The Expeditions (13 page)

“‘Then I must be thy lady! But I know when thou hast
stolen away
from fairy land, and in the shape of Corin sat all day, playing on pipes of
corn,
and versing love to amorous Phill…Phillida.’”

“Phillida, yes. Excellent!”

Pleasure flickered over Susette’s face. She took up the whiskey jug and her eyes met Elisha’s. She held his gaze as she drank.

The boy thought he had never seen a woman as lovely. Susette’s color had risen, and in the firelight her skin was as burnished as an old penny. Elisha turned away, humiliated by his ardor. She was married and older and half Native; he was lonely and childish and a silly white fool. Above the mantel, King George’s image regarded him with a disdainful smile. Then it occurred to Elisha that Susette had allowed him to read to her. That afternoon on the beach, when he’d asked to read her
Godey’s Lady’s Book:
she could have told him she read perfect English, sent him away with a scowl; but instead she’d offered him the magazine. She had sat quietly beside the cookfire, listening as Elisha read. Perhaps he was not such a fool.

“‘Why art thou here, come from the furthest steppe of India? But that,
forsooth,
the bouncing Amazon, your buckskinned mistress and your warrior love, to Theseus must be wedded, and you come to give their bed
joy
and
prosperity
!’”

“‘How canst thou thus
for shame,
Titania, glance at my credit with Hippolyta, knowing I know thy love to Theseus?’” Tiffin cackled again. “This is where it becomes rich! ‘Didst thou
not
lead him through the glimmering night from Perigenia, whom he ravished? And make him with fair Aegle
break his faith,
with Ariadne and Antiopa?’”

Susette read about Oberon’s forgeries of jealousy, of the wind pulling fogs from the sea to cover the land, of the seasons becoming mixed and confused. Of oxen straining at their yokes and green corn rotting in its husk. Her voice softened as she navigated the unfamiliar names. She read about a young boy, son of a mortal woman who’d died in his conception. “‘And for her sake do I rear up her boy,’” she said. “‘And for her sake I will not part with him.’”

She concluded the speech with a pained expression. “What happens to the woman and boy?”

Professor Tiffin closed the book. “Perhaps we shall learn that tomorrow.”

A contented silence, broken by the fire’s pop and hiss. At last Mr. Brush said, “I never cared overmuch for that play. The notion of fairies in the forest is too foolish to seriously consider.”

“Not all stories need be serious,” Tiffin said.

“They do need to be true, in some manner.”

“Your idea of truth seems fixed in the literal. A story can be true without mirroring common life.”

Mr. Brush’s grunt was a grudging concession of the point. He unlaced his boots and placed them on the hearth, rolled his spare shirt into a pillow. With a sigh Professor Tiffin did the same. Susette rose, steadying herself on the mantel, then gathered the supper plates and stepped outside.

Elisha felt as though he were swimming in air. He stood, and the whiskey dragged him off balance. Professor Tiffin laughed. “Easy now, my healthy young friend!” Elisha took a sip of whiskey then moved to the open door, listening for Susette’s quiet singing:
A la claire fontaine, M’en allant promener…
The chanson from that morning, a song about a beautiful fountain. Along the riverbank, black pines were silhouetted against a starry black sky. A barred owl called, the sound like a pup’s whine.

He stepped out into the night. Susette was squatting at the river’s edge, scrubbing the plates with sand. She rose at Elisha’s approach, grinning drunkenly.
“Midsummer Night,”
she said, “I must write to my mother, she—” Elisha took the woman by the shoulders and kissed her on the mouth.

She stiffened, shoving the plates against his chest; then her body yielded. Her lips parted, the tip of her tongue touching the boy’s teeth. She tasted of whiskey and salt. Elisha felt as though he was falling. He gripped her shoulders, her neck, her back, his hands running down her spine to her fleshy hips. Susette whimpered, tugging at the boy’s hair. She twisted away and the plates clattered in the dirt, then she took Elisha’s hand and hurried around the house’s side, pulled him down to a patch of bare earth, whispered, “Here, this way, this way.” The woman’s breathing was shallow and fast. She turned away and rose onto her knees and forearms, reached behind herself and drew her skirts over her waist.

A shock arched through Elisha. The woman’s back glowed like marble, the dimples above her bottom like twin kisses from a chisel. He touched the root of her spine and she groaned, grappling blindly behind herself. He fumbled with his trousers and with a jolt he was inside her. His lungs felt as though they would explode. He gasped, “My love—” then Susette shoved against him with a grunt. Elisha sensed himself on the edge of control. Susette drove the boy into her and he froze, trying to remain utterly still; then with a cry he emptied himself.

