The Figure In the Shadows (2 page)

“It was a rotten thing to do,” said Rose Rita, angrily. “Maybe if I had stayed with you it might not’ve happened.”

Somehow this made Lewis feel worse. Boys were supposed
to protect girls, and not the other way around.

“I can take care of myself,” he mumbled.

The meal proceeded for several minutes in total silence. Everyone stared at his plate and munched silently. Gloom lay over the table like a mantle of fog.

Jonathan sat there staring at the tablecloth like everyone else. But, unlike them, he was thinking. He was racking his brains, trying to dream up something that would cheer them all up. Suddenly he brought his fist down on the table. Plates rattled, and the lid jumped off the sugar bowl. Everyone looked up.

“What on earth is the matter with you?” said Mrs. Zimmermann. “Did you see an ant, or what?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” said Jonathan, grinning. Now that he had everyone’s attention, he folded his hands and stared off into space. “Lewis?” he said.

“Yes, Uncle Jonathan?”

Jonathan continued to stare into space, but his grin got wider. “How would you like to see what’s inside Grampa Barnavelt’s trunk?”

Lewis’s mouth dropped open. Grampa Barnavelt’s trunk was a big heavy chest that stood locked at the foot of Jonathan’s bed. Jonathan claimed that he hadn’t opened it in over twenty years, and Lewis was always pestering him for a chance to peek into it. Now he was going to have that chance. He felt like jumping up and down in his seat, and he could tell that Rose Rita was excited too.

“Oh boy, Uncle Jonathan!” Lewis cried. “Oh boy, that’d be just great!”

“I think so too!” said Rose Rita.

“So do I,” added Mrs. Zimmermann. “Seeing as how I’m a nosy old lady who likes surprises.”

“You certainly are, Frizzy Wig,” said Jonathan.
“Nosy, that is. Now tell me, folks. Would you like your ice cream and cookies now, or after we open the chest? All those in favor of opening the chest now, raise their hands.”

Lewis and Rose Rita started to raise their hands, but then they remembered that the cookies were Mrs. Zimmermann’s. Maybe her feelings would be hurt if they voted to postpone dessert. They pulled their hands down.

Mrs. Zimmermann glared at the two of them and raised her hand. “May I speak, teacher?” she said in a whiny little voice.

“Sure. Go ahead,” said Jonathan, grinning.

“If you don’t go up and help me bring that chest down
right now
, I’ll turn you into a wastebasket full of pencil shavings. Understand?”

“Aye, aye!” said Jonathan, saluting. He and Mrs. Zimmermann got up and went to get the trunk.

Lewis and Rose Rita wandered into the study. They stood around leafing through books and drawing pictures in the dust on the library table. Before long they heard doors slamming and a lot of banging and one loud shout (from Jonathan) followed by some muffled swearing. At last the trunk arrived. Jonathan was holding his end of it with one hand and sucking at the knuckles of his other hand, which he had skinned while trying to take the trunk around a narrow corner.

“Well, here we are!” said Mrs. Zimmermann. She set
her end of the trunk down and mopped her face with a purple handkerchief. “What did your grampa store in here, Jonathan? Cannon balls?”

“Just about,” said Jonathan. “Now as soon as I can find the key . . . hmm, I wonder where it is?” Jonathan scratched his bushy red beard and stared at the ceiling.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve lost it!” said Mrs. Zimmermann in exasperation.

“No, I haven’t lost it. I just don’t remember where it is. Half a minute.” Jonathan left the room, and they heard him going back upstairs.

“I hope it isn’t lost,” said Lewis, who could get gloomy at a moment’s notice if things weren’t working out just right.

“Don’t worry,” said Mrs. Zimmermann. “If worse comes to worst your uncle will shoot the lock off with Grampa Barnavelt’s Civil War pistol—unless of course it’s locked in the trunk with everything else.”

While Jonathan was upstairs hunting for the key, Lewis and Rose Rita had a chance to examine the outside of the old trunk. It had a humped lid, which made it look like a pirate chest, but it was really a steamer trunk, a kind of suitcase that people used to take with them on ocean voyages a long time ago. The trunk was made of wood, but it was covered with alligator leather. Three big strips of hammered copper had been nailed across the lid for decoration. They had turned bright green with age. The
lockplate was made of copper too, and it was shaped like a baby’s face. The baby’s mouth was the keyhole.

After what seemed like a very long time, Jonathan returned. In his hand he held a small iron key with a cardboard tag dangling from it.

“Where was it?” asked Mrs. Zimmermann. She was trying hard to suppress a giggle.

