The Deserter (28 page)

2. Farm records for the year 1855—
Reckoned with James Luce accts balanc'd to date hereof, sick Cow slaught'd, rec'vd of Samuel Nation 3000 Shingle Nails
.

3. A book,
Odes of Horace
, Seth Morgan's name on flyleaf.

4. A bundle of marriage, birth and death documents, NOT including a death certificate for Seth Morgan.

5. Five vandalized playbills from theaters in Washington, D.C.
(Why do they all have pieces cut out of the middle?)

6. Pamphlet from the American Tract Society:

Lost—until by thee restored,
Comforter Divine!

There was one other piece of printed matter, but it seemed to belong in the other cardboard box. Mary started a third list, after putting the first item on her head.

1. Straw Shaker bonnet in terrible condition.

2. Child's nightdress
(smallgown with embroidered neckline)
.

3. Scottish-looking cap.

4. Tattered silk envelope containing six white handkerchiefs—
one with a bloodstained hem
!—all of them embroidered in the corner with the initial
S
.

The extra piece of printed matter was an 1861 ladies' magazine called
Peterson's
. The word
Ida's
had been written on the front, as though the magazine had been handed around among the women of a sewing circle.

Mary was entranced.
Peterson's
was full of elegant fashions for men, women and children, with accompanying pages of patterns. One of the pattern pages had been crisscrossed with penciled squares.

Mary decided at once that the squares were a means for enlarging the pattern, so that Ida could make the “Knickerbocker Suit for a Boy.”

Abandoning her lists, she sat down with the magazine, spellbound. There were designs for pillows, bonnets, knitted shoes, pincushions and beaded mats. The dresses had names: “The Clothilde,” “The Etruscan,” “The Polonaise.” There were directions for crocheted edgings: “3 chain,” “3 stitches of double crochet.”

When Homer walked in, he laughed at the Shaker bonnet and said, “How demure.”

“It was Ida's, I'll bet. Isn't it sweet?” Mary stood up and showed him the old copy of
Peterson's
. “Look at this. She must have made this little suit.”

“Charming, but I don't see how it helps. What else have you got?” Homer leaned over the table. “My God, there's so much. Where do we start?”

“With these.” Mary picked up the lavender letters. “One for you, one for me.”

They were the right place to begin.

DARLING IDA

B
oth envelopes were addressed in the same looping hand to “Mrs. Seth Morgan, Concord, Maschu'ts,” but their postmarks were different. One had been mailed from Washington, D.C., the other from Oshawa, Ontario. The postmarked date on the envelope from Washington was sharp and clear: “3 Dec. 1863.” The other was smudged. It was either “12 Feb., 1866,” or “12 Feb., 1868.” The envelope from Ontario had been crudely blackened around the edges as though it contained bad news.

“Perfume,” said Homer, holding it to his nose.

“This one, too,” said Mary. “Just a whiff.”

“You first.”

Mary struggled with the curlicues of the handwriting in the letter from Washington. “It begins, ‘Darling Ida,' and it's signed ‘Lily' You don't suppose it's Lily LeBeau, the gorgeous creature in the tasseled panties?”

“Could be,” said Homer. “Mine's from Lily, too. Carry on, what does she say?”

Mary read her letter aloud, struggling to distinguish the swooping
p's
from them's, and the
h's
from the
b's
.

Darling Ida
,

Well dear girl I have yr adresfrom Mizzus Broad who tells me you are safe at home with baby. She says the blessed event ocured in the patent Orfis of all playces because it was one of the hosp'ls you vizited in your ridicolos search for your husband I never was so ashamed in my life it was all because of my Fib when I said he was wounded in battle. Now Ida this is the truth on a stak of Bibles he was ashamed to face you altho I tell him it is no shame because these days the Capt'l is jamful of these sort of Peeple (skeedadlers). You will be Amazed the pres and Wife witnissed the marble Heart the other night. O Ida you shud see y'r bwewtious old friend, I have got me a Zouav jkt all over braid. But there! My little epissel is too long
!

Love, dearest Ida,
y'rAffec Lily

Mary looked up, eager to make flabbergasting deductions, but Homer said, “Wait.” He was staring at a newspaper clipping from the other envelope, the one that had been mailed from Oshawa, Ontario. Silently he handed it to her.