She pitched forward like she’d been struck. The woman lay motionless for several long moments, the rhythm of her breathing matching Elisha’s; then she rose and slowly brushed the dirt from her skirts. Her cheeks shone with tears. Elisha touched her shoulder and she jerked away; then she rushed past him to the riverbank and gathered up the supper plates, ran to the door. She turned to Elisha. “I am sorry,” she whispered hoarsely. “Please, I am so sorry.” She stepped into the lit-up house.

“Queen Titania returns!” roared Tiffin.

Four

He had fallen into something of a routine, spending mornings at the quay sipping bitter coffee as he watched schooners nudge toward the pier, then walking up Franklin Street past the dance halls and rattrap hotels. Reverend Stone nodded to ladies in crinolines and Scottish stevedores and grubby charcoal peddlers, asked if they’d seen a boy of Elisha’s description. The men squinted; the ladies offered apologetic smiles. He wandered from Beaubien to Saint Mary to Michigan to Cass, then back to the quay while the sun sank to an orange knot, the last ships approaching as the evening whistle offered an oboe hoot. Men watched from the pier, hands thrust in their trouser pockets, but despite their shared indolence no one spoke. A city of strangers. The thought did not entirely displease Reverend Stone.

Nights, he found himself back on Franklin Street. It was a narrow clay track lit by puddles of lamplight, loud with ill-tuned fiddles and crowded with Irish and Negroes and laborers and lawyers. The men were dirty-faced, drunk, their shirtfronts muddied and hats askew. Reverend Stone leaned against an awning post and feigned impatience as he watched them move from saloon to bowling parlor to brothel. He had never seen such a concentration of sentiment: bitter arguments and laughter and regretful stares and declarations of false love. Were there a meetinghouse and cemetery, Reverend Stone thought, Franklin Street would contain the breadth of human emotion.

He had seen seamy city blocks during his years in Cambridge, but only from the vantage of a passing buggy. Now he lingered on the street itself, studying the men’s faces as they passed, smelling their whiskey breath. The most common expression was joy. A delicious reveling in transgression, the truant boy’s thrill writ large. Reverend Stone wondered for the thousandth time why so much joy might be derived from sin. The question was accompanied by a familiar note of confusion: it seemed evidence of a fundamental error on His part.

That Saturday Reverend Stone was caught on Franklin Street during a cloudburst that left gentlemen cursing and ladies scurrying for the nearest awning. He stepped into a low wooden saloon. Inside, the day’s light was swallowed by gloom, wood smoke rolling from a squat fireplace, the windowpanes caked with soot. Pairs of men sat at round tables, filling the air with the slap and rattle of dice. The room stank of fish oil and tallow, and the faint ammoniac stench of horse piss. A teamsters’ haunt. No one looked up at Reverend Stone.

He found standing room at the bar and a creased
Evening Clarion,
ordered a glass of cider. The barman whistled “Hey, Betty Martin” as he flicked a dirty rag over the row of bottles. In Newell Reverend Stone had taken his daily cider at John Hensley’s, but he had forgotten the excitement of an unfamiliar tavern. He shook open the newspaper, frowning to stifle a smile. Some time later he called for another cider, and as he did he glimpsed himself in the bar mirror: he was dressed in his traveling clothes, homespun dungarees and a worn linen shirt, and his appearance was that of a kindly old tobacco farmer come to market. The sight was startling, and oddly liberating.

He’d nearly finished the second cider when a man leaned beside him and said, “Care to rest your feet?” He was tall and pink-faced, his hair hanging in snowy ropes, white mustache tinted brown with tobacco juice. He introduced himself as Leander Clarke. Reverend Stone followed him to a table near the fireplace, jammed the
Evening Clarion
beneath a wobbly leg. The man sucked the fringe of his mustache as he withdrew a deck of cards.

Leander Clarke explained a version of brag with a blind first bet and suicide kings as floaters, nickel ante, the only curb to raises being a man’s courage. Before Reverend Stone could protest Clarke said, “Of course, we may as well play for honor alone. I expect you saw Tuesday’s comet.”

“I did not—I read a description in the
City Examiner.
Did you see it yourself?”

“A wondrous sight! I was standing outside my privy when it passed. My first thought was from Psalms: ‘The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament sheweth his handiwork.’” Leander Clarke grinned. His teeth were black, nuggets of anthracite nestled in puckered gums. “And imagine—it appearing on the very day Reverend Miller predicted! Ante up.”

