Thorne Chapter 9

A southern gothic fairytale

The funeral for Willem Van Buren was a hasty affair due to the poor conditions of the flood. Moreover, it was a private one, since the town was still highly occupied with repairs, and more importantly, the circumstances of Willem’s death had beclouded the air more even than the dense cloud of mosquitoes that hung over the town.

Willem’s body was kept covered in cloth and sealed in its rough, cedar coffin, elevated on the church altar. The shade and ventilation would be useful for slowing the putrefaction that seemed to infect all in the bleak settlement of cedar cabins and whitewashed shops. His father, John Van Buren, kept nightly vigil over his son’s body, joined at times by his wife to sit and stare at the six-foot crate reposing beneath the flicker of candlelight.

Ada could not attend the day of the funeral, bedridden as she was. It is doubtful she would have wanted to if she could have. What would she have seen in the dull eyes of the solemn onlookers staring fixedly at the coffin beneath the accusatory finger of light through the high church window?

The funeral occurred on a Sunday, three days after the flood, populated only by the family of the departed, Mr. Van Buren’s closest associates, and Ada’s mother and father. All words belonged to the minister. No reflections, memories, or philosophy marked Willem’s service. Naught but solemn silence.

Mrs. Ellen Van Buren never looked at her son until the final hymn. Her eyes were strange, alert, and yet empty. Her eyes were not for the pit nor the coffin, nor even for her husband or the minister. Those eyes pierced the veil of trees and bodies, fixing ever on the dreary town drifting placid and dark amidst the waters that came annually to claim it. She saw only the mold and bloat of timber and eaves in every shop and house, like pustulant boils. Even when things dried, she thought of the warps and cracks that marked every surface. Every day fighting back the clawing fingers of growth and bracing against the fetid breath of the Brazos, it was as if the land were straining with every drop of rain or length of vine to drag civilization back into its bosom. She thought of the rot; she thought of the hate, the choking, the darkness…and she fought to keep from fleeing screaming into the trees like a madwoman.

Could her eyes have plumbed the veil of trees and shops deeper, could she have seen the lean form of Joshua Hadley through the cyclopean window in the top room of Washington Inn, would she have felt hope? Indeed, the wake of Hadley’s coming was not what one would call an atmosphere of hope. The eyes of pedestrians along or across the streets alternately hid their gaze beneath the dull window or gazed up at it transfixed, like suppliants before their god.

Beyond that window, Hadley held audience in his room at a desk drawn beside his bed which, by all appearances, might have gone unused. Those with him in the room, either standing or in chairs, were John W. Hall, Reverend Kenney, and the sheriff, Daniel Munson, silent and sour-faced.

Indeed, life in Washington seemed altogether disrupted, and this disruption attracted strangers like flies even as harvest clientele were already riding off ahead of the ill tidings they scented on the musty, mildew stench on the breeze. Wagons and coaches poured in and out of town, with an open wagon drawing up beside Hoxey’s Mercantile. Yet this wagon bore no supplies or provisions. Only a solitary occupant who stepped from the back, circled, and slipped a couple of bills to the driver before standing in the street and gazing up at the boarded-up shop front.

The man was of medium height, young, and round of face, almost cherubic were it not for the scruffy beard. His appearance marked him to the more rugged citizenry as something of a dandy in a bright red frock coat, white trousers, and bowler cap. One almost expected him to stand askance, leaning on some brass-headed cane with his chin jutted out. Yet while dressed a bit looser than the alcalde, his form was no less rigid and nigh mechanical. The leather ledger tucked beneath his arm gave him the bearing of a tax collector, if ever one was so finely dressed.

The man took in the storefront with his piercing blue eyes, standing perfectly still in his cockeyed position while the traffic of horses and carts in the thoroughfare cut to-and-fro behind. He stood as if awaiting some brass band to fold out and greet him with the mayor leading hosannas.

What eventually poked its head out to greet him was the slick, hawkish profile of Cy Hoxey casting wide a wary glance that softened with affected congeniality halfway through. The shopkeeper lurched and then abruptly strutted forward, extending a hand, his pale face waxen in the dull light of the cloudy morning. He intercepted his visitor halfway with a damp handshake. “Ah-ah! How do you do, sir? You will forgive my confusion. I had thought you were one of my suppliers.”