“Oh, dear,” said Mary, reading through it quickly.

DEATH OF A HERO

Oshawa, Feb. 1, 1866. Mr. Seth Morgan, 25, unemployed resident of this city, yesterday plunged into the freezing waters of Lake Ontario to rescue 4-year-old Thomasina McFarland, trapped beneath the ice. After lifting the child to safety, Mr. Morgan was unable to extricate himself. This morning his body was pulled from the lake by Engine Company #1 of the Oshawa Municipal Steam Fire Department.

Though he was a newcomer to Oshawa, we are informed that Mr. Morgan was celebrated in theatrical circles as a dramatist and composer of amusing ditties. Familiar to our readers will be the ballad “Lilybelle.”

In gratitude for his heroic sacrifice, Mr. Lysander McFarland has contributed to the Fund for Indigent Thespians the sum of 15 dollars.

“There's a letter too,” said Homer. Grimly he read it aloud.

Darling Ida
,

As you can see by the inclosd our dear boy died a hero! I am convoked with tears and greevefor you as well. I leave Oshawa tonight bowndfor city of San Francisco having been ingaged as a dancer by a famous impesario. I don't think dear Ida you ever saw me in preformance on my toes but I asure you I am now a Star having been hired by the great impisario Theodore DeSanto. Alas to my profond distress I cannot stay for the funeral as mr DiSanto desires me to accompany him at once in his diluxe RR sweet. I will write again from the Wild West!

Yr loving Lily

P. S Seth's pitcher was in the paper I know you will forgive me for keeping it as a tender momentoe
.

“Bitch,” said Homer.

The official letter from the War Department was brutal too.

Dear Madam
,

I regret to notify you of the death in Oshawa, Ontario, of your husband, 1st Lt. Seth Morgan. Since his departure from the service on 3 July, 1863, took place at a time when his regiment was critically engaged, there will be no widow's pension
.

Brig. General James B. Fry
,

Provost Marshal General

U. S. War Department
,

Washington, D. C
.

The letters from Assistant Surgeon Clock were more pleasing. The first was a polite inquiry into the well-being of mother and child. The rest were progressively warmer, the last a proposal of marriage.

FLABBERGASTING
DEDUCTIONS

T
he unraveling of inferences from all of the letters and documents and the making of flabbergasting deductions was instantaneous.

From the correspondence between Ida and her mother it was clear that Great-Great-Grandmother Ida Morgan, probably seven months pregnant at the time, had rushed to Gettysburg to look for her husband Seth, missing in action.

Failing to find him, she had traveled to Baltimore and then to Washington.

Somehow she had tracked her husband down in the theatrical circle of the actress Lily LeBeau, but she had not been permitted to see him—
Now Ida this is the truth on a stak of Bibles he was ashamed to face you altho I tell him it is no shame because these days the Capt'l is jamful of these sort of Peeple (skeedadlers)
.

It was also a fact that Mother Flint had sent Ida's brother Eben to find her and bring her home.
I know you are a grown woman
, wrote Eudocia Flint,
but I request nay order you to come home at once
.

Then, failing to find his sister, Eben had joined the army instead.

In the Patent Office hospital Ida had found him at death's door. She had stayed to nurse him and then she had at last given birth to her baby in the same hospital—
the blessed event ocured in the patent Orfis of all playces
.

“I wonder what happened to Eben?” said Mary. “Did he die? The poor kid must have been very young.”

“He didn't die,” said Homer, plucking out a death certificate for Ebenezer Flint. “At least not until the year 1920.”

“Well, I'm glad,” said Mary.

But a horrid thought occurred to Homer. “My God, I'll bet he's the ancestor of your cousin Ebenezer.”

Mary gasped, then gave a rueful laugh. “Oh well, somebody had to be his ancestor.”

“The hell with Cousin Ebenezer. Look here, how does all this information help? There's nothing in this stuff about Otis Pike. And there's nothing to suggest that Seth Morgan was anything but a deserter. The War Department says so because they refused to give his widow a pension. That silly woman Lily LeBeau says so, and the death notice in the Ontario newspaper is not about Otis Pike, it's a sort of left-handed tribute to Seth Morgan.”