Reverend Stone hesitated, then drew a nickel from his pocket. He said cautiously, “I have heard debate about the proper material for ascension robes. What is your view?”

“Only muslin will suffice. Muslin of the primest quality, with no tassel or lace nonsense. A body wants to be clothed in his finest raiments when the Bridegroom appears.” Clarke grinned again. “Raiments are garments.”

“Yes,” Reverend Stone said. “I know.”

The man was a Millerite. The minister had read of Reverend Miller’s ninety thousand followers, but had ever encountered only one: Prudence Martin’s husband, Matthew. An image rose in Reverend Stone’s mind of Prudence Martin’s bloodless lips stumbling over words from Revelation in the meetinghouse in Newell: a crimson dragon with seven heads, a beast like a leopard, a new Jerusalem. Unbelievers and liars and whores cast into hell. Reverend Stone cleared his throat. He said, “I have read that Reverend Miller demands significant donations from his followers. He would not approve of your losing money at a game of chance.”

“I don’t hardly see that I’m losing. Raise one.”

One dollar. Reverend Stone checked his cards: pair of deuces with a floater, a low prial. He pushed a dollar toward the pile of coins, then took a long draft of cider to quell his guilt.

“Reverend Miller has proofs,” Clarke said. “Numerical proofs, calculations from the Bible. From Daniel. He figured the date of Judgment by five different means, and every one yielded the identical result: October 22, 1844. Less than six months nigh.”

“The Book of Daniel was not meant as a tool for calculation.”

“I was taught as a nursling to read the book with openness and scrutiny. Just as Reverend Miller has done.” Clarke spat on the floor. “Raise two.”

Reverend Stone examined Leander Clarke: the man seemed possessed of a blunt intelligence that might easily tend to cruelty. So he was not a mindless follower, then, one of the multitudinous flock—likely he considered himself far superior. A backwoods apostle, Daniel in one hand and bowie knife in the other. Surely the man was bluffing.

“Fold,” Reverend Stone said.

He ordered another cider as Clarke raked the coins to his chest. Rain rapped against the barroom windows. As they played the man spoke about Miller: How he’d been a simple onion farmer when he heard the call. How he’d forfeited his farm to roam the country and awaken souls. How he insisted to his followers that he was nothing more than a wretched, lowly messenger. Leander Clarke’s voice was a deep monotone, uninflected by his erratic play: nervy bluffs mixed among cautious strings of folds. Within an hour the minister was down two dollars and ninety cents.

“I am acquainted with some of the man’s writings,” Reverend Stone said finally. “And his pamphlet—what is it called,
The Tuba
?”

“The Trumpet.”

“Of course.” The minister smiled. “Reverend Miller is a learned fellow, no doubt. I am afraid, however, that his zeal has led him down a misguided route. The Bible is not a storehouse of riddles.”

“What about the comet? How would you explain it, passing on the very morning Reverend Miller predicted?”

“The comet was a natural phenomenon. Explainable with scientifical reason.”

Clarke spat and wiped his mouth. “And who are you to declare? How can you be certain the Lord won’t come in October? The book says we know not when he shall return, that he is like a master of a house returning from a dreadful long journey, that he may cometh at midnight or at the cockcrowing or in the morn. And that he will come without warning, so we must not be sleeping.
We must not be sleeping!
We must watch!”

“Of course,” Reverend Stone said quietly. “I did not intend offense.”

Leander Clarke’s brow was a hard furrow. The man checked his cards, and Reverend Stone noticed his fingers trembling—from nerves, or from whiskey. Around the saloon were traces of violence: shattered glass near the fireplace, a wide-bore shotgun propped behind the bar. Screams had echoed in this room. Shouts and accusations. The smell of horse piss was sharp and sour.

“You sincerely believe the last day will occur in October?”

Leander Clarke paused before he spoke. “I sincerely believe it might. And I don’t intend to be on the losing end of that wager. Raise two.”

Reverend Stone thumbed forward two dollar coins then immediately regretted the action. He studied his cards as a flush rose to his neck: three deuces, a fine hand. He understood that, were he to win, he might have enough money to pay Charles Noble.

Excitement flared in the minister then was instantly smothered by shame: paying an extortionist with gambling winnings. Sin in service of sin. Leander Clarke peeled a card from the leathery deck, raised another dollar. Reverend Stone’s stomach fluttered. He drew a gold half-eagle coin from his trouser pocket and set it carefully in the table’s center. Five dollars.