The man returned the shake curtly and stuffed his hand back into his pocket. “Alas for you, good sir. No. The wagon was not mine.” His tone was low, even, and unhurried.

“I see.” Cy was stroking his chin, his eyes flitting about as if finding it difficult to meet the gaze of the visitor. “Eh, well…Cy Hoxey, at your service.”

“I had thought so,” replied the visitor, plucking a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbing his face. He glanced down at his boots standing up to the ankles in brackish water.

Seeing no immediate follow up to the introduction, Cy’s mouth gaped open and shut a while like a catfish between nervous glances back at his store. Rubbing his clammy palms on his trousers, he gave a nervous chuckle. “Ah, might I…have the pleasure…of your name, good sir?”

“Bauer; Crispin Bauer,” replied the visitor as if hand-waving the formality.

“Ah, Mr. Bauer. Well, you have the advantage of me, knowing my name, but I confess you are unfamiliar to me.” Cy was rubbing his hands enough to generate sparks. “You are not, perhaps, an agent of the Commission House?”

“Commission House, sir?”

“From New Orleans.”

“No sir. I’m afraid you still mistake me. I represent the interests of a party with stakes along the Brazos. As you have some business dealings with a couple of our subsidiaries in San Felipe de Austin, you come highly recommended.”

Cy’s mouth twitched, and his fingers flexed compulsively. “Why, I-I am at your service, sir. Please! Step inside.” Taking Bauer’s bag, he led the way inside, ignoring the curious looks of his boy as he rounded the counter and entered the backroom office. It was a tight, boxy room lit by a solitary window in the back wall. Before it was a desk at which Cy hesitated a moment, making calculating gestures with his fingers. “Ah, oh! I am sorry. I had forgotten—. Let me get you a chair.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’d prefer to stand,” replied Bauer flatly.

Cy nodded and rounded the desk, never breaking eye contact. Facing Bauer from the opposite side of the desk, he hovered before his chair, leaning back and forth on his heels. “Well, ah, um…What can I do ya for, Mister Bauer?”

Bauer met his gaze with eyes that had not yet blinked since his arrival. “As I said, my employer owns stakes along the Brazos. He’s been investing stock in supporting companies and settlements in places like Velasco and San Felipe de Austin. He has had his eyes set on Washington for some time now as a major port of interest, and as of recent developments with this unfortunate flood, he has considered investing his interests here in infrastructure.”

Cy spread his hands. “Rather circumspect of your employer. Buying’s rather cheap just recently.”

“He’s looking to include you in his investment.”

“He wants to buy my store?”

“He wishes to purchase stock in your business in exchange for his connections and suppliers. At a word from my employer, manpower and resources can be made available to expand your business into a chain. My employer would receive a sixty percent share in ownership and proceeds of the original location, supplying resources at no extra charge. Your position as part owner and operator would be maintained as well as rights to recruit or terminate employees, granted that the same privilege may be extended to my employer to supply or subtract his own employees.”

Cy stared at him as if expecting a horn to sprout from his forehead. He half-laughed, “Good God, is that all? At such a split, what’s to keep me from being muscled out into the street, provided I would settle for such a blow to my proceeds?”

“The contract set would be final as regards both you and my employer. There would be no renegotiating of terms at any time following the arrangement. Shares would be agreed upon and set for both parties as non-negotiable.”

“And what a man is he, your employer!” chortled Cy, plopping down in his chair. “The market for property might be cheap at the moment, but the price for my trust is experiencing an all-time high. Why, I don’t even know his name!”

“Edwin Van Dorn,” replied Bauer casually, and his words seemed to suck the air out of the room. The silence filled every space, and a clamminess seemed to pervade despite the heat.

Cy’s expression appeared blank at first, and then his face blanched, and his fidgeting fingers gripped the arms of his chair. He folded trembling fingers, and his look was more nauseous. Slowly, his palms slid up and clasped before him as he leaned forward on the desk. “I…meant no disrespect by my…tone or manner or otherwise inhospitable state of mind. I mean that…You understand I am in much of a plight.”

