Froelich's Ladder (20 page)

“It’s a poor substitute,” he informed her, though he found it difficult to meet her gaze. “For a person, I mean—the wood doesn’t yield if it gets windy, or if the ground’s hard with frost. And what if Froelich needs something? What if he sends a message down the rungs and I’m not here to listen?”

But even as he said this, he realized his mistake: Froelich
wasn’t
up the ladder. His uncle’s absence struck him anew, causing his jaw to clench. Binx
could
leave the ladder unattended without there being any consequences—except, of course, he couldn’t. His responsibility went beyond Froelich’s safety; there was a principle at stake.

Walking back toward him, Miss Sarah smiled in infuriating fashion. “I’m not saying you should leave it forever—perish the thought! Only, can’t you take a short break? Is that really such a bad idea?”

In addition to being unable to shrug, the stiles made it impossible to turn away. He could only cross his arms and stare into the distance, trusting his reticence to speak louder than words. What he wouldn’t give for Lord John, Binx thought, to come clambering down the rungs and question Binx’s priorities. Hadn’t the Rübezahl claimed to be listening? Would there be a more appropriate time to make himself known?

“Fine,” Miss Sarah said, collecting her bonnet from the ground. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” Binx insisted. “Don’t you think I’ve given it some thought?”

“Obviously you have.”

“I’m responsible for the ladder,” he continued. “I can’t just walk away because I feel like it. This is a serious responsibility! Harald built the fulcrum, but even he hardly ever used it. If he’d wanted the ladder to lean against it, he would’ve asked for the fulcrum when he died, instead of telling me—”

Seeing the look on Miss Sarah’s face, Binx arrested himself in mid-sentence.

“Binxy,” she said. “I’m sure if Harald were here, he’d say it’s okay for you to take a break. He built the—the fulcrum, you said? Then I’m sure he wasn’t opposed to using it. That’s like building a door, and telling everyone to stay inside! If you’ve been standing here this whole time, for however many years, because you think you might disappoint him—”

“Harald’s dead,” Binx interrupted her. “You can’t disappoint someone who’s already dead.”

“You can’t impress him, either.”

The truth landed with the weight of Froelich’s chisel. Even the breeze faltered, abandoning the leaves with a tremendous sigh. Binx stared at the bonnet in Miss Sarah’s hands. How long would he continue to support the ladder, in the hopes of securing his father’s praise? Ten years? The rest of his life? While he pondered this thought, his body, always so insistent for his attention, continued to itch and to ache. Stonily, he tried to focus on the stiles, whose faint tremors reached him from even the highest rungs, where they warped and swayed in empty space.

“You couldn’t move it the rest of the way by yourself,” he finally rasped, attempting a dry swallow. “The fulcrum’s too heavy. You’d have to wait for Gordy.”

“Yes, Gordy,” Miss Sarah replied, sounding chastened. “Anyway, he’s the reason I came. When will he be back?”

Binx snorted. All these years he’d sacrificed to the ladder, and his brother was free to come and go. In that respect, he was no better than Froelich!

“Who knows?” he spat. “Probably never. He could be dead, for all I know! More likely, he’s off having himself a ball while I’m stuck here. I wouldn’t depend on Gordy, if I were you.”

Stuffing her bonnet into her apron pocket, Miss Sarah nodded. “No—I won’t. Too bad,” she added. “I could’ve used his help.”

“What for, did you say?”

“To slaughter a pig. Hiram’s no use.”

“What makes you think Gordy is any better?”

The idea seemed to catch her off-guard. Miss Sarah paused for a moment, then gave a slight shrug of her shoulders.

“There’s other stuff he can do, besides. Feeding the animals, rebuilding the wall—like I said, Hiram is useless. To be fair, his talents lie elsewhere, but it’s hard work running a farm.”

Picking up her basket, Miss Sarah prepared to leave, even arranging her bonnet back atop her head. In that instant, Binx decided not to worry about Gordy, nor would he trouble himself with Froelich. Apart from balancing the ladder, Harald had taught him one other thing: how to butcher a hog. After all, he’d been heir to the family farm before departing for America.

“You think you can move the fulcrum?” Binx asked.

Miss Sarah blinked at him, her basket dangling from her elbow. “That’s what the wheels are for, right?”

“I can help on the farm,” he said. “Just promise that Hiram will leave me alone. No more questions about the ladder. At least, not right away.”

“I can’t speak for anyone else,” Miss Sarah said, crossing the meadow and applying her shoulder. “But I’ll ask him.”

The fulcrum proved surprisingly easy to move, once it had gained a little momentum. They had some difficulty maneuvering it into place, making sure the rungs were properly aligned; but after it had been positioned opposite Binx, he could nudge the ladder against its steep plane. The stiles made a trough in the dirt as they rotated over the axis. There wasn’t any need to worry about Froelich, or how he’d handle the transfer; the Rübezahl, if he even existed, could fend for himself.

Standing upright and taking a wobbly step forward, Binx expected to feel a soreness in his legs; after all, two years had passed since he’d straightened his knees. There was a profound dread associated with this moment, and the memory of seeing Harald collapse to the ground. Paradoxically, then, Binx experienced a lightness in his joints, minus the weight of the ladder, as if he might somehow float away. It was a ludicrous prospect, one that made him giggle nervously.

“Are you all right?” Miss Sarah asked, sounding concerned. Extending her arm to him, she proposed, “Do you need something to lean against?”

“No, actually, if you could just—”

Knowing she couldn’t reach as high as his shoulder, Binx placed her hand on his forearm. Miss Sarah frowned, but left it there regardless. The pressure of her palm, no bigger than a maple leaf, allowed him to feel grounded.

“Like that?”

