Coffins (33 page)

Lucy was growing more and more impatient with the gentle, well-intentioned priest. “Father Whipple, do you believe in good?”

“Of course I do, my dear. If I believe in God, and I do, then I must believe in his goodness.”

“Do you believe in evil?”

“Evil exists. There can be no doubt.”

“And do you believe that good will triumph over evil?”

Whipple took her questions most seriously. The last he gave some thought to before replying. “In the end, child, yes I do. I believe that the goodness of our Lord will prevail.”

“Then please, Father, look in your Bible and find a way to say so!”

That prompted more hurried leafing through the book in question, until at last Whipple settled on a page and put his finger to a line. Clearing his throat, and pitching his reedy baritone to be heard throughout the room, if not the house, he began. “Oh, magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt his name together, I sought the Lord and he heard me and delivered me from all my fears. The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them. Depart from evil and do good, for the eyes of the Lord are upon the righteous, and his ears are open unto their cry.”

“Amen,” Benjamin uttered with a whimper. And then, gathering courage, a little louder, “O Lord, amen! Deliver us from evil!”

“More, Father,” Lucy urged him, her eyes darting fearfully to the dark corners of the parlor. “Keep going, for the love of God!”

“Yes, hmm.” He cleared his throat, and began reciting from memory, only occasionally consulting the text. “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we shall not fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea.” A sudden chill stole into the room. The priest looked about him with mild concern, and then seemed relieved that the stove had gone out, as if that explained it. “The heathen, um, the heathen raged,” he continued, “the kingdoms were moved: He uttered His voice, the earth melted. The Lord of hosts is with us, the God of Jacob is our refuge. Lord, bless us and bless this house, Lord God deliver us from evil.”

The air began to move, lifting the hairs on the back of my neck. The lamps dimmed, and now it was Lucy who whimpered, and begged that Whipple not be distracted, but continue with his good agency. But the poor fellow could not help being distracted when the wind stole into a closed room and billowed his robes, snatching the brightness from the sperm-oil lamps and guttering the candles. It was not so dark that I could not see the light of recognition in his eyes, that our minds were not, as he must have supposed, addled by grief. The presence was with us, and all around us, and it seemed to be focusing its malevolence upon the priest.

“The Lord is my shepherd,” Father Whipple said, as bravely as he knew how. “I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside the still waters.”

At that moment the floor beneath our feet began to vibrate, very like a platform does as the train approaches. Lucy screamed, but the sound of it somehow died in the air, muffled strangely, as if the presence in the room had the power to stifle our very utterances. I could see Whipple's mouth opening wide, as if he was shouting into a full-blown gale, but I could barely make out the words of that familiar psalm. “He restoreth my soul!” the priest recited, struggling to remain upright as something pushed him backward, flattening his robes around his spindly legs. His spectacles flew off, leaving him blinking and half-blind. “He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.”

At that very moment the Bible leaped from his hands and smacked up against the ceiling, where it remained, as if glued.

But the brave fellow didn't need a Bible, he knew the psalm by heart, as we all did. Lucy, who clung to Benjamin—his eyes rolled in fear, and all of him trembled, even his beard—Lucy implored me with her eyes that we must join Whipple, and recite together. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil! For thou art with me!” we shouted together, feeling our words muffled and compressed, and hearing ourselves as if from a great distance. “Thy rod and thy staff shall comfort me! Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies!” Beneath us the floor rumbled, and furniture began to slowly spin about the room. A low growling came from the snuffed out stove, as if a savage beast crouched within. The tin chimney rattled and shrieked. Father Whipple was leaning forward, hands clutching at his flapping robes, as if struggling to make his way in a nor'east gale that only he felt. “Louder!” Lucy shouted, but we could barely hear ourselves, though our throats were raw with the strain of trying to make ourselves heard. “Thou anointest my head with oil! My cup runneth over! Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life! I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever!”