“Naturally.”

“Naturally. That is, I am of course familiar with Mr. Van Dorn—that is, his position, his accomplishments, his wealth, his resources, his wealth—” Cy’s tongue was tripping over itself with a persistent tremor racking his body as if his bones were turning to jelly. “That is, I am…humbled that-that Mr. Van Dorn would so entrust to me, that is, would so favor me as to…”

“Then you find the terms agreeable?”

“Such a price is but a pittance if it means the favor of Mr. Van Dorn—most certainly, agreeable! I mean, to-to not trust the word of so prestigious a figure, a man so favored by the alcalde and enjoying his friendship, I—yes. I-I am so deeply humbled and-and privileged to be—of—use—to—him. Van Dorn—Mister Van Dorn...and to his agent!” Cy had to clamp his jaw shut to keep from babbling further.

“Good. Then it’s settled. I shall inform Mister Van Dorn of our arrangement on the morrow to officiate the contract. Once he arrives—”

“Mister Van Dorn is coming here?” Cy fairly squeaked.

“Oh, my, yes. He’s only staying in East Columbia to wrap up some contracts there before setting off. He will be here by tomorrow, I should think. Of course, I trust you will respect Mister Van Dorn’s privacy and let the trumpets sound his coming on the proper day, not before.”

“My lips are sealed, Mister Bauer.”

“Good. Then we can proceed.” Bauer withdrew his ledger, splayed it open, and turned it towards the shopkeeper. “As chief agent of Mister Van Dorn, I am authorized to present this contract for your signature. I present it now to give you time to look it over. If all terms laid out are satisfactory, we may proceed to fetch a notary. Any suggestions on that front?”

Cy’s hands hovered over the paper as he read, as if afraid to touch it. Twice his spectacles nearly slipped off his beaked nose, prompting him to keep a finger firmly pressed against the bridge of his nose. Three times he had to look the paper over again due to this error or the regular impulse to dart a glance up at Bauer, who merely watched patiently, placidly, and unblinkingly. As much to get out from beneath that unnerving stare as to eagerly assent to terms, he slid back his chair and rubbed his damp palms with a nervous, blinking smile. “Well! I—I-I suppose no time must be wasted—Mister Van Dorn’s arrival being so imminent. I must lay out the red carpet—but not announce! No. Of course, his privacy, yes. Ah. Um. We-We, um, might seek out Mister Banway as notary. Most respectable gentleman. Most respectable…”

“Now, to my first order of business…” Bauer checked his pocket watch and leaned forward. “Where might I locate your nearest saloon?”

A smile twitched at the corner of Cy’s mouth as he pushed back his chair and raised himself up. “You’ll find the Royal Oak Tavern across from the butchery. Allow me to escort you.”

Beyond the door of the office, the grocery boy swept and idled away the hour with the whistle of some nameless tune as the faint clop of hooves and squeaking of rickety cart wheels turned the gears of Washington outside. Only one moved against the current of bustling bodies, but his tread was one neither shambling nor somnambulant.

Israel Norman’s gait was not so much composed but of an uncommon rigidity like a ship’s mast. His formerly bedraggled appearance was cleaned, shaved, and dressed in a blue frock coat over a clean white linen shirt, cotton trousers and suspenders, and a wide brimmed felt hat. Some gazes were turned, at least those who could recognize the local inebriate in such a state. Others paid no heed, for he could hardly be recognized except for the dark rings under his eyes. Had some recognized Israel, they might have been shocked and a bit unsettled by the weapons he bore on his person, from the knife and pistol to the Kentucky long rifle strapped across his back. Israel himself took no notice of anyone, for his every step was as measured as if on a tightrope.

His stalwart tread brought him at length beside the dogtrot cabin of Doctor Baird, where a strange impulse induced him to pause. It must have been some quiet impulse, for he had no dealings with the man nor with the woman who stood huddled before the door. Nor was it by any means peculiar to observe one waiting before Dr. Baird’s door. Therefore, he reasoned, only a blind impulse could have so interrupted his purpose to make him turn and stare so.

