“And if you’re right, Marcus, then what? What should we do?”
“If he was the one who harmed Agnes, then heaven save Chauncy Hammond, Jr., from me.”
LI
Class Feeling
THE BUILDING WAS A DECAYING ANCIENT CASTLE this muggy morning, Back Bay a scorched desert island robbed of life, at least in his eyes. Bob leaned back on the granite front steps, where only two weeks earlier, dozens of students had eaten their midday meals, laughing and gossiping, and did his best to conjure the cheerful images that somehow seemed so distant.
“A game of football? Very well, fellows,” Bob agreed, juggling a ball that he had found abandoned on the grounds. “Hurrah! Three cheers for Tech.” He kicked the ball away hard. In the distance, the muddy tide was washing into its inlet. Not far away, Bob spotted the old organ grinder who liked to play his music outside their windows while his monkey climbed up to collect coins from the students.
“Maurice! Say, Maurice, how about some melodies?” Bob called out. The musician gathered up his monkey and hurried in the other direction. “How is that for loyalty?” Bob pondered to himself. “What do you say, Bacon? Come, Newton. Heathen Archimedes, stop drawing in the sand and put your head together with old Mr. Franklin to solve our little problems.” The names invoked were chiseled in raised stone along the granite frieze that ran above the grand Corinthian columns on the face of the building.
He found his own name represented—much smaller—as initials carved into the brick foundation along the outside of the basement when the building was under construction. His freshman year had been a time of trepidation, adjustment, and excitement; the second and third years comfortable and fulfilling, as though he had been here forever and would stay forever. Senior year, from the very start, had had the feeling of something momentous and, perhaps, impossible to fully realize. He practically shouted, “What should we do with all this now?”
“I’d always hoped they’d plant more trees and flowers in front of the building. I suppose nobody would stop us now.”
He wheeled around at the sound of the voice. “Professor Swallow!”
Ellen sauntered slowly toward the steps. She wore her usual long black dress and plain black bonnet, which had to be stifling in the sun, though she did not show it.
“Professor, but what are you doing here?”
“The same thing as you.”
“Remembering,” Bob said, nodding thoughtfully. She sat on the other end of his step, which somehow made things better, as though the old gathering place were again populated by the usual fellows—even though she wasn’t really a “fellow.”
“Do you know the gymnasium on Eliot Street, Professor Swallow? Oh, it is filled with the usual parallel and horizontal bars, clubs, wall weights, you know. Whitney Conant was always there, and of course I’d convinced Mansfield and Eddy to come. Conny, he was experimenting with photographs then, and he took a photo of Mansfield, Eddy, and myself as a human pyramid, with me on my hands on top of their backs, feet in the air! We had to be completely still, Professor, for a full eleven seconds! Can you imagine headstrong old Mansfield that way? That settles it. I’m going to throw myself into exercising again, maybe try fencing again.”
After he located the appropriate stick to represent a foil, Bob shouted, “Guard!” and pointed his weapon upward so the tip was level with his chin. Ellen wasted no time in finding her own branch and assumed perfect posture opposite him.
“You, a fencer?”
“I have studied many of the arts usually reserved for men, you know.”
“Care to try?” asked Bob agreeably.
“Advance!” she declared, and they went through several movements and parries, laughing and shouting the command words as they did.
“Do you know where he is now?” she asked in the middle of their match.
“He?” Bob thrust his branch forward and she stepped back.
“Mr. Mansfield,” she said softly.
He lowered the branch. “Where, indeed. I suppose we grew too warm at each other after everything that happened.”
“He did seem out of spirits.”
“He left a note at Mrs. Page’s and took his things with him. He’s gone out of the city, I think. I suppose you must summer and winter with a man before you know him, as they say. It is a hard punishment for me to take. I was drawn to Mansfield the first time I saw him. But for these four years, I have never looked at the old fellow without a pang of shame.”
“Why?”
“You will think me cowardly,” Bob said with uncharacteristic bashfulness.