“Where?” snapped Jonathan. “Where? Exactly where you’d expect it to be. At the bottom of a vase full of Indian head pennies.” He knelt down and stuck the key in the lock. Lewis, Rose Rita, and Mrs. Zimmermann gathered behind him. The lock was stiff and rusty, so it took Jonathan several tries, but at last the key turned. Carefully, he lifted the shaky old lid.

The first thing that Lewis and Rose Rita noticed when the trunk was opened was the inside of the lid. It was covered with faded pink wallpaper, and somebody long ago—maybe a child—had pasted pictures on the paper. The pictures looked as if they had been cut from a very old-fashioned magazine. Lewis and Rose Rita looked inside the trunk. Under a thick gritty layer of dust were a number of parcels done up in newspaper and string. One was long and curved and thin. Another was flat and square. Some were just big and bulky. The newspaper was old and yellow, and some of the parcels were coming undone because the string was rotting.

Jonathan reached in and started handing parcels around.

“Here you are. One for you, Lewis, and one for you, Rose Rita, and even one for you, Pruny. And one for little me.”

“Hah,” said Mrs. Zimmermann, as she tugged at a piece of string. “I’ll bet you saved the best one for yourself.”

Lewis had the long curved parcel. When he had ripped the paper off one end, he saw the tarnished brass hilt of a sword. “Oh boy!” he said. “A real sword!” He ripped the rest of the paper off and started swinging the sword around. Fortunately, it was still in its sheath.

“Have at thee for a foul faytour!” he shouted, lunging at Rose Rita with the sword.

“Hey, Sir Ector, watch it, will you?” said Jonathan. Lewis stopped and looked sheepish. Then everybody, including Lewis, laughed.

“You might have known what would happen when you put a sword in the hands of an eleven-year-old boy,” said Mrs. Zimmermann. “Here, let me see it.”

Lewis handed the sword to Mrs. Zimmermann. Tugging gently, she eased it halfway out of its scabbard. The tarnished blade flashed dimly in the lamplight.

“Whose sword was it?” asked Lewis.

“Grampa Barnavelt’s,” said Jonathan. “It’s a cavalry saber—you can tell because it’s curved and quite heavy. Put it back in the sheath, Florence. Knives make me nervous.”

Lewis knew a little bit about Grampa Barnavelt. He had seen his name on the Civil War Memorial, and Jonathan
had told him a few stories about the old man, but these stories had merely whetted Lewis’s appetite.

“Grampa Barnavelt was a lancer, wasn’t he?” asked Lewis.

“That’s right,” said Jonathan. “Rose Rita, open your package.”

Rose Rita was holding a soft little parcel. When she had popped the string and ripped off the paper, she found that she was holding a pile of old clothes. On top was a blue shirt that had been folded up so long it wouldn’t come unfolded. Under that was a pair of baggy red pantaloons and a flattened red felt cap with
FIFTH MICHIGAN FIRE ZOUAVE LANCERS
embroidered on it in gold thread.

“What are the Fifth Michigan . . . whatever they are?” asked Rose Rita.

“Idiots,” snapped Mrs. Zimmermann. “Idiots they were, the whole bunch of them.”

“That’s true,” said Jonathan, stroking his beard. “But that is probably not the answer Rose Rita wanted. In the first place . . . well, let’s let Lewis answer this. He’s read about lancers.”

“Lancers are cavalry soldiers with long spears,” Lewis explained. “They used the spears to run the enemy soldiers through.”

“If they got close enough,” said Jonathan. “You see, Rose Rita, lancers were sort of a holdover from the
Middle Ages, when knights used to knock each other off horses with spears. But in the Civil War, lancers had to charge against soldiers who had muskets and rifles and cannons.”

“That sounds kind of dumb,” said Rose Rita. “How come they wanted to do that?”

“Well, I’m not quite sure,” said Jonathan, “but I think they had some idea that those long spears and flapping pennants and bright-colored uniforms would throw terror into the foot soldiers of the enemy.”

“Did they?” asked Lewis.

Jonathan looked confused. “Did they what?”

“Strike terror into the enemy.”

“Oh. Well, yes, sometimes they did. But more often than not the soldiers with muskets and rifles cut the lancers to pieces. That is what happened at the Battle of Spotsylvania Court House. The Fifth Michigan charged, and it got wiped out. Only Grampa Barnavelt and a man named Walter Finzer came back alive. And they survived because they never got into the battle.”

Lewis’s face fell. He had imagined his great-grandfather slashing and lancing and thrusting his way right through the enemy lines. “How come he didn’t get into the battle?” he asked.