The girl was small, barely to his shoulder, but by the figure of her fitted bodice tapering to the bustled skirt, he could determine this was no shy schoolgirl. She would rap her knuckles rapidly against the door between intervals of silence and susurrant words, like a worshiper at Mass.

Israel watched her stand there and repeat this peculiar ritual until the clatter of a passing cartwheel on the drowned street jerked his brain back to reality. Maintaining his mechanical posture, he tentatively approached some three paces behind her, removed his hat, and cleared his throat. The look in her eyes when she jerked around to face him was fleeting. Yet he recognized a kind of mania. He thought, perhaps, fear. Yet he glimpsed something keener beneath it which lodged his greeting in his throat. Then, in a split second, it was gone, and he saw only the doe-eyed stare of surprise dazzling beneath the bonnet.

“Oh, I…I’m sorry, sir. Did…did you come for an appointment too?” Her mousy voice was dazed and yet hinted at a fuller, musical timbre strangled beneath tense nerves.

Israel’s mouth moved ahead of his words like a gaping fish as he swiftly removed his hat. His lips were a lap ahead of the words by the time his voice caught up. “…on my way, you see…The alcalde has arrived from…Well, I thought I would…but I saw you, ah, you were waiting here, and…the doctor is on call.”

“O-Oh,” replied the girl, her face a befuddling amalgam of conflicting thoughts. Where the brows belied confusion, the eyes seemed agleam with a kind of relief, while her lips wavered between amusement and nervousness like a child caught at some scheme. “I see,” she replied quietly.

Israel felt himself tossed about in that tempest of emotions as he watched her face. The feeling, along with his current state and nagging memory of purpose, inspired him with a kind of nausea. Such it was that his babbling lips at last upon the nervous proclamation, “B-Begging your pardon, ma’am…I’m afraid you’ve caught me sober.”

The girl’s wavering lips parted in a musical giggle swiftly stifled by an embarrassed hand. She tucked a long envelope beneath her arm and stepped away from the stoop. “You are Mister Norman, aren’t you?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You seem rather dapper today, Mister Norman. Are you meeting someone?”

“No—well—Yes. The…You see, the alcalde is arranging the militia and volunteers at the Washington Inn. To investigate the murder, the…the one of the Van Buren boy.”

“Oh.” Her look was grave. “Of course. How awful…Then you’re volunteering?”

“I am.” Israel shifted a bit from one foot to another. For a moment, he could only lean to-and-fro on his heels in uncomfortable silence as his lips made a thin line.

“W-Well, if the doctor is not in for the moment, I suppose I should carry out my errands at Hoxey’s,” spoke the girl hurriedly, turning to leave.

“Ah, pardon me, ma’am!” Israel motioned a moment with a wave of his hand and circled around beside her. “I’m sorry. You have the advantage of me. I did not catch your name.”

The girl tucked the envelope further beneath her arm as if she suspected some bandito would spring like a cricket from the mud and snatch it from her. “Alice Foster.”

“I wonder, Miss Foster…since we happen to be bound the same way, if, well…would you object to my company a while longer?”

Alice offered a weak smile, giving a slight nod of assent as she turned, and the pair walked leisurely in-step with each other down the muddy thoroughfare. Yet her eyes began twitching side to side with increasing fervor as they drew further and further away from the doctor’s cabin.

Israel, noticing this, could not help but wonder if his reputation as the local inebriate had made her suspicious of him. The thought that her acquiescence to his offer could have been motivated by mistaken intentions was enough to send his stomach into somersaults. “Ah, I, erm, hope I don’t impose on you, miss.”

She turned up her head and blinked those doe eyes at him, seeming for a moment vacant as if she had only just noticed him. “Impose? I do not see how you could have imposed on me, Mister Norman.”

“Only, you seem a bit…distracted. I hope I am not so objectionable.” Israel offered a cockeyed grin.

“Oh! No. Not at all!” insisted Alice, reddening a bit around her ears. “I do appreciate the company. I really do. It seems a luxury, and I find myself unaccustomed, as it were.”

“Are you really in such want of company, Miss Foster? Have you no family in town?”

“Only an aunt. She’s quite old now, and I run errands for her.”