“I will not, Robert.”
He liked the sound of her saying his name. He owed her something for it, so he sat down and began his story. “Marcus Mansfield was in the Union army, you see. I wasn’t. I wasn’t chosen in the draft, mind you, but I also did not volunteer. Only one of my four brothers served, in fact. Baby brother Harry was too young. The oldest and next oldest paid for substitutes to go in their places, and I waited. And waited. How I wanted to fight more than anything!”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I tell you I was a chicken-heart. Every time I imagined being in uniform, I thought, What if a man in my regiment was in danger and I failed him? I was too much of a coward to take that risk. I wasn’t ready.”
“Not volunteering does not make you cowardly.”
“No? Then what?”
“Patient.”
He laughed. “I patiently waited until Lee’s surrender. Mansfield, meanwhile, was rotting in a prison camp. I tell you, there is stuff in that quiet fellow. The other prisoners appointed him their ‘police chief,’ giving him charge of protecting the weaker ones and punishing the wicked ones. I’d have given worlds to have been there by his side. One can only imagine—well, perhaps I always felt I owed him something for that. Though he never talked about it to me but once, when he had too much drink. Do you know, Saturday is decreed the first Decoration Day? They will have it every year from now on, I hear, on the thirtieth of May, to honor the soldiers. There will be parades, music festivals, plays, jubilees. Wreaths will be placed at cemeteries on the soldiers’ graves. I had asked Mansfield to go with me.”
“I’m sorry he has left. He is not a man for Boston, perhaps, but I found he is strictly of the New England character.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes. I never fully realized how much a New England birth in itself was worth, but I am happy that that was my lot. I have felt it so keenly these last few days. Dear old New England, with all her sternness and uncompromising opinions: the home of all that is good and noble. That is Mr. Mansfield, too.”
He sank his chin into his hands. “It’s a wonder anyone still remains in Boston. What shall I do without him?”
“I would like to go.”
“To the Decoration Day festival?”
“Yes.”
“You would?” he asked, brightening. “Would you allow me to escort you?”
“On the condition that you don’t call me Professor or Ellencyclopedia anymore.”
“No, no, it’s ‘Ellepedia.’ Anyway, ‘Miss Swallow’ sounds so formal and frightening.”
“I’d hoped to be treated equally at Tech,” she said wistfully. “If I am to call you ‘Robert,’ you must call me ‘Nellie.’ If there is nobody else around, of course. Otherwise, ‘Miss Swallow’ and ‘Mr. Richards’ will have to do.”
“Sold! Nellie, let us have our day at the festival, then. We both deserve a grand time, I’d say. We all do.”
“Sold.”
After Ellen continued on her way, Bob did not want to go back to his quiet room bereft of the company of Marcus. He ended up at a beer shop in the neighborhood known as Little Dublin, and stumbled home in the middle of the night, quite “plucked,” as the college boys said, and beyond noticing Marcus’s absence, or thinking about the faces of Boston’s dying and injured during the weeks of catastrophe, or about the fact there’d be no graduation next month for the
Class of 1868. No graduation ever at their Institute. How tired he was in his bones, yet he could not find a way to sleep. “I’ll do it, Mansfield,” he heard himself say, half conscious of what he meant. “I promise I will.”
Nor had Ellen really wanted to return to her room at Mrs. Blodgett’s after she continued on her way. She went to the public library instead, and drafted letters to private chemists, asking to be considered for any open positions. She then took the letters and deposited them around the city. She did not know if mentioning the Institute helped her or if her affiliation with it would be worn as her own scientific scarlet letter, but did it matter? She knew she would not be asked in for any of the positions when they saw the name of a woman at the bottom of the paper. She had given so much thought to her plan of life at the Institute, the result of cool, deliberate judgment, and she had been very satisfied with the fruits. How noble Robert Richards looked, keeping vigil on the steps of the Institute building, the guardian of lost causes.
