Coffins (15 page)

“But I don't have any,” I protested, rather weakly.

“Then gather yourself, and follow,” she retorted with an air of disgust.

What could I do but obey?

In an alcove by the kitchen we were met by Mr. Douglass and Miss Assing, both in their nightclothes, as well as by a worried-looking Jebediah. Worried, I noted, but not frightened. There was never any question in my mind but that this nocturnal outburst was corporeal, and human. Unlike the eerie, maddening wails of the crying infant, the moaning did not move from room to room. It originated from a particular location beneath the house, somewhere in the cellars, the inside entrance to which we found, within the alcove.

It was Frederick Douglass himself who led us below, holding high the lantern and admonishing the taller of us to mind our heads. Before we got to the bottom step, even before I could see the glistening dark faces illuminated in the glow of the lantern, I understood that we had here, in the subterranean shelter of the Coffin house, a group of runaway slaves.

It made sense, considering Jebediah's fanatical abolitionism, that he would make his own home a stop on the so-called underground railway. And these poor frightened creatures—no, these poor human beings—were quite literally underground, having been transported, I was soon made aware, from the harbor at Gloucester, via the swift
Raven
, which was often secretly utilized for that purpose.

“Black Jack Sweeney is one of our most trusted 'conductors,'” Mr. Douglass confided, referring to
Raven'
s one-eyed master. “More than a thousand former slaves owe their freedom to that pretty little ship. When the weather improves this group is bound for Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, to join the community we've established there. But meantime their numbers are about to increase by one. Provided you can help with a difficult birthing.”

Such was the source of the frantic moaning. A terrified young woman, no more than twenty, was being attended by the other females in the group, the men having placed themselves in the far end of the cellar, where they crouched and stared worriedly at the moving lanterns. Truthfully, I wanted to join them, for my entire experience of the birth process had been strictly as an observer, in the charity wards, when some poor unfortunate happened to find herself there at the crucial moment, rather than safe at home where babies are more properly, and more safely, delivered. I had but once assisted (stood by in horror is more like it) while a whiskey-scented surgeon—a charming fellow with intelligent, kindly eyes—attempted a cesarean and botched it badly, murdering the mother in the process. Thus had I finally been cured of any desire, however faint, to take up the actual practice of medicine, because by necessity a physician's hands are stained with the blood of his patients, called by some his victims.

So you will understand my anxiety upon being summoned to this scene, which was even more hopeless than the situation preceding the fatal cesarean. The group of women helping the young mother turned to me so beseechingly that at the very least I must give my opinion, and I'm afraid my opinion was very grave: the baby was breached in the birth canal and as it continued its feeble struggle the umbilical cord was wrapping ever tighter around its tiny neck. There was no reason to suppose the baby could live, and every passing minute made it less likely that the young, terrified mother would survive the ordeal.

Had beautiful, alluring cousin Lucy not been there, it is likely I would have refused to intervene in a natural process whose culmination could only be death. As it was, I hadn't the courage to reveal the truth: that the esteemed Dr. Bentwood was a physician in title only, highly educated but virtually inexperienced. In other words, as capable of worsening the situation as of improving it. But being unwilling to shame myself in the presence of a woman who I wished to think well of me, I bade one of the frightened female slaves hold the lantern while I interfered with the struggling mother.

“You there, grip her ankles,” I ordered, affecting an authority I did not feel. “Someone else get a cold compress for her forehead. And you, put something between her teeth, if you please. And, madam,” I said, addressing the poor young female who writhed in pain, “please try to relax between contractions. There's no point in pushing until we get this little fellow pointed in the right direction.”

“Good man!” Mr. Douglass exclaimed, keeping his distance. “Do not despair,” he announced to the male runaways, who continued to avert their eyes from female mysteries. “We've a fine Boston doctor attending. All that can be done, will be done.”

