Grim Legionby Jack Alcott |
Table of Contents Synopsis Part 4 appears in this issue. |
| Part 5 |
Then they saw the steamboat, its lights moving faster than the others even though it was going upriver, its twin smokestacks spewing sparks and steam and smoke, and they stopped to stare at the vessel. Steamboats were not a rare sight anymore, but the bigger ones still commanded attention.
“Look at that behemoth, lads,” Edgar said. “That’s the future. What a marvelous world awaits us.”
“Incredible,” said Thomas.
William was not so impressed. “It’s a blasphemy. All this steam and machinery goes against the natural order, against God’s order.”
“I had no idea you were so religious,” chuckled Edgar.
“I have certain principles,” William said without a trace of amusement.
“You don’t think God wants us to progress as a race, to use our divine wits to better our lives?” Edgar persisted. “That machine moves men and goods faster and farther and more efficiently than ever before. What’s the harm in that?”
“It’s the work of Satan himself,” answered William. “And he’s moving us faster and more efficiently to hell.”
“My, my,” said Tim. “That’s a dark view of things.” He adjusted his spectacles to get a better look at the steamboat.
“Surely you’ve heard about the locomotives they have in England and Scotland?” Edgar said. “There’s the Rocket and the Planet, and then there’s the Northumbrian. We’re way behind the British in developing these new machines.”
“They’re all blasphemous,” came William’s reply. “The work of infernal Machinists.”
“Go on with you,” said Tim, not quite believing what he was hearing. “What a load of horse manure.”
“My father was a riverboat captain on the Monongahela,” Charlie said. “He used to take the steamboat up to Pittsburgh and sometimes I’d go with him. I was fond of those trips.”
Edgar went on as if he hadn’t heard Charlie, and directed his question at William. “How about that locomotive they’re forging over at the foundry? I read that it’s going to run at speeds of up to thirty miles an hour. You must have seen it there?”
“I’ve seen it, all right. They call the thing ‘The Best Friend of Charleston’, but I wager it’s no friend to man. It’ll stink up the land, covering everything with steam and ash.”
Edgar was surprised by the ferocity of his words.
“It’s the future, William. There’s no stopping it. Whether you like it or not, it’s going to change the world.”
“We shall see about that.”
His emotion seemed out of proportion with the subject, and Edgar couldn’t fathom why such a remarkable machine didn’t excite him.
As if in answer, William spoke up with an acid tongue: “Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?/How should he love thee/or deem thee wise...”
It was a verse from “Sonnet to Science,” one of Edgar’s more recent poems. He was dismayed but flattered that William knew his work.
The steamboat’s aft-end disappeared behind a bend in the river and all that remained of its passage were a few rippling pennants of steam and several white-sailed sloops left rocking in its wake.
“The future’s what you make it,” William said.
“Show’s over, fellas,” said Charlie, breaking the machine’s spell. “We’d better get.”
Once again they tramped headlong down the hillside. After five minutes or so they came to a dusty, wheel-rutted road on a bluff above the river, which they followed for some distance without seeing a single carriage or buckboard; all the traffic seemed to be down on the teeming river.
At an intersection on the outskirts of the village of Buttermilk Falls, several carriages glowing with lantern light passed them by, their occupants peering out in curiosity at the cadets hiking in the dark. Edgar saluted them as they whirled past.
“This is where I split off,” he said, pointing to the road that branched to the right. “I’ve got to pay my respects to Eleanor and her family. I’ll meet up with you boys later.”
“Tell her we’re all sorry for her loss,” said William. “But don’t tell her where we are — mourners don’t drink and dance the night away.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be discreet,” Edgar said without looking back.
The others continued along the main road and Tim soon pointed to the top of a hill where a mansion bristling with light commanded views of the valley and river below.
“It’s another half-mile up that damn road,” Charlie complained.
“Move it soldier,” William said. “We’ll take that hill tonight or die trying. The ladies are waiting, not to mention the wine.”
The ball was already under way when they arrived. The butler admonished them to clean off their boots and then ushered them inside, where Mrs. Douglas greeted them in the parlor. A large woman, she was regal as a queen in what Lucian, in a whispered aside, facetiously estimated was an acre of expensive blue silk.
“How handsome you all look in your uniforms,” she gushed, touching the gold braid and piping on the arm of William’s jacket. “My husband just loves soldiers, and so do the young ladies.” She winked coquettishly and motioned for them to follow her. “This way, gentlemen.”
The ballroom was filled with revelers, the women in their finest gowns, the men in waistcoats and top hats. With All Hallows Eve near, many of the guests wore masks and fanciful parti-colored costumes with furs, feathers and flowers to make them look like seraphs and wood sprites or various animals, real and imagined. A chamber orchestra played a waltz as dancers, including a tall man in a leering wolf’s mask and a lovely girl in a turban, glided gracefully about the polished oak floor. Ornate chandeliers sparkled with a crystalline light.