The priest's struggling feet suddenly lost traction, and he was flung backward, his black robes rippling in an unnatural way, as a hideous snake might writhe beneath sheets. Poor Whipple, who had come out of the goodness of his heart, to offer us the comfort of his religion, poor Father Whipple was flung rapidly backward until he collided with the thick, black velvet curtains that covered the window, dark mourning curtains that seemed to swallow him up and spit him out as he was expelled from the house, and cast through the shattered window glass and the broken mullions with a scream that was much, much louder than all of our prayers.

4. Making the Beast

By the time I found the village doctor's house, it was past nine o'clock in the evening and Griswold had to be roused from his bed. To say that he received me with ill temper is putting it mildly, for the furious little man was obviously loath to find himself in my presence. In his mind I'd not only displaced him as the Coffin family physician, but my conduct regarding the death of the infant Casey was questionable, possibly suspicious. And then I dared to bang upon his door, many hours after sunset, raving about a wounded man who had, in all probability, been assaulted by none other than myself. It's no wonder that his first words were a threat to send for the constable.

“By all means, do so,” I told him. “But not before you attend Father Whipple,” and with that I dragged the semiconscious victim into the small room that served as Griswold's surgery, where I laid him on the examination bench. “I think he's concussed. He was struck a terrible blow on the head when he went through the window.”

“Through the window! You threw a priest through the window!”

“Not I.”

“If not you, then it must have been that scoundrel Coffin!” the doctor cried, but already he was directing his attention to his groaning patient. “That crazy old fool should be locked up!”

“He is locked up,” I informed him. “I must leave, they've need of me at the house.”

“Wait, you son of a bitch! How dare you!” he cried, reaching out to snag my trouser leg, and hold me.

Truth be told. I was more shocked by his intemperate language than by him grabbing me. “Calm yourself, Griswold. When Father Whipple regains his senses he can tell you exactly what transpired. I doubt you'll believe him, but that's not my concern. Terrible things have happened, and I must return.”

“Terrible things? What terrible things?”

“Things beyond your understanding. Do you want to come round to the Coffin house, and find out for yourself?”

That put the fear into him. He let go of me, muttering about what cheeky devils those Boston doctors were, and I fled while I had the chance, flinging the surgery door shut behind me.

Outside I ran through the darkness, boots crunching on the new-fallen snow, knife points of cold air in my wheezing lungs. I'd hated to abandon my friends, but the priest had had obvious need of medical attention, and I was in no state to provide it, nor was it safe, obviously, to bring him back into the house. Lucy had urged me to take him to Griswold, and come back as quickly as I could, and I intended to make good on my promise.

By the time I made it to the top of the hill, and saw my destination before me, the weaker part of my conscience was suggesting how sensible it would be to turn around and take a room for the night with the widow Merriman. Had I not risked enough already? Surely the bonds of friendship no longer required my presence. It was not as if I'd been of any real assistance, nor was it within my power to lift the curse, or interrupt the cruel process of destruction. Jebediah himself had begged me to leave, had he not? Seize your chance, Davis, and retreat with your tail between your legs, or it may be you who is flung out a window, or impaled on a splinter of wood, or driven mad.

In the end my conscience, cowardly though it might be, would not let me abandon my friends to the strange forces unleashed within the house. And so I trudged the rest of the way up the hill, keenly aware of the tower looming over me, of its jagged, starlit shadow on the snow, and the darkened windows that look as empty as the eyes of the dead.

I had expected to find the house in a state of dark melancholy, given what had happened to the priest. But scarcely had I entered when Jebediah himself emerged from the library, his face ablaze with excitement as he waved a sheet of paper.

“The day has come!” he announced. “Come, you must join the celebration! You must propose a toast! We must all propose toasts!”

My first reaction was to suppose that my small friend had joined his father, and crossed over into the land of the mad. What else could have caused him to rise from his bed? But he soon allayed my fears. It seemed that intelligence had just been received, by telegraph and fast rider: the Southern militia had finally fired upon the federal forces they'd quarantined at Fort Sumter, and war would be declared tomorrow.

