor parlor like a docile little lamb, led by the hand.

Elisha spent most of his time with me for the next few days. He brought me several highly personal gifts: a set of handkerchiefs embroidered with his initials—because he had noted how often I misplaced my own—and a locket that had belonged to his grandmother. Because he no longer had the stamina for outings in the park, he spent entire afternoons reclining upon Mrs. Walters's settee while I sat in a chair beside him, reading aloud to him and holding one hand, as requested, upon his brow.

It was—just as he had said—fevered.

And perhaps because of this ominous sign, we both grew more and more depressed by his approaching trip. On the evening before his departure, we were frankly morose. Mother and Kate had come to say farewell to him, and both of them kept trying to meet my eye with eyebrows raised and mouths turned down as if to say, “Whatever is the matter with you two?”

When he finally came to take his leave, I walked with him down the hallway to the front door. My steps came ever slower and smaller until at last I stopped in the middle of the corridor and nearly bent double, suddenly overcome with tears.

“Maggie, dearest, please don't cry!” he exclaimed, turning me toward him.

I turned my tear-stained face up to his. “I am afraid for you to leave me in this condition!”

He took my face between his two hands and stared at me as if trying to memorize my features. “I am such a fool,” he said. “I should have married you when I had the chance. How did I ever let my family bend me to their will? I was so sure I could have my cake and eat it, too, that I could make everyone happy and have my own way. Yet here I am, about to leave you again, and I have never redeemed my promise to you!”

I should have reassured him then that I had faith in him, but instead I just continued to cry helplessly, my lips parted but unable to speak. Knowing me as he did, he read the doubt in my eyes, and it wounded him.

“I have left it too late,” he said in despair. “Even this week, I could have…and did not. But Maggie, you
are
my wife, my very own wife. No ceremony or magistrate could make you more so than you already are. You
are
my wife, are you not?”

“Yes, I am,” I cried. “In my heart, I am!”

“If we pledge ourselves before witnesses, it is as binding as any marriage in a church. It is both legal and sacred as any ceremony before a magistrate.” His eyes held my own in thrall. “Would you be willing
now
to enter such a bond?”

I nodded, dumbfounded. He took my hand and strode back down the hallway to the parlor, with a vigor he had not shown in weeks. Mother and Kate were still there, although Mrs. Walters had gone to her room. He should have waited until we could summon her back, but none of us thought of it then.

He expressed his intention to my mother, who was bewildered and confused. “Do you mean…like a Quaker ceremony?” she said.

“Exactly,” he affirmed. “It is a time-honored custom in common law.” And then he swung me around to face him again, holding my hands between his own. “Maggie—Margaretta Fox—is my wife, and I am her husband. Wherever we are, she is mine, and I am hers. Do you understand and consent to this, Maggie?”

“I do,” I whispered. “You are my husband, Elisha Kane, and I am your wife…unto death.”

“But I want my daughter married in a church!” Mother wailed, as Elisha kissed me and embraced me.

“She will be,” he promised over the top of my head. “We shall do it again properly when I return. You have my word—as your son.”

***

I received only four letters from Elisha on his trip. The first came from Liverpool, England, where his ship disembarked:

Dearest Wife,

How truly novel and wonderful to write those words! I shall do it again. Dearest Wife, I have arrived safely and plan a departure to London within the hour. Forgive the brevity of this letter, but Morton is even now arranging our transport. I will write again upon arrival in the great city and apprise you of the address where you may reach me should you need anything.

Your beloved husband,

Ly

The second letter, two weeks later, was of greater length but written in Morton's hand, which immediately revealed how sick Elisha really was. Amusing anecdotes filled the letter, cleverly written with Elisha's recognizable turn of phrase, for all the handwriting was that of another man's. He spoke of his meetings with Lady Franklin, her overwhelming personality and strong convictions: “She would lead the expedition herself, if only the Admiralty would allow it.”

He did not speak of his illness, although it was clear that he could not hold his own pen. I sat at home, pacing and worrying and wringing my hands. What good did it do me to be called his wife when I still had no recourse but to wait in the rear for his return?

“I should have gone with him!” I cried to the walls of the house.

The third letter returned to brevity and was once more dictated in his secretary's hand:

My darling Maggie,

I am sent now to Havana—yes, Cuba, rather than Switzerland after all. England was a mistake, for the climate has disagreed with me sharply. All my engagements here are canceled, and I am commanded to seek warmer lands. Cuba is but a week's travel from New York. Will you come if I send for you? Please write me care of American Consul, Havana. Will advise you upon arrival.

Lovingly,

Elisha

By now, I was greatly alarmed. No one could console me. There was no hiding the gravity of his condition. In fact, newsboys shouted it on the streets of New York so that I could not even walk to church or to the park without wanting to cover my ears. “Kane Collapses at London Reception!” they cried. “Arctic Explorer Rushed Aboard Steamer to the Tropics!” What anguish it was, to have my beloved's critical condition bandied about in the press to satisfy the curiosity of the public! Horace Greeley's paper carried a lengthy story regarding Dr. Kane's declining state of health. Even though Mr. Greeley sent me a private note expressing his concern for my state of mind, it evidently did not preclude his making the story a first-page sensation.

I waited impatiently for word to reach me of his arrival in Cuba. My trunk was packed, the same trunk he had purchased for me when I moved to Crooksville. Mother had agreed to accompany me when the time came, although she was reluctant and apprehensive. She had never traveled such a distance and was quite wary of visiting a land where English was a foreign tongue.

When the fourth letter came, it was a shock beyond bearing. It was written in a strange hand, neither Elisha's nor Morton's, with disjointed ill-formed letters and nearly indecipherable spelling. When translated into something approaching sense, the gist was this:

Why have you not come? I have received no letters from you! I am sick unto death without you—will you not come to me?

I cried out loud upon reading it. He had not received my letters? I had written nearly one a day and sent them to Havana. They should have been waiting for him upon his arrival. I could have been on a steamer already if I had known he was in Cuba. Who was writing his letters, and where was Morton?