Douglas himself — a stout, florid man with a helmet of unruly white hair — came over to greet the cadets. “Welcome, men of West Point.’’ he hailed them. “It’s always a pleasure to have the finest young soldiers in the land visit my home.”
He shook hands all around and then steered them to a banquet table heavy with cakes, fruit and delicacies of all kinds. But it was, of course, the punch bowl as big as a washtub that drew the most attention.
A servant filled the crystal bowl to the brim with a sparkling, ruby-red beverage. “Help yourselves,” Douglas said exuberantly. The cadets didn’t need to be told twice, and they were soon sipping punch and dancing with the young women Mrs. Douglas guided their way.
* * *
Eleanor’s house was ablaze with candlelight when Edgar arrived. Buggies, wagons and carriages of all types were out in front. Old Ben had known quite a lot of people in his lifetime, and many had come from miles around to attend his wake. He’d also made a small fortune and it showed in the size and elegance of his house.
The tavern just down the road was only one of his ventures, a solid moneymaker that provided capital for his other interests. Edgar had heard, for instance, that Ben most recently had invested in an iron mine further up the river with Douglas as a partner. That was impressive because it meant the old man had vision, that he could see the country’s future. They’d need iron to smelt at the West Point Foundry, iron to build the cannon and steamboats and locomotives and all the new inventions that would make America great.
Edgar, too, saw what was coming. But he had no money or talent for business. Instead, he intended to chronicle this industrial awakening in his poems. They would be paeans to America’s might and glory. The country was emerging from its long torpor and finally embracing this new machine age already in progress in England and elsewhere in Europe. Steam power would soon replace muscle, wind and beast, and Old Ben — that grizzled old bull — had had the vision to see that and to capitalize on it. Like an American Vulcan, he had wanted to help forge a new, more powerful nation.
As Edgar approached the house, an elderly couple in somber black came out on the porch. They were met by a stable hand who went to get their carriage.
Edgar went up the steps, nodding solemnly. “He was a good man, a good man,” the white-whiskered gentleman said, shaking his head and dabbing his red-rimmed eyes with a handkerchief. His wife held a hand to her face to hide her tears. Their raw emotion gave Edgar pause, and for a moment he questioned his own visit. Was it because he genuinely cared for Ben, or was he there to win the dead man’s daughter?
Ben, toward whom he’d certainly borne no malice, had not really liked him sniffing around his daughter; and yet here he was. But in truth, Edgar genuinely cared for Eleanor and wanted to comfort her at this awful time. He loved her; that was why he stood at this threshold. When he knocked on the door, a bull of a man even bigger than Ben opened it to admit him.
“I’m Zebulon, Ben’s brother,” the giant offered, extending his hand. “ ‘Twas good of thee to come.”
The introduction was unnecessary; Edgar had seen him around the tavern. He’d also heard about Zeb from Eleanor, who wasn’t fond of him. He was a boozer and in his youth a champion brawler, a talent that had led to his expulsion from the Point; he was one of the first sluggards to go when Thayer took over from disgraced Superintendent Alden Partridge.
While he lacked Ben’s mental prowess and was at least a decade younger, his physical resemblance to his brother was considerable: he had the same granite features and barrel-chested bulk. Although they were business partners, Ben had kept his brother employed at odd jobs and maintenance work around the tavern. But Zeb was now in charge of the family business, and as they shook hands Edgar wondered if he was up to the task.
“I’m sorry about Ben,” Edgar said, feeling awkward and out of place. “I hope his murderer is brought to justice soon.”
“Kind of you, sir,” Zeb said and led him from the parlor down a long hallway and into a high-ceilinged room filled with mourners. A closed casket of polished ebony rested on a low table in the center of the room. Edgar recalled with a jolt the heart he’d held in his hand only the day before.
The room was crowded and everyone spoke in hushed, respectful tones. There were quite a few regulars from the tavern as well as business acquaintances and local dignitaries, and Edgar noticed the village mayor standing with bowed head in front of the casket.
Eleanor emerged from the crowd and hurried toward him. She had been crying and her eyes were red with grief. “Oh, Eddy. I’m so glad you came,” she said, taking his hands in hers.
“I couldn’t stay away at a time like this,” he said. “I’m so sorry... your father was a good man.”
“Come with me,” she said, taking his hand and leading him through the crowd into another room, which Edgar saw was a library. Its walls were filled floor to ceiling with bookshelves. An exquisite Oriental carpet covered most of the floor’s oak planking.
Edgar was astounded that Old Ben would have had such a sanctuary. Still, many merchants who had recently entered the burgeoning middle-class had amassed such libraries to impress both their clients and society in general. Whatever the reason for its existence, the room helped explain Eleanor’s literary bent.