“Ho! Now we’re sincere!” Clarke flipped a half-eagle into the air and caught it in a fist, slapped it on the table.
“Call.”

The minister slid two cards from his hand and turned over the remaining three: deuce of spades, deuce of clubs, deuce of hearts.

“Reverend William Miller thanks you for the generous donation.” Leander Clarke scraped together the coins with a low whistle. His hand showed three nines.

Reverend Stone nodded automatically as the barroom’s noise faded to a hum. He gazed at the tabletop, its rough grain carved with initials and faceless figures, marked by treacle-colored stains. He felt strangely listless. He thought to take up his hat but could not recall where he’d laid it. The door—of course he’d hung it on a rack beside the door.

“Listen to me now.” Leander Clarke was staring at him. “You are lost. I hear it in your voice. I hear your lostness as clear as a piano note. I hear your voice then I think about Reverend Miller’s voice, and I know that if you heard him speak a single sentence, a single word, you would be found. His words are truth. The truth is in his voice. It trumpets from him.”

Reverend Stone nodded. Dryness crept into his throat.

“When he speaks, I feel drawn apart from myself. We all do.” Leander Clarke smiled painfully. “When he speaks, I feel…I feel my soul rise from my body and float away.”

Reverend Stone fumbled away from the table. Heat washed through him and pushed every sound from the room. The saloon seemed to lurch. He leaned against a chair and coughed, his stomach twisting into a rope.

“Hey. Hey. Do you need air?”

He stared at Leander Clarke: fleecy white light lay draped over the man’s shoulders, as though he was enrobed in sunbeams. The light sharpened, then blurred.

“I’m fine,” he stammered. “Thank you.”

“You should have that cough inspected,” Clarke said. “I know a good surgeon that can aid you. Drain just enough blood to settle your temperament.”

A metallic taste rose in Reverend Stone’s mouth. He spat on the floor and turned away.

Leander Clarke gripped his elbow. “What will you do when the last day arrives? Will your family be prepared? Will
you
be prepared?”

“You should be concerned with your own preparations,” Reverend Stone said. “Do not waste your worries on my family. Do not waste your worries on me.”

“But I shall worry about you,” Leander Clarke said softly. “I shall pray for you.”

He spent the evening walking Detroit’s outer streets, Atwater over to Orleans up to Elizabeth then back to Grand River, the city yielding to farmland that stretched to the horizon like a flat, black lake. The creak of sidewalk planks and click of horsewhips gave way to a cow’s mournful lowing, a whisper of windbreak poplars. Reverend Stone felt reckless and deeply ashamed. He thought to purchase a bottle of cider but suspected that would only worsen the feeling.

Sometime past midnight he returned to his shabby boardinghouse on Miami Avenue, lit a candle stub and paced the small room. He did not want to sleep. Again he figured his finances: he had spent four dollars on the room and suppers, another dollar on hackney cabs, a few coins for shoeshines and coffee and tablets and a half-dollar on the Catlin book. And then nearly ten dollars lost at the saloon. Now he had but three dollars, eighteen cents. He stacked the coins on the side table.

He woke at dawn to a smoky purple sky. His head ached. He stepped down to the street and walked to the Berthelet market; the scene was one of quiet commotion, farmers unloading bushels of carrots and potatoes and asparagus, street vendors setting up their stalls, a water wagon sprinkling the dusty road. Reverend Stone purchased a mug of coffee and a large red apple, picked a
City Examiner
from the gutter and irritably scanned the headlines. A notice about the comet, reporting various scientific observations recorded in New Haven and Cambridge. A second notice, discrediting Reverend Miller’s predictions. The editorialists seemed alarmed, though they tried to mask their concern with a third notice entitled “Comets and Women.”

Comets doubtless answer some wise and good purpose in creation; so do women.

Comets are incomprehensible, beautiful, eccentric; so are women.

Comets shine with peculiar splendor, but at night appear most brilliant; so do women.

Comets confound the most learned when they attempt to ascertain their nature; so do women.

Comets and women, therefore, are closely related; but as each are inscrutable, all that remains for us to do is view with admiration the one, and love to adoration the other.

Despite himself Reverend Stone felt cheered by the notice. He crumpled the newspaper, annoyed by his own fatuousness.

A meetinghouse stood across the square from the market. It was a slender whitewashed building set between a jeweler’s shop and a garish lavender brothel. Reverend Stone stared at the meetinghouse as though at a mirage. With a feeling of relief he climbed the stone steps.