On Kingdom Mountain (26 page)

August 28, 1930

Jane Hubbell Kinneson

Kingdom Common, Vermont, U.S.A.

 

Dear Miss Kinneson,

I saw your notice in the personals column of Sunday's Gazette. I believe that my mother, Mrs. Slidell Choteau, may have had a connection with your father, Morgan Kinneson. I would be very glad to discuss this matter further with you by mail or to entertain you here in Montreal at your convenience.

 

Most sincerely yours,
Elisabeth Choteau Dufours
256 Côte des Neiges
Montreal, Quebec, Canada

 

For all his great faith in Miss Jane's capabilities, even Henry was astonished by how quickly the response to her inquiry in the Montreal paper had arrived. It was a fine late-summer morning in the mountains of the border country, with a touch of fall in the slanted light and the mist over the river as they set out in the Model A with the letter from Elisabeth Choteau Dufours tucked into Pharaoh's Daughter's sweetgrass basket with their lunch, and Morgan's Lady Justice between them in the front seat, barrels up, under a blanket. Henry drove, and although he was terribly excited about heading to Montreal to find the treasure, it was time, he knew, to think about getting back on the road. Or, in his case, back in the air. Like the blackbirds beginning to flock in Miss Jane's fields, he was not meant to stay in one spot too long. He would Miss Jane, but there
would certainly be opportunities to visit her, and he took great satisfaction in thinking how well provided for she would be with her twenty percent share of the money he had come to regard as his rightful legacy from his grandfather.

As they approached the border, a large green and white sign announced,
WELCOME TO CANADA. ALL TRAFFIC MUST STOP HERE
.

Miss Jane frowned. “Canada,” she said.

A man in a blue uniform approached the Model A and asked their names and the purpose of their trip. “I am Jane Hubbell Kinneson of Kingdom Mountain,” the Duchess announced. “This is my friend Henry Satterfield from the Republic of Texas. We are en route to Montreal. As to the nature of our business, we travel on a private matter, which, I assure you, concerns no one but us.”

At first the countryside across the border was mountainous. As they drove down into the St. Lawrence River valley, the terrain flattened out. The farms looked neat and flourishing. Each village had a soaring church spire sheathed in metal and visible several miles away. The houses were painted pastel pink, lavender, even chartreuse. Miss Jane remarked that the splashy colors relieved the bleakness of the long Canadian winters. What, Henry inquired, relieved the winters of Kingdom County?

“Nothing,” she replied.

Around noon they crossed a bridge over the St. Lawrence River. A railroad track ran between the inbound and outbound lanes. Halfway across, as a train thundered past, they could see people in the carriages reading or looking out the windows a few scant feet away. “That's how my father and I came into this city when I was a little girl,” Miss Jane said. “I'm sure of it.”

They ate lunch sitting on Pharaoh's Daughter's red Hudson's Bay blanket on the grass of a downtown park near a domed cathedral. Over deviled egg sandwiches and Miss Jane's
own pickles and still warm baked beans, she again told Henry the story of Morgan and Pilgrim. “My father, Mr. Satterfield, thought the world of his older brother. It was Pilgrim who taught him to hunt, to fish, to track, and to tell the name of every animal and plant on the mountain. Pilgrim enrolled in medical college, then came war. When the strife broke out, my father's brother had a dilemma. Like his father, Quaker Meeting, he was a fervent abolitionist. But also like his father, he was a pacifist. He wasn't sure what to do, but the star-crossed love affair with Manon Thibeau made up his mind for him. He enlisted in the Grand Army of the Republic as a medical adjutant. Pilgrim survived Gettysburg and several other battles, but toward the end of the Rebellion, he came up missing. There was no body, and my father didn't believe that his brother could be killed that easily.”

“So he went to find him,” Henry said. “But what happened next?”

Miss Jane looked at him. “I'm hoping that Elisabeth Choteau Dufours will be able to answer that question.”

As Henry threaded the Model A through the narrow city streets, horns blared and drivers shouted in French. In a traffic jam downtown a young woman in a short red dress leaped onto the hood of the Ford, banged her hand twice on the roof, and jumped down again. Henry laughed. Miss Jane called out good-naturedly, “You, young lady, should have your behind paddled.”