They were alone now, although she’d left the door open and a soft murmur of voices came from the other room. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she turned back to him and embraced him, crying and burying her face in his shoulder for comfort. The suddenness of her actions surprised and thrilled him.
“I can’t bear to see him laid out in that coffin. I want him to live again,” she cried.
Edgar held her tight, smoothing her hair with his hand.
“I know how you feel,” he said, immediately regretting the empty phrase. He hesitated, and then went on. “I’ve known too much of death myself, Eleanor. My own mother died when I was a boy and I’ve never forgiven — I mean forgotten — her. Never. And you’ll never forget your father, either. He’ll be with you forever.”
Another platitude, he thought to himself, ashamed at his lack of eloquence. But she held him closer, sobbing as her body shook, so fragile and vulnerable in his arms. She was, after all, just a girl of eighteen.
Then she looked into his eyes, gave him a quick kiss and pulled away. “My mother is probably wondering where I am,’’ she said.
When they returned to the parlor, William was there.
“It’s kind of you to come,” Eleanor said, as William clasped her hand in both of his.
“I’m truly sorry,” he said. “Your father was always good to me. He was an exceptional man.’’
Eleanor bit her lip to hold back her tears.
“He’s right, Eleanor,” Edgar said. “Ben’s passing is a loss to the whole community.”
Just as he was about to continue, he heard a ruckus down the hallway and shouts from Zebulon. “Sir. Sir! This is most disrespectful,” he said loudly to someone in the hall.
All heads turned to the doorway as Henry lurched into view with Zebulon right behind. Henry’s hair was mussed and sticking up at different angles, and although he was dressed in his usual elegant suit, his cravat was askew and he was clearly inebriated.
“Eddy! I’ve been looking all over the damned place for you,’’ he slurred when he saw Edgar, tottering against a guest as others in the room looked on with disgust.
Edgar took his brother by the arm and tried to guide him back toward the door and out of the room. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
But Henry stood fast. “I tried to find you, brother. I couldn’t wait for you to come to the whorehouse with me. We’re keeping the ladies waiting.”
A nearby matron gasped and someone else muttered to “throw the rumhound out.” Mortified, Edgar tugged at his brother, urging him to leave. But Henry jerked free.
“We have to talk about our book,” he said. “We’ve got to start on it tonight. My brain is on fire.”
“This man’s your brother?” said Eleanor. “Please introduce me, Eddy.”
Before Edgar could say a word, Henry stepped up and bowed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am. I’m Henry Poe — poet, adventurer and wastrel all rolled into one.” He stepped back to appraise her. “You are even more extraordinary than Eddy here bragged about.”
“Well, thank you,” Eleanor said, whereupon Henry caromed drunkenly into an outraged matron. The elderly woman let out a squawk, and Edgar thought the whole thing would have been comical had the occasion been different. The woman’s husband, a ramrod straight old fellow, gave Henry a shove and he pitched across the room.
William caught him and held him upright. “I don’t care whose brother you are, this is disgraceful,” he said. “You have the nerve to come here stinking like this? If you have any sense, you’ll leave now.”
He pushed Henry toward the door, and Edgar saw his brother’s eyes narrow in a way he knew meant trouble. William was a good bit taller and broader, but if it came to a fight, barring another coughing fit, Henry would beat him within an inch of his life. He was a fearsome street fighter, used to trading blows with much tougher foes than William and he’d go at him hammer and tong, striking viciously and without mercy.
But then Zebulon was looming over them, barely able to contain his formidable fury, and Edgar knew he’d have to act fast to prevent a bone-breaking brawl.
He stepped quickly between Henry and William, placing a firm hand on his brother’s chest. “Come, Henry. Let us take our leave.”
But the fire was not yet out in Henry’s eyes. “Who is this overdressed fop?” he asked, his Virginia accent thick with menace, his eyes boring into William’s. “Who is this blue-blood, good-for-nothing, jack-a-dandy asshole?”
William came forward, his jaw set. “Your better, as I’ll show you if you’ll step outside.”
Edgar stopped William’s advance. “Please, Will, let me get him out of here. He’s drunk and doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“Step aside, little brother, and let me show this Yankee how to properly address a son of the South,” Henry said.
With that, Zebulon made a guttural noise deep in his throat and made a move toward Henry.
“You’ll go now, boy, or I’ll break ye into pieces,” he said hoarsely.
Fortunately, Eleanor caught Zebulon’s wrist and held him back. “Let Edgar help his brother to leave,” she told the big man.
Edgar had already locked one of his arms around Henry and was tugging him toward the door.
“You better hurry,” William said. “He’s close to getting the whipping of his life.”
Copyright © 2006 by Jack Alcott