By the time she began to make her way to her boardinghouse, darkness had fallen, the streets in the frightened city uncharacteristically deserted. As she was hurrying home, she thought she heard a lone footfall, and sensed a menace. She removed the pearl-handled revolver from the pocket of her coat and spun around, her hand trembling, remembering incongruously how she hadn’t told Bob of her revolver when he’d asked on the roof of her building, not wishing him to think her fearful of living in Boston. Walking backward, she cocked the revolver and shouted, “I will fire, sir, I will fire if I must!” But nobody was there.
At last she reached home, her lips quivering, and threw herself, sobbing, onto her bed. She was thankful her mother was not present to see her behaving like a silly schoolgirl, instead of a woman prepared to face the trials of life unwavering. Baby curled up behind Ellen’s head and wrapped his paws around her hair like a crown.
* * *
THE SMALL ROW OF ELM TREES lent a somewhat less severe appearance to the grounds, but only somewhat. This was not really a cemetery, nothing like the fashioned gardens of Mount Auburn over the river in Cambridge; this was a burying yard, cold-blooded and forgetful. The gates of granite and iron would make any visitor doubt whether his visit was any more welcomed by the dead than by their keepers, especially at such a late hour.
The reluctant caller held his lantern out and swept it over the unevenly shaped gravestones, which were mostly of flimsy sandstone or cracked marble. At least the ancient, haunting character of the place would keep away vagabonds—well, all but the one he sought, he hoped. He lost his step on the overgrown path and stumbled, almost falling flat onto a grave. Damn those beers, and blast the lack of sleep.
The noise he produced sent a shape scurrying past him through the dark. Regaining his balance, Bob shined the smoky light on the moss-covered tomb where the scurrying had come to a stop.
“Hold on there! Don’t be afraid!” Bob whispered.
The shape darted again, this time on all fours, behind a line of jagged graves that led back to the chapel. He ran after it, but the shape was small and quicker.
“I said wait! I’m a friend, damn it! Theophilus!”
The running stopped again at another tomb. A fearful young voice emerged. “Who are you? Did he send you for me?”
“No,” said Bob. “No one sent me.”
“How’d you find me, then?”
Bob couldn’t tell exactly which tomb was speaking to him. He kept his distance so he would not scare the boy into running again. “I’ve been looking for you all night. I’m not the only one: Some of the shops nearby say you’ve been stealing bits of meat and fruit the last few days.”
“Are you here to arrest me for it?” More rustling, preparations for another run.
“Goodness, no! But if you don’t want to be noticed, don’t steal, for heaven’s sake. One of the merchants had been asking around for you, and heard you had been seen sneaking around one of the burial yards. I climbed into the Copp’s Hill and Granary burial yards without finding any sign of you, so I thought I must be getting close here. I brought you something to eat.”
“No thanks!” The sound of sniffing. “You have meat?”
“Boiled pork, well browned, smothered in sauce. That’s right.”
Theo leaned his head out from behind the dilapidated charnel house, a full ten feet from where Bob had been standing. Bob marveled at how deftly the boy had eluded him.
“How long have you been sleeping here?”
“Dunno. Weeks.”
“Weeks! For goodness sake,” said Bob. “Well, you’re going home tonight.”
“Not with the likes of you, I ain’t! Not if he sent you to bring me!”
“I already told you …” Bob began, growing impatient.
“Say, I remember you!”
“Good boy. That’s right—we had a fine conversation together on State Street.”
“You called me a scamp.”
“I hardly would think you would remember that, of all things.”
“The other fellow, with the mustache. He was awful kind. Where is he?”
Bob cringed at the question and just shook his head. “You’re safe now, Theophilus. Do you have somewhere to go?”
“ ’Pose not,” the boy mumbled, taking a tentative step closer.
In the halo of his lantern, Bob looked the refugee over. His skin was pale and dirty, his greasy head bare, and he was only partially covered by a ragged suit of clothes lined in filth. His hands were lodged deep inside his pockets. “Goodness! Don’t you have parents to care for you?”
