ADAM'S JOURNAL
Sunday, August 16th
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irstly, the good news. The Fenns' two-year-old daughter Abby survived her long ordeal. This alone, of all the day's events, gives me comfort. And I hope my presence gave Abby's poor mother comfort throughout the long night. We took turns bathing the child in cool water to lower her raging fever, stroking her arms and legs to try and calm her intestinal convulsions. As the hours passed, I began to fear that her life would ebb away from sheer exhaustion. Willed myself to stay calm and composed for the mother's sake. She was hanging on my every word and expression, watching my countenance for signs of new hope or final despair. At last Abby's fever gradually eased, and she was relieved of her torment. We dried her off and put her back to bed and when she opened her eyes she looked at us both as if wondering what all the fuss was about and whispered for her doll. Mrs. Fenn collapsed in relief and sobbed in my arms. I nearly shed tears myself.
I left the Fenn farm in darkness and awoke to see the sun's first rays hitting the Meetinghouse tower. I had slept most of the way home, leaving it to Napoleon to get the gig back to town. As we came to a stop in front of the house, Henry came out and bid me good morning. I nodded back, not especially pleased to see him so early. Indeed, the only person I would have been pleased to see at that moment was Julia.
“You look mighty weary, Adam,” he said. “Let me see to your horse.”
“You look none too chipper yourself,” I replied rather gruffly, despite his kind offer. “What brings you here at the crack of dawn, Henry?”
“I spent the night here.”
Upon hearing this I felt a spurt of jealousy, immediately replaced by a rush of anxiety. “Is Julia all right?”
“Yes, and so is your grandfather. But we do not know how Trump is faring.”
Before I could ask another question Julia came rushing out of the house. She looked so wan and troubled that I leapt from the gig and took her into my arms. “Pray what is wrong, dear?”
She pulled away, and we both glanced at Henry. He was studying the sky rather than us. “The kestrels are beginning to migrate,” he said mildly.
And then he and Julia told me all that had transpired whilst I was away. Early last evening Peck and his guests came to watch the ball game from our door yard. When Trump espied the captain he became so enraged he tried to throttle him. His reasons for doing so remain unclear, for he did not stay around to explain himself. Concerned that he might come back to the house even more distraught than when he left, Henry did not want to leave Julia and Grandfather alone to face him and spent the night keeping watch by the front window. After thanking him I suggested we go search for Trump. I feared he might have done himself harm by wandering all night with an open head wound.
Before we could go looking for Trump, however, Constable Beers hurried toward us as fast as his excessive poundage would allow. Crossing the Green had made him so breathless I could barely understand him, but I managed to comprehend that my presence was required at Capt. Peck's immediately.
My first thought was that he had overdosed on the laudanum I had given him. “What state is Peck in?” I asked Beers.
“A most dire one,” he gasped and looked askance at Julia. “Don't want to say more in front of the young lady.”
“Best you go inside, Julia,” I said.
Of course she did not budge. “If I faint you will not be held responsible, Mr. Beers,” she assured him. “Please continue.”
“Very well. Captain Peck has been murdered.”
Beers then went on to relate, between pants and much mopping of the brow, how he'd been rousted out of bed by Lt. Finch, who had ridden into town to alert him of the murder. The constable then awakened Justice Phyfe, who ordered him to bring me to examine the body whilst he and Mr. Daggett collected enough men for a Coroner's Jury. Beers asked if he could ride to Peck's in my gig, for his weight made mounting a horse a trial, and I agreed on the condition that Henry could also come along. At first Henry was reluctant to do so, but when I expressed my great respect for his observational skills, he agreed. Julia beseeched us to take care, her eyes upon me alone.
Thanks to the constable's considerable bulk, we proved to be a tight threesome in the gig, and no doubt a heavy one for Napoleon to pull the short distance to Peck's house. When we reached the drive I spotted Finch beckoning to us from the far corner of the field, so we headed there instead of the house. Finch disappeared behind a stand of trees, and I recalled that was where Peck's belvedere was located. We found Finch standing at attention in front of it.