“Go ahead, Jonathan. Tell them,” said Mrs. Zimmermann, grinning. She had heard the story a thousand times, but it still tickled her.

“Well, it’s like this,” said Jonathan. He coughed, folded his arms, and settled back into his storytelling pose. “Your great-grampa, Lewis, was not one of the bravest men in the world. I think he joined the Michigan Lancers because he thought their uniforms were pretty. But the closer he came to an actual fight, the more scared he got. The Battle of Spotsylvania was going to be his first taste of real combat. Well now. On the night before the battle, Grampa was playing poker by the campfire with some other members of the company, and he found that he was holding a very good hand. I think it was a full house or four of a kind or something like that. Anyway, before long, only Grampa and Walter Finzer were left in the game. Walter was a New Zebedee boy too, and he had joined up at about the same time as Grampa. Well, Walter raised Grampa and Grampa raised Walter, and before long the two of them had thrown every cent they had, and their swords and pistols, into the pot. But when Grampa took off his gold signet ring and tossed it in, Walter didn’t have anything to answer it with. Walter tried to borrow money from some of the other men, but they all thought Walter was a deadbeat, and they wouldn’t lend him a cent. Walter was about ready to throw in his cards and let Grampa take the pot, when Grampa said, ‘How about your lucky piece?’”

“Lucky piece?” said Lewis.

“Yes. You see, Grampa had gotten into the game hoping that he would be able to relieve Walter of the lucky coin he carried. I know it sounds silly, but Grampa was convinced that Walter’s lucky coin would get him through the battle without a scratch. Who knows why Grampa thought this? Pilots trust to baby booties and rabbits’ feet. Grampa had heard Walter bragging about this coin, so he figured that maybe it would help him.” Jonathan smiled sadly. “I think Grampa was so scared he would have trusted to anything to see him through the next day’s battle.”

“Was it magic?” asked Rose Rita. “The coin, I mean.”

Jonathan chuckled. “No, I’m afraid not. But Grampa thought it was, and that’s the important thing. To go on with the story, he told Walter to throw the coin in, and Walter refused. Walter was a bullheaded and rather stupid sort, and he didn’t want to part with the coin. Finally, though, his friends persuaded him to throw it in. Then Walter and Grampa both showed their hands, and Grampa won. Walter was furious. He screamed and yelled and stomped and swore, and in the end, when Grampa started to rake in the money, he grabbed a pistol out of somebody’s holster and shot Grampa in the leg.”

“That’s awful!” said Rose Rita. “Did Grampa Barnavelt die?”

“No, but the wound put him out of commission for a
long while. Walter, of course, was put under arrest immediately, and later on he got a dishonorable discharge from the Army. He might have gotten worse, but Grampa pleaded for clemency for him. You see, Grampa Barnavelt was really a rather soft-hearted and gentle man. He had no business trying to fight in a war.”

Jonathan settled back in his chair and lighted his pipe. Mrs. Zimmermann and Lewis went out to the kitchen, and came back with chocolate-chip cookies and ice cream. Suddenly, as everyone was eating, Lewis looked up and said, “Did Grampa keep the coin? Is it still around?”

Jonathan laughed. “He sure did keep it! He put it on his watch chain and told everybody he met how he got it. I got so tired of hearing that story when I was a kid.”

“Could we see it?” Lewis asked.

Jonathan looked startled. “See it? Well, I guess so, if I can find it. I imagine it’s rattling around in this old trunk somewhere. Wouldn’t you think so, Florence?”

“How would I know? It’s your trunk. Let’s have a look.”

Jonathan, Mrs. Zimmermann, Lewis, and Rose Rita gathered around the old chest and started lifting out parcels and unwrapping them. There was a top hat and a black frock coat shiny at the elbows, and some books and three or four albums full of old photos, and one
genuine cannon ball. Finally everything was out of the chest but the dust and the dead insects at the bottom. Everything, that is, except one small battered wooden box.

“I’ll bet it’s in there,” said Lewis.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Jonathan. “But let’s have a peek anyway.”

He reached in and lifted the box out. There was no lock on it, and after a little tugging the lid came off, hinges and all. Inside were an old pair of rimless spectacles, a blackened tobacco pipe, and a heavy braided watch chain. A tiny silver coin was attached to the chain.

“Hey, it’s really there!” Lewis reached into the box and carefully lifted the watch chain out. He handled it as if it were a string of diamonds. Now he and Rose Rita were examining the coin. It was a strange-looking thing, smaller and thinner than a dime. On one side was a Roman numeral III. On the other was a six-pointed star with a striped shield inside it. “United States of America” was printed around the outside of the star, and under the bottom point of the star was a date: 1859.