“Aye, and four brothers and three sisters, and if I don’t come with any earnings from employment, my father will show me what is what with a rod. I was making believe this was my castle, and each of these stones, one of my knights defending me.”
“What are you hiding in your pockets? Go on. Let me see your hands.”
“No chance!”
“Why not? You can’t eat this if your hands are hidden away. Come on, both hands now.”
With a huff, he slowly withdrew his hands. The hand that had been injured in the catastrophe trembled.
“Just don’t try to get my hands, you hear?”
“Tell me, what happened to make you run off? Why make camp here, of all places, man?”
“He told me I had to! That if I didn’t, he’d …” Theo made a cutting motion with his hand.
“You mean the stockbroker, Joseph Cheshire?”
“Villain!” he replied with emotion. “He chased me into an alleyway and threatened to cut my fingers off my good hand! He would have, too, I vow it! But I must have fainted, and when I woke I was in the back of his carriage wrapped in a blanket. He said only cowardly boys fainted, and he needn’t waste his time with a coward, and told me to stay here in this burying yard until he said different, so I could look at the tombs and remember what would happen if I blabbed ever again! He said he’d bury me right here if I didn’t keep mum or tried to take wing.”
“This was the first burial yard established in all of Boston,” said Bob. “No one has been buried here for a long time. Imagine, Theophilus, my little friend, that one of the first things the settlers in Boston realized they needed to build was a burial yard. Well, that scoundrel won’t be bothering you ever again.”
“Really?” he asked timidly.
“That’s a promise.”
“It’s Thee-a-fil-is, by the by, not Theo-folis!”
Bob lowered himself down, perching on the edge of an ancient grave marker carved with a large skull. “You know, about our last conversation,” he said sullenly. “I know I owe you an apology. You had only been trying to help us and you were in great pain at the time, and I was thinking about myself, and not granting you the respect you earned. But blast it all, Mansfield, even at such an evil hour, there must be more to do!”
The boy stared at him with big, glassy eyes, his hands now resting on his hips.
“Say, Theo,” Bob said, fighting off the fresh wave of exhau
stion and regret, “how fares the arm and hand? The injuries, I mean.”
Theo shrugged. “I guess it’ll never be better enough to be the man I could have been.”
“I’d wager my best scarf it will indeed. In fact … Watch out, man!”
He tossed the paper bag into the air. Theo took a few steps back and caught it to his chest, sticking half his face into the bag for his first bite of meat.
“There!” Bob cried out, laughing.
“Why, you’re cracked in the head, too!” Theo said, surplus pork flying out of his mouth as he spoke. “What’s the great joke, mister?”
“You caught that with your right hand, Theo!”
“Say!” the boy marveled when he realized it, his face coloring with pride. “Say, just a week ago, I couldn’t have done that!”
“Come, you’ll eat on the way. I owe you this, too.” He wrapped his scarf, which was thick and black with gold stripes, around Theo’s neck.
“Where will I go?”
“You’ll stay in my rooms tonight, and in the morning I’ll convince some uncle or cousin he needs a smart apprentice like you in his office.”
“You think you can, mister?” he asked, in awe of the idea.
“I am as sure as a gun.”
LII
In Harness
MARCUS WAITED until Edwin could get away from his family again without attracting undue attention. He did not want to confront Hammie without an ally by his side. Who could guess Hammie’s reaction upon being accused? And even if he confessed, Marcus would need a witness. Not that he expected Hammie to make it easy.
They embarked on their grim mission, following the picturesque embankment from the hotel to the cottage. Suddenly Marcus stopped dead, halfway up the path.
Standing by the water was the unmistakable figure of Louis Agassiz, with his handsome dome-shaped head and broad frame. He appeared to have been waiting in the same spot for some time.
“Back up slowly, Edwin,” Marcus whispered. “We’ll go around the other way.”