“I found him just as he lies inside,” he informed us. “When I came by here on a morning ride, my horse shied, no doubt from the smell of blood. I could smell it too and dismounted to investigate. What confronted me was not a pretty sight.” He did not appear over disturbed, but then he must have seen his share of bloodshed in service.
We started up the steps. Henry cautioned that we should be careful where we stepped or what we touched, but Beers disregarded him and with the authority of his office plowed ahead. What he saw caused him to immediately turn back. He did not quite make the rail before he heaved up the contents of his stomach.
Even more pungent than the smell of fresh vomit, a sweet, putrid scent drenched the close summer air. I stepped inside and saw a man's body on the white wooden floor, face up. It seemed to be floating in a pool of thick black fluid.
“Tracks there, be careful,” Henry cautioned, and I saw footsteps in blood about the body and leading past us to the steps.
“A number of those are mine,” Finch said from behind us. “I confess I was incautious. When I saw the captain lying there, I rushed to his side, believing I might be able to assist him. But he was well past help as you see, Doctor.”
What I saw shocked me. Not only did the victim have multiple wounds to the chest. He had been brutally scalped besides. The facial features were so caked in blood and so contorted in an expression of agony and fear that I had to look closely to be sure it was really Peck. His distinctive head of thick black hair with its bold white stripe was gone entirely, and only a sad rim of matted curls above the ears remained. The naked cranium, covered with bits of flesh and odd pieces of clinging membrane and tissue, glistened obscenely in the early morning light. From the copious amount of blood splattered all over the face and neck, I deduced that Peck had been scalped alive, his heart pumping blood out through the myriad number of severed arteries and veins feeding the scalp tissue. His arms were bound tight to his torso by a length of rope to prevent him from resisting, and his eyes bulged as if they had last looked upon the Devil himself. His mouth, smeared with his own blackening blood, was agape in a silent scream of torment.
“I fear we are dealing with a madman,” Henry said, his voice calm and his eyes, as always, observing all. He stood a step back, carefully studying the bloody footprints about the body.
For myself, I was stunned by the savagery before me. Death in itself is an occurrence every physician must accept with equanimity or he cannot long continue in the profession, but here was a crime of such macabre sickness that it was clearly an expression of the most base and demented evil. My heart went out to Peck, who, no matter what his faults, did not deserve such an ignominious end.
I crouched down close to the body, careful not to touch the pool of blood on which had formed a thickening skin akin to that on hot gravy that has cooled. Whoever had done the scalping had gone about it with skill, cutting a precise circle about the skull. In order to see if the body had been subjected to any other injuries I asked Henry to help me carefully raise and lean Peck's upper body forward.
He did so without hesitation and pointed to the back of the coat. There we both saw the clear dirt imprint of a boot sole. “He used his right foot,” Henry said, “to press down on the center of Peck's back for leverage.”
Leverage for what purpose I perceived in an instant. With his foot on Peck's upper back vertebrae, the assailant had used one or both hands to rip the scalp free from the connecting tissue of the scalp.
“So Peck must have been scalped as he lay on his stomach,” I said.“Why was he then turned over to lie on his back, I wonder?”
“The better for him to look upon his own head of hair waved in front of his eyes, I conjecture,” Henry said. “Last night's quarter moon and bright stars offered more than enough light for the killer to perform his operation and for Peck to clearly see its grisly results.”
Hearing this, Beers groaned and leaned back over the railing. Finch burst out with several soldierly expletives of disgust.
We gently lay the body back down, and I pointed to the bloody wounds that had soaked through the shirtfront and waistcoat. “After Peck had been tormented to the murderer's satisfaction, the murderer killed him with multiple thrusts through the chest and into the heart.”
Beers jolted toward us on unsteady feet, looking around through the pillars of the belvedere with round, frightened eyes. “Do you think the slayer remains in the vicinity?”