On Sherbrooke Street Jane directed Henry to pull up in front of the Museum of Fine Arts, where the winners of that year's North American Bird Carving Contest were on display in the great foyer. First prize had gone to the insufferable Santiago for “Two Harris Hawks Chasing a Jack Rabbit.” The runner-up was Jackson's “California Condor, Soaring.” Henry, while no judge of bird carvings, found the winners rather ordinary. He was disappointed for Miss Jane, who had spotted her
beloved Noah, looking out fiercely over its many-toothed bill from the Honorable Mention display. A hand-printed message on a note card said, “Superb execution but carver DID NOT FOLLOW DIRECTIONS. This bird is extinct!”

Miss Jane swooped up her bird, crumpled the card, and headed for the exit.

A uniformed guard came running. “Ma'am!” he called.

“I am Jane Hubbell Kinneson of Kingdom Mountain, Vermont, the creator and owner of this archaeopteryx,” she said. “How dare you mark me down for not following directions? In my career as a teacher, I never once marked down a student for not following directions. That is the last resort of the mediocre teacher. Where do the contest instructions stipulate that a bird cannot be extinct? Is it Noah's fault—this is Noah—that his tribe is no longer? Extinct, indeed. I won't have it. Better no mention at all than honorable mention. Better no prize than third prize.”

Back in the Ford, Miss Jane set the much-maligned Noah on top of the sweetgrass basket between herself and Henry. Though he didn't say so, Henry thought that she could scarcely have been more satisfied with herself had she won first prize. He felt in the side pocket of his white jacket to be sure the paper was still there. Reassured, he smiled to himself. With its help, he was quite certain that Elisabeth Choteau Dufours would be able to solve the mystery of the missing gold, if not that of Jane's missing uncle Pilgrim. He had already decided to reward her for her assistance with a five percent commission. After Miss Jane's cut, that would leave him with a cool seventy-five thousand dollars. While there might be some slight trouble with the granddaddy in his head over giving away twenty-five thousand dollars of Satterfield family money, his percentage should tide him over quite nicely.

T
HEY LOCATED
Côte des Neiges and followed the house numbers to an imposing half-timbered stone residence overlooking the city and the river below. Certainly, Henry thought, Elisabeth's residence was located
on high.
Now to find the
blessed sweet host
and
Holy Ghost.
A greenhouse extended from the southeast side of the house. The woman who met them at the door had dark eyes and dark hair with a little gray in it. Only when Henry looked at her very closely did he realize that she was almost certainly in her middle sixties, fifteen or so years older than Miss Jane. She was tall and slender and, like Miss Jane, she had a kind face and kind eyes. She was quite dark-complected. “Miss Kinneson?” she said, extending her hand.

“Yes,” Miss Jane said. “And this is my friend the celebrated aviator Henry Satterfield. It's good to see you, Elisabeth Dufours.”

“It's good to see you, Jane Kinneson,” the woman said warmly. “And you, as well, Mr. Satterfield.”

Elisabeth Choteau Dufours escorted them into the conservatory. In the center was a low flagstone-lined pool with a waterfall hung with ferns and a
host
of colorful tropical flowers—hibiscus, birds of paradise, bromeliads, and orchids. Henry looked around for an orange tree. He didn't see one, but this had to be the house Miss Jane had visited long ago with her father. They sat on white lawn chairs arranged around a glass-topped coffee table and sipped iced coffee through glass straws tinted with swirls of color.

For a few minutes they chatted politely. Then, as the water
murmured over the little falls, Elisabeth Dufours told her guests a story. “My mother,” she began, “grew up as a slave on a plantation near Memphis. She had been well educated and worked as a kind of governess. Her job was to teach the young children of the plantation owner their letters and numbers and manners. In fact, my mother was the daughter of the owner, whose name was Dinwiddie, and a slave named Minerva. My mother's name was Slidell Dinwiddie.

“At sixteen,” Elisabeth continued, “my mother ran away. This was during the War Between the States, soon after the North took New Orleans. She made her way north using contacts in the Underground Railroad. When she reached Virginia, she found herself entirely on her own. While she was hiding from patrollers in a great cave, she met a boy from the north.”

Elisabeth paused. Then she said, “This boy was going south to find his brother, who was missing after an action in Tennessee.”