The impromptu celebration had been convened around a stout bottle of champagne long cached for this day, and set out on the very desk where Cash Coffin had drawn so many checks for the cause.

“Raise your glass, my friends!” Jebediah implored us. Us being myself and Lucy, whose uneasiness somehow prevented her from making eye contact with me, as if, I could only suppose, she did not wish to discuss the impossible events that had resulted in Father Whipple's expulsion from the parlor.

Dutifully, we raised our glasses. Jebediah beamed. “In three months—six at the most—the rebel army will surrender,” he declared. “Their sham government will be soundly defeated, and their slaves set free!”

In truth, I was not moved. Whatever events might be taking place far to the south were eclipsed by the present danger. But Jebediah was deaf to anything but the happy prospect of the war he had so eagerly anticipated. He didn't want to hear about poor Father Whipple's ordeal, or why, after boarding up the shattered window, Benjamin had taken to his bed. The troubles of the Coffin family were, he avowed, of little consequence, now that the tide of history had at last begun to turn, and its waters soon to run red in battle.

“Think of it, Davis! Think of it, dear Lucy! Is it not wonderful? We will arm the fugitive slaves. They can take revenge against their masters, earning freedom by the same means as our white countrymen did, at the point of a bayonet! Freedom must be written in blood, never forget that!”

It soon became obvious, alas, that my little friend had been roused from his languorous state by more than champagne and cause for celebration. Jebediah was raving. His eyes had taken on a peculiar glassy hue, as if he were looking not upon a meager audience of two, but a throng of thousands cheering his cause, and himself. In his haste to dress, his coat jacket was buttoned askew. He'd also neglected to put on his boots or stockings, and his twisted, hair-tufted little feet poked out from under his trouser legs in a way that might have been comical under more benign circumstances. Oblivious to his own appearance, or our reactions to it, he strutted around his father's library, gesturing grandly with the champagne bottle and hoisting his cup to the imagined multitudes, as if the shelves held not volumes of books, but people. “Heed the call to arms! Countrymen, do your duty! Will you let this nation be torn asunder, and all we have gained be lost, so that a few rich plantation owners can keep their pound of flesh? Arise! Grab your muskets and follow me!” and so on.

Both Lucy and I attempted to soothe him into a more placid state, but he would not be calmed. “What do I care what happens to me? I have lived to see this day! That is enough! That's life enough for any man! Our cause is just and we have prevailed! The chains will be broken! See, Davis, do you see? Lucy! You can see, can't you? We will march together, all of us, and carry the banner! Let Lincoln step aside, and Douglass replace him! YES! Let Frederick Douglass appoint me Secretary of War, and I'll show those so-called Southern gentlemen what happens to traitors! They'll fear Jebediah Coffin like they fear the devil himself! More! More champagne!”

Jeb's forehead was so hot with excitement that Lucy brought in a handful of snow, and I made an ice poultice for his fevered brow. He took it as vastly amusing, our concern for his physical well-being. “What does it matter now, what happens to me or my family?” he crowed. “You can't cool the heat of revenge, or keep down the black masses. No! We sinners are doomed. Soon there'll be coffins aplenty and no more Coffins to fill 'em, isn't that a great joke? Go on, Lucy, laugh, you're so lovely when you laugh!”

Eventually the champagne took its toll on his small body, which was in mass no larger than a child, and as easily overcome. After ranting for nearly an hour, finally his mind slowed and his speech began to slur. When at last he collapsed with a groan, I summoned Barky and we were able to carry poor little Jeb upstairs to his chamber and put him to bed, still muttering of war, glorious war, and of coffins to be filled. He roused himself enough to mutter, “Why do you weep, Davis? I lived to see my dream come true. No man can ask for more,” and then his head lolled back on his feather pillow and he began to snore.