“Why linger?” I said.“This deed was done some time ago.” I pointed to the pool of blood. “See how the surface has congealed ? And the blood and tissue on the skull are still viscous but not fresh. That clearly indicates several hours have passed since exposure to the air.” I placed my hand on the neck of the corpse. “The body has not yet cooled to air temperature.” I moved the jaw open and closed. “Rigor has just begun to stiffen the joints there.” I stood and took out a handkerchief, wiped my hands, and checked my pocket timepiece. “I conclude he has been dead four to eight hours. It is coming on seven now. So say between midnight and three in the morning.”
“Lieutenant Finch,” Henry said, “when did you last see Captain Peck alive?”
“About nine o'clock last evening,” Finch said. “After we came back from town, we gathered in the parlor before retiring. Peck did not appear well. Mrs. Vail left us, and we men had a glass of port together. Mr. Vail alluded to the unpleasantness with the Indian, but Peck did not wish to discuss it. He told Vail they had more important matters to discuss concerning their business venture, and since I had no part in it, I retired to my room. I slept most soundly and arose early to take a ride in the morning cool. The rest you know.”
“Please observe, constable,” Henry told Beers. “There are two sets of bloody boot prints here. The lieutenant's sharp-toed riding boots”âhe pointed at them for Beers's edificationâ“and these.” He indicated the more numerous round-toed boot prints around the body and leading away to the steps of the belvedere. Henry then looked at me. “No distinguishing marks in the right sole, unlike the boot prints we observed on the cliff.”
“Therefore Peck's murderer was not Caleb's murderer,” I said.
Henry shrugged. “Cannot a murderer have more than one pair of boots?”
Beers sat down on the bench below the rail where I had examined Peck less than a week ago and stared up at us defiantly. “Why waste time blathering about bloody footprints? Ain't it plain as the hand in front of your face who did this? 'Twas that damn Injun. Half the town heard him threaten to kill and scalp Peck.”
“There is one problem with what you say,” Henry carefully stated, studying Peck's body. “Dr. Walker has concluded that Peck was scalped before he was killed, not after.”
“There you go again, counting angels on a pinhead, Mr. Thoreau,” the constable said. “Before or after? After or before? What difference does it make?”
“Plenty, if you are an Indian.” Henry turned to Finch. “Lieutenant, are you familiar with the Native American scalping ritual?”
“I have seen more than I care to of such barbaric brutality on the frontier,” Finch replied. “Not only do those savages scalp their enemies, but they keep the scalps as hideous trophies. They paint the fleshy sides red, stretch them in hoops, attach them to poles, and present them to their sweethearts like you would give your best gal a bouquet of posies. Worse yet, the females wave 'em around like ladies' fans whilst they dance.”
“God help us!” Beers cried. “How can wimmen be so wanton?”
“Never mind about that,” Henry said. “It is when the victim is scalped that is of primary importance. I have read that Indians believe scalping a foe before death will not affect his immortal spirit. However, if he is scalped
after
his body dies, his spirit is extinguished and can nevermore return. The entire purpose of scalping an enemy is to kill his soul.”
Finch nodded. “I have heard as much from our Indian scouts.”
“And I heard as much from Trump himself,” Henry said. “He told Peck he deserved first a miserable death and then a scalping so that his spirit would also perish.”
“So there you are!” Beers said. “The Injun said he would do it, and he did it. We are right back to where we started, despite all your fancy talk.”
“But you are missing my point,” Henry said, almost out of patience. “Allow me to explain it to you again.”
“Do not bother,” Beers said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Such obscure knowledge as you are spouting holds no water for me, nor will it impress the jury.” He stood up at the sound of horse hooves and went forth to direct Justice Phyfe's rockaway carriage, along with a buckwagon full of men, to the belvedere. The Coroner's Jury had arrived.
The jurors concluded soon enough that murder most foul had been done, and they were sure to a man who had done it. Many had been on the Green last evening and heard with their own ears Trump threaten Peck. Henry might as well have been talking in a foreign language for all the attention they gave to his theory concerning scalping and souls. Justice Phyfe summarily announced a warrant for Trump's arrest and gave authority to Beers to form a search party. Finch and most of the men on the jury immediately volunteered to take part in the search, and Phyfe volunteered his hunting dogs and guns. He also proposed sounding the cannon to muster the town militiamen, who had muskets at the ready.