“Pilgrim,” Jane said softly. “The brother's name was Pilgrim.”

Elisabeth nodded. “I believe so. And the boy's name was Morgan. Your father, Jane. And mine.”

“Yours!” Jane exclaimed. “How yours, Elisabeth?”

“While they were hiding in the cave, Morgan somehow saved my mother from slave catchers. He and she had known each other only a few days, but they became deeply attached. And here I am. Here we are, sister.”

Miss Jane shook her head. “All the best stories are about love,” she said, thinking of the Bride of Ramses.

“They are, aren't they?” Elisabeth agreed. “While my parents were in the cave, Morgan gave my mother the name of his family's Underground Railroad contact people in Montreal, which was Choteau. The rest is history. My mother married a
Choteau, my stepfather. He knew she was pregnant with me at the time but he loved her. She died when I was in my early twenties. You came to her funeral, Jane. I gave you an orange. Do you remember?”

Jane had tears in her eyes. “I remember very well. I should have given you something, too, Elisabeth. You were very kind to me.”

“I take it that our father never found his brother?”

“It's a great mystery,” Jane said. “He brought back Pilgrim's walking staff. That's all. I had hoped to learn more about Pilgrim from you.”

Elisabeth smiled. “And I from you, Jane.”

Henry, who had been sitting on the edge of his white chair with his hand in his jacket pocket, was speechless. For once Miss Jane herself seemed somewhat at a loss for words.

Finally she said, “Your mother, Elisabeth, must have been a remarkable woman.”

“She was. Witty and outspoken, a born mimic. She could talk several different ways when she told stories. Creole, Québecois French, High-Church English. She even mimicked our father's New England dialect. She made fun of herself and everyone else. My stepfather worshipped her.”

It was quiet again in the conservatory. It occurred to Henry that for such a ready talker, Miss Jane was an uncommonly attentive listener. As quick as she was to state all kinds of notions and opinions, she had a way of pondering what was said to her and then nodding as if she understood exactly what you would most want a sympathetic listener to understand. So much about this remarkable woman was admirable, he thought. But the time had arrived to produce the paper.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Henry said, “Madame Dufours, my grandfather, Captain Cantrell Satterfield, may have had a connection with Pilgrim Kinneson and Miss Jane's
mountain. He left me this riddle, or part of it, which may hold the secret to a great legacy. A legacy I am prepared to share with you and Miss Jane.”

“Henry!” Miss Jane protested. “The money stolen from the bank in the Great Kingdom Common Raid is hardly a legacy.” To Elisabeth she said, “My friend is referring to one hundred thousand dollars in gold plundered from a Vermont bank during the Civil War by Confederate soldiers. It has never been recovered.”

Henry handed Elisabeth the riddle. “I have reason to believe, Madame Dufours, that the treasure may be hidden here in Montreal.”

Elisabeth took the sheet of paper and read the riddle aloud. “'Behold! on high with the blessed sweet host, / Nor Father, nor Son, but Holy Ghost. / The soldier stands vigil, where the rood is rove, / Over the golden trove.'”

To Henry's disappointment she shook her head and handed back the riddle. Miss Jane gave the pilot a look of schoolteacherly disapproval. “We did not come here, sir, to speak of twice-tainted gold.”

She turned to her newfound sister. “And the rest of your family, Elisabeth? They're all well?”

“Thankfully, yes. My husband and I have two sons, grown up now with children of their own. One lives in Vancouver, the other in Ottawa. Soon enough we'll probably have to sell this old place. We have no family here in Montreal to leave it to.”

Miss Jane nodded. “Everything changes,” she said. “They want to drive a highway through my property.”

She summarized the story of the high road and her long-standing feud with Eben Kinneson Esquire and the town fathers. Henry, in the meantime, was taking furtive, sidelong glances around the greenhouse, looking for soldiers standing vigil, riven roods, heavenly hosts, and he didn't know what. The granddaddy's cackling laughter caused him to start.
It's
gone, boy
, the old man chuckled.
Found and spent, every last doubloon. How else would the quadroon woman have financed this great manse? Whilst you wracked your brain to cipher out the jingle and old Morgan hid his half of the rhyme away from the world in a vault? Two fools well met!