If only you knew! I thought. Crouched between the woman's trembling legs, I frantically tried to remember what the textbooks had to say on the subject of breached births. I vaguely recalled that forceps were recommended, and possibly speculums, but I had neither, and all I could do was prod at the tiny little being who was trapped, as it were, between two worlds. Its heart was still beating—beating very rapidly—but that could not long continue. Truthfully, I was merely waiting for its life to ebb away, with some vague idea that I might then pry it loose and save the mother, when something grasped my bloody finger.

A hand it was, not much larger than my knuckle. And yet the tiny fingers grasped my own with desperate strength. A reflex, I thought—the poor child is in the throes of death. And yet it did not die. Instead, with no real assistance from me, the infant suddenly shifted position. First the elbow slid into view, and then a round glistening object that thrummed with the pulse of life.

“The head!” I cried. “I see the head!”

The mother gasped with hope, then groaned heavily, thrust her hips, and tensed every muscle in her slender body.

“Keep pushing!” I cried. Quite suddenly, and almost easily, the slick, blood-smeared baby slid into my open hands. The umbilical cord was loosely wrapped around its neck and under one tiny shoulder, and once that was free the boy—yes, it was a boy, no doubt about that—the boy opened his gasping little mouth, coughed up a knot of phlegm, and then cried quite loudly, as if to say, I live, I live.

I left the women to tidy up the afterbirth and fled, as if from the scene of a crime.

An hour later, having thrown away my ruined nightgown, and washed up with the heated water and soap supplied by a grinning Barky, I made a more dignified entrance into the dining room, where Mr. Douglass and his party were breakfasting.

Upon seeing me the big man threw down his napkin, rose from the table, and eagerly wrung my hands. “We thought the poor girl was doomed and you saved her! You saved them both!”

Lucy smiled at me as she had never smiled before, as if I had surpassed her rather meager expectations. That this fine woman might admire me was a pleasant prospect, but I couldn't let the lie stand, not and live with myself.

“I did nothing,” I confessed to all. “It was a miracle.”

Mr. Douglass studied me with bemusement. “A miracle? Oh, I'm sure God helped, but you, sir, are the miracle. That you were here. That you had the skill. That's miracle enough.”

“You don't understand,” I said. “The baby grabbed my hand.”

“Yes?”

“A newborn can't grasp like that,” I explained. “It hasn't the strength or the ability.”

Mr. Douglass's fine dark eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Good sir, didn't I just grasp your hand in gratitude? Boston did the same, and for the same reason.”

“Boston?” I asked.

“The boy's name. In your honor.”

“Here! Here! Hail the conquering hero!” Jebediah clapped his hands and led a rousing huzzah. Lucy joined him, beaming approval.

What could I do but sit down to breakfast?

5. The Face in the Tower Window

The great abolitionist left in three days time, bound for rallies in Springfield and Hartford, and thence back home to New York for a spell, where he would await the decision of the new president and the new Congress, as to the ongoing secession of the slave states. The band of twenty-eight fugitives remained hidden away in the cellars of the Coffin house, for the wind was fierce and contrary, and
Raven
lay double-anchored in White Harbor, her ice-coated shrouds moaning
eeeeh … ahhh, eeeeh … ahhh
, like a seabird grounded in a frozen nest.

Her master, Black Jack Sweeney, had taken ill and been brought ashore suffering from chills, catarrh, muscle tremors, and a troubling congestion of the lungs. The esteemed Dr. Bentwood, having supposedly saved two lives, was expected to work a similar miracle with the ailing mariner. Bowing to expectations, I began, for the first time, to assume the responsibilities of a general practitioner or country doctor, in so far as family and friends of the family were concerned. An eager young druggist helped me put together a rudimentary bag of medicines, and I worked up courage sufficient to approach the crusty, foul-mouthed (and now foul-tempered) old coot.

“Leave me be, young fool!” he roared when I tried to spoon a calomel purgative into his pipe-stained mouth. “If I survived the cholera I can survive a winter ague. Take your stinkin' poison away! Be gone!”