“What of your parents?”

“My father passed when I was thirteen. My mother lives with my cousin in Knoxville. She’s…She’s unwell. Has been since my father died.”

“Well, what brought you and your aunt to Washington?” He stopped her abruptly to avoid the path of a passing cart.

“Why, Dr. Baird, actually. He’s my aunt’s benefactor. When my father died, he promised to help set us up here since Washington was growing, and he had a promising stake here as the town’s physician.”

“Then…if he is your benefactor, what do you take to him so regularly?”

Alice gazed ahead, taking in the traffic of laborers and buyers gathering supplies amidst the black, brackish water and smearing their necks with gator grease to repel the clouds of mosquitos hovering like a plague around them. “Oh, all sorts of things. I sometimes help deliver prescriptions, gather payments…no singular thing, I suppose.”

“Are you well, Miss Foster?”

“Why, of course, I am, Mister Norman,” she laughed. “I said I deliver prescriptions. I didn’t say for myself.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Israel’s brow furrowed concernedly, “but I only ask on account of your pallor.”

“My pallor?”

“Yes. You…Again, begging your pardon…You looked a bit green around the gills just now.”

Alice’s lips twitched in an ever-changing mosaic of ambiguity. When she dragged the corners of her mouth into a crooked smile, she waved a hand, or perhaps was merely swatting at the mosquitoes. “These awful pests! Almost as bad as the smell.”

Israel stammered for words, “If-If I have said anything to offend, Miss Foster, I have achieved the opposite of my intentions.”

Alice’s lids lowered, and her smile weakened. She continued to gaze forward as if suddenly the town no longer lay before her but leagues of placid sea. “Don’t mind me, Mister Norman. I’m an incorrigible melancholic, and this gloomy atmosphere exacerbates that deficiency.”

Israel seemed to suddenly notice his hat still clutched at his side and lifted it back to his head. “Times as they are, ma’am, chances are you’ve come by it honest.”

Together, the pair continued on through the thoroughfare, making small and awkward chatter. Yet in both was a new composure in their formerly rigid gait. In the nervous pallor of their cheeks was a fresh glow, like the sun that loomed above and promised new things even as the waters retreated beneath its glare.

For Thomas Collins, the glare was one accusing. It narrowed through a hole in the roof of the otherwise tenebrous cabin, burning its accusatory finger into his forehead.His supine form stretched out along the roughhewn bench; his forearm relaxed across his brow. His formerly pallid features had regained some color centered in the crimson band that encircled his brow. His jaw set, and his wide eyes stared up at the dark ceiling. Beads of perspiration stood out like raindrops on his brow, and he felt the splinters in the bench prickle against his neck and jab into his back like a bed of nails. The sweltering air in the boxy room clung heavy and sticky to his clothes, burning his body like an oven. In the long hours of inebriate sweat and madness, he lay stretched upon a cold bed with a festering fury crouching over him like a gargoyle that smiled and slavered down at him with familiar eyes. How like his own were those eyes—how like another’s that made him sick. How he wished to claw out those eyes and cast that weight off his chest.

He heard the jangle of keys and the dull click of the lock, but made no move to acknowledge them as the door groaned open. He only flinched at the harsh sunlight now pouring through in waves. The cabin echoed harshly with the scrape of a chair dragged across the floor, followed by a clatter as it wobbled upright beside him. He heard the oafish grunts and deep sigh of Sheriff Munson as he plopped into the seat and leaned over at his prisoner, twiddling his thumbs.

Munson’s lips made a thin line, and his cheeks puffed out as he stared at Thomas. The way he stared, he might have been awaiting signs of sudden movement or mere signs of life. When several seconds had passed without movement or word from Thomas, he removed his hat to swat away some flies before resting it on his knee. “Are you lucid, Mister Collins?” he grunted.

Thomas blinked, but did not take his eyes off the ceiling. “Profoundly, Sheriff,” he replied softly, as if his mind were leagues away.