“But remember how contradictory we thought it all was,” protested Mary. “It seemed so fishy that Otis was the one who neglected his studies and got in trouble afterward and kept leaving the ranks—in other words deserting—while Seth's record was fine from the beginning. It was just fine.”

Homer held up a triumphant finger. “And don't forget that note from Seth, warning Otis not to do it again.”

“Meaning not to desert again. Oh, Homer, I'm beginning to believe in your crazy theory.”

“Well, it's about time, because I'm convinced it's what really happened. During the battle Otis came upon the body of Seth and exchanged coats and identities with him, so then it looked as though Otis had died a hero and Seth was the deserter. And then Otis lived the rest of his life pretending to be Seth. His girlfriend didn't know he was an imposter, and neither did the Ontario newspaper. And neither did poor dear Ida. She never had a clue.”

It was growing dark. Mary turned on a lamp. In the glare over the table the shuffle of letters and papers looked old and pitiful.

Their confidence collapsed. “Who will believe it?” said Mary.

PART XX

THE AGREEMENT

Word over all, beautiful as the sky
,

Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time beutterly lost
,

That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world.…

—W
ALT
W
HITMAN

THE SMOKING CAP

I
t was the turn of Ida's little boy Horace to bounce up and down on Eudocia's lap as she pounded on the keyboard and sang lustily. This time, the song was a jolly one by Stephen Foster, “Camptown Races”—

Gwine to run all night!
Gwine to run all day!
I'll bet my money on de bob-tail nag—
Somebody bet on de bay.

The four sharps were almost beyond Eudocia's powers, but the words were harmless. These days, she had to be careful what she chose from the songbook, because Seth's mother so often reclined on the settee in the same room.

“Home, Sweet Home” would not do, because Augusta's dear son would never come home. He was not only dead but disgraced.

Nor could Eudocia sing “Kathleen Mavourneen,” because of the mournful refrain, “It may be for years, and it may be forever.” And of course all the dear old soldier songs were banished for good—“Tenting Tonight on the Old Camp Ground,” and “Tramp! Tramp! Tramp, the Boys Are Marching.” They were out of the question.

The mind of poor Mother Morgan had been failing before, but now the sorrow and shame of her loss had addled what little was left. Ida's mother-in-law lay on the sofa or sat idly at the table in the kitchen condemning the imbecility of all things. Even God was a blockhead.

But that was just her way. Eudocia attended cheerfully to Augusta's physical needs and ignored her dire pronouncements. Sally and Josh and Alice were polite to Mother Morgan, Eben was mostly away at school and of course, Ida's boy—Augusta's and Eudocia's grandchild—was too young to have any opinion about the mental capacity of the Creator.

Eudocia's singing voice was strong, and it echoed to all corners of the house. Even in her bedroom upstairs Ida could hear it above the whine and buzz of her sewing machine.

It was new, the gift of Dr. Clock, but she had mastered its complexities. Now she hunched over it, guiding the needle down a seam, pedaling vigorously.
Bzzzz, bzzzz, slow down, lift the lever, whirl the sleeve around, lower the lever, give the wheel a push and start again, bzzzz, bzzzz. It was so quick
!

Peterson's Magazine
was full of enticing patterns. As soon as she finished the French sacque for little Horace, she'd try the knickerbocker suit,
the favorite style of dress for boys too young to be breeched
.

By midafternoon she had finished the French sacque and begun to copy the pattern for the little suit, when her mother called up the stairs, “Ida?”

Josh had driven the spring wagon to the post office. He had brought home a magazine for his sister and a letter.

Ida ran downstairs and paused in the parlor to kiss her mother-in-law. “Oh, the stupidity,” groaned Mother Morgan, “Oh, the shame.”

“Now, Augusta,” said Eudocia, “remember our agreement. We agreed to say nothing more about that.”

Ida's letter was another one from Alexander. She ran upstairs, opened the envelope, and slipped out the closely written sheets. Folded among them was something else, his photograph. Ida gazed at it, pleased that he had done as he had promised.