The calomel was poisonous only in larger doses, but I was willing enough to leave his sick-smelling chamber. Other, more sympathetic patients required attention. There was Jebediah with his lingering melancholy, which returned the moment Mr. Douglass departed. For Jeb I prescribed a small dose of jalap, followed by a brisk walk, and it seemed to help a little, although he continued to complain about the fatalistic gloom that weighed so heavily upon his small, stunted shoulders. He was doomed, his family was doomed, the nation was doomed, humanity was doomed, and so on, as if he were trapped in a dark pit and couldn't raise himself high enough to see over the edge, to the daylight beyond.

Then there was poor Sarah, who remained virtually insensible with grief. Her devoted husband Nathaniel had arranged temporary rooms in the village, since Sarah appeared to believe that the Coffin house itself—or something in it—had killed little Casey. According to his brother Benjamin, who made frequent visits to pray over them, Nathaniel was beside himself with fear that in her delirium Sarah would take her own life. Would the esteemed doctor do what he could? Of course. And so I prescribed various sleeping powders, then a nerve tonic, and finally an elixir to stimulate appetite. Lastly, at Nathaniel's insistence, I bled the woman. Nothing seemed to have any positive effect. I shared Nathaniel's concern about his wife's will to live, but there was naught to be done but pray, and hope that time eventually eased her grief.

As to the original patient, and my reason for being summoned to White Harbor, little enough was heard. There had been no further outbursts from the tower, no pistol shots or raving, and Barky the cook reported that the Captain was eating again. Nor had there been any more inexplicable phenomenon. It was as if the famous abolitionist's whirlwind visit had swept the old house free of vengeful spirits, or vengeful neighbors, or whatever it was that had so cruelly tormented the family.

Having established myself, however fraudulently, as an effective physician, I should have taken my leave before the truth of my actual incompetence inevitably made itself known. Two things held me: concern for Jebediah, and my growing interest in his beautiful cousin, Lucy. Day by day, minute by minute, I became more intrigued by her radiant presence. I was particularly fascinated by the way she seemed to study everyone she came in contact with, peering at them from all sides, ceaselessly questioning, as if seeking some sort of revelation, an answer to all the mysteries of life. The most fundamental mystery came down to this: was she as intrigued by me as I with her? And if true, how deeply felt was the attraction? Was I shaping up as a prospective lover, or was she weighing my potential as a husband, or both?

Even if I'd had the courage to inquire of her feelings, the present circumstances made it impossible. The house was in triple mourning, hardly a propitious time for courtship. The best I could do was use every excuse to be in her company. To this she was amenable. We dined together, played cards, and each morning discussed the dispatches from the numerous journals, weekly broadsides, and inflammatory pamphlets delivered to the house at Jebediah's request. Each day brought news of yet another Southern state voting to join South Carolina, and it seemed clear that secessionists would soon band together in what they were calling a “confederacy” of the slave states.

“Item from Richmond,” I read aloud, after clearing my throat. “‘It is rumored that former United States Senator Jefferson Davis, who has assumed the presidency of the new confederacy, has been in communication with General Robert E. Lee. Would the general consider resigning from the Army of the United States and throw his support to the Confederacy? General Lee is thus far undecided, even if the secessionists are not.'”

Erect in her straight-backed chair, pale as new snow in the faint winter light of midafternoon, Lucy shook her head and frowned prettily. “That would be treason, would it not?”

“Not if he resigns first.”

“Is General Lee so important to their wretched ‘cause'?”

“He's very well respected. It would be a great blow if he goes over to the other side.”

“Then let him go. Surely there are plenty of generals at West Point?”

“Few so highly regarded. The question, as I see it, isn't what general will command the secessionist militias, but what President Lincoln will do about it.”

“What can he do?” Lucy said. “At this moment the so-called Confederacy has no army, no money—or not much—and no duly elected authority. All it has is hot air by the acre. What would you have the president do about a rebellion that so far is no more than a bad idea?”

“The nation looks to him for guidance. We wish to know his intentions. Will it be compromise or war?”

“Is there no other alternative?” she asked slyly. “Can we not remain as we are?”