Munson stared at him a moment in silence before continuing. “Those hysterics of yours in the thoroughfare…damn fine timing you’ve chosen. You know ain’t a damn person in this town that ain’t got their own scruples to settle, be it with courts or fisticuffs. But you know, sir, most any man, woman, child, godless savage, or even the beasts of the forest know better than to choose the settlement of grievances in the wake of a damned equinoctial gale!” His formerly dry tone fairly snarled now, and he leaned in to glower over the supine young man. “So…need I worry about you in the interim, Mister Collins? Have we permission to rebuild things before you go tearing them down?”

Thomas was dull-eyed and stiff as a wax figure. His only semblance of sentience was the subtle movement of his lips as he murmured, “Yes, sir.”

Munson stood, fished in his pocket, and pitched the quirt into the middle of the floor. “Take a bath, Thomas. You’re beginning to stink.”

Thomas stared down at the quirt like a man whose cat has brought him a dead mouse. Slowly sitting up, he leaned down and picked it up, turning it in his fingers. Finally, he stood up, dangling the quirt from his fingers and marched stiffly past the sheriff, emerging into the sultry, white morning. He trudged with leaden steps through the deep waters, brushing by the jostling traffic that continued on unabated, heedless of his existence.

Munson walked after him a couple of yards just to ensure that he didn’t decide to bolt after some pedestrian. Then, he stopped beside the livery and watched as the young man disappeared within the ebb and flow of the crowd. From there, he turned and diverted his way towards the high gables of the cedar shingled roof of the Royal Oak.

Back in the upper room of the tavern, Hall and the Reverend Kenney sat on either side of Hadley at the desk. Before them, two young men occupied chairs in the center of the room. Hadley kept quill and ink and stacks of parchment before him. Like an automaton, his body hardly moved, but for the mechanical sway of his hand over the parchment and the occasional downward glance of his eyes as he did so.

“Your names, sirs?” Hadley’s thin voice was as mechanical and precise as his mannerisms. His fingers flitted across the parchment as they replied with Charles Thomas Allcorn and John Henry Davies. “Occupations?”

“Carpentry,” replied Charles mildly.

“Farming, sir,” replied John, his fingers rubbing together between his knees. He had the look of a man perpetually trying to swallow an apple whole.

“In what capacity were you engaged when you happened upon the body of Willem Van Buren yesterday morning?”

“Searching for a horse, sir,” replied John with a shrug.

“A horse?”

“John’s horse. It got loose in a panic during the storm. Of course, we considered the possibility that it had died after being caught out in the storm, but felt we must be sure,” put in Charles.

“Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts the previous night?”

“Why, no, sir. I live alone, and John’s wife was repairing linen while we went searching. We both returned to his house some ten minutes after the first rain hit.”

“Did you all remain under the same roof?”

“Yes, sir,” replied John. “My wife and I weren’t gonna send him home in a storm. We arranged a bedroll upstairs.”

“So, the following morning, you both went looking for the horse?”

“Yes sir. I’d venture around six thirty.”

“You were armed when you brought the body back. Was there a reason you would go armed the morning after a flood to find a horse that may or may not be dead?”

“Of course, sir. For snakes and wild hogs that might be in none too good a mood after a gullywasher like that,” snorted Charles.

“How long would you say it was before you happened upon the body?”

“Oh, a good twenty minutes, I’d say.” Charles cocked his chin at his companion. “That sound about right, John?”

John was working his jaw a bit and scratching at his scruff, never taking his eyes off the alcalde. “Yeah. Twenty minutes. Maybe a bit more. We practically tripped over the poor boy when we found him half tangled under some brush.”

“Where was this?”

“About a mile southwest of the thicket?”

“Have you any notion what would bring that poor boy that close to the thicket, or how his body could have been washed down that far by the flood?”

“Why…no, sir. We figured maybe those other three kids might, but I understand a couple of them are doing poorly.”

“Yes. Well…” Hadley tapped his quill on the desk. “I aim to pursue that avenue of inquiry posthaste. In fact, I should like to examine our recently recovered third witness. A…” Hadley whipped a page out from the middle of the stack before him and leaned back to peruse it by the pale light of the window behind him. “Miss Ada Blackwood. Yes, I do believe I shall make a call upon the Blackwoods quite soon…quite soon, indeed.”