“Yes,” he said, with a shaky sigh. “Like that. For now.”

He didn’t glance up at the ladder, or look behind him. For a short while, they made no effort to move. They just stood there, feeling the sun on their backs, as the smile on Binx’s face grew wider and wider.

A tumultuous night had passed since Miss Josephine’s abduction. During that time, Gordy had stuck to the periphery of things, learning what he could from stray bits of conversation. No one had seen or heard from Miss Josephine since the Sergeant Major’s discovery, nor had the Deutschman made any demands. To a man, the soldiers were baffled as to how he’d managed to enter Fort Brogue. Meanwhile, Myers was calling for a military tribunal—for the Deutschman, the sentry, and anyone else who might’ve been remotely culpable. Despite all the calls to action, the state of affairs was largely unchanged.

Though he’d kept his own counsel, Gordy had suspected Froelich’s involvement from the start. First, there was the matter of the Deutschman’s nationality. Second, upon their arrival, he’d noticed the soggy wad of clouds clinging to Miss Josephine’s turret. If indeed his uncle had been poached by one, the wind would’ve blown it in this direction.

“I know a way to get him down,” Gordy helpfully suggested. He and the Sergeant Major were standing outside the fort, peering up at the turret through an overcast morning. When not barking orders at his men or consulting with Myers, the Sergeant Major could be found here, staring at the window and fingering his Remington. The pistol had been a constant accessory since the day before, always holstered at his hip.

“He can flap his wings, for all I care,” the Sergeant Major muttered, turning up his collar against the sea breeze.

“I mean safely.”

“No one wants him down safely. If the Deutschman can be apprehended without any harm to Miss Josephine, it’s not so he can live out his days.”

Though Gordy had suspected as much, it was another thing to hear it confirmed. Froelich (presuming it
was
Froelich up there) had little chance of surviving, should Fort Brogue’s mood remained the same. He had no means of escape, and no food to sustain him. Unless Gordy could effect a change on the ground, there was only one way for the situation to end.

“Why is Myers so hell-bent?” he asked. “He says we should have a trial. He said, show a man a noose and he’ll find it hard to breathe.”

“A trial? There won’t be any trial.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t have a military tribunal for a private civilian,” the Sergeant Major tut-tutted, his eyebrows raised. “If it’s justice Myers seeks, I can summon Judge Harper—not that Myers would suffer the insult. Still, unless he can find a suitable replacement, all of this”—here, he waved his good hand at the turret—“is mere pageantry.”

It wasn’t the answer he was looking for, but Gordy decided to drop the subject. There was another question he’d been harboring: why was Myers so distraught about his niece? You’d think she was his daughter, from how he carried on.

“Can I trouble you one last time?”

“You want to know about my hand?” Grunting, the Sergeant Major said, “It’s not like you think.”

“I don’t think anything,” Gordy promised.

“Of course you do—everyone does. It was the last night of the Vicksburg siege. Do you know where that is? We knew that Pemberton was going to surrender—he’d already written to General Grant, stating his terms. Between that and the next day being the Fourth of July, we were all giddy with anticipation.” Suddenly, the Sergeant Major glared at Gordy. “This ladder of yours—it’s not here, is it? He couldn’t have used it to climb up there?”

“Where do you think I’d hide it,” Gordy scoffed, “in my pants? Anyway, your hand—did it get exploded or shot off?”

“All I ever wanted was a scar, something to show the pretty girls. If that sounds idiotic—well, I suppose it is. Anyway, I got a good look right before she bit me. She fell right into my hand.”

“She?”

“A fiddleback spider,” the Sergeant Major said. “Not so nice to look at, but dainty. The color of an acorn, and not much bigger. She landed in my palm, and—oh, bloody hell!”

The wind had changed directions, delivering a minor squall to where they stood. As water blew at them sideways, like someone emptying a bucket, the two men found themselves drenched. Retreating back inside, they left the turret window to its lonely view. For his part, Gordy felt on the verge of articulating an idea—something about what the Sergeant Major was saying as it related to the current situation.

Eager that he not lose the thread, he implored, “So you lost your hand to a spider bite?”

“Fiddleback,” the Sergeant Major repeated, as if the distinction were paramount. Standing just inside the postern gate, he borrowed from a pile of horse blankets to dry himself off. “If you don’t believe me, go ask someone—they can kill a cow, and bigger things. When she bit me, it hurt worse than anything I’d ever experienced. Worse than getting burned, worse than being shot. The next morning, thirty thousand Rebels got paroled all at once, all of them hoofing it to Alabama. By the second day, I couldn’t extend my fingers. By the third day, when I finally found myself a doctor, it had turned black. There wasn’t any discussion—he just took it off. People tend not to ask how it happened, and I don’t say.”

“Isn’t that the same as lying?”

“A lie of omission?” The soldier smiled. “How about I answer your question with a question? Which hand do you use to pick your nose?”

Gordy frowned. “Pick my nose? My right hand, I guess.”

“But you had to think about it?”

He had, though it put him in a different mindset than the soldier had intended. Maybe Myers wasn’t bereft over the loss of his niece, Gordy realized; maybe he was grieving for his own right hand! All at once, Gordy saw a way out—for himself, for Froelich, and even for Miss Josephine, should she so desire. Not bothering to dry himself off, he made a hasty apology:

“Sorry, Sergeant Major—I gotta find Frank!”

Not waiting for a reply, he ran across the open parade ground, crossed to the opposite turret, and bounded up the stairs. Gordy expected to find Myers at Miss Josephine’s door, and so he did. The Scotsman made an indecorous sight, squatting and peeking through the keyhole. At the sound of Gordy’s approach, he stood abruptly, smoothing his shirt with an air of embarrassment.

“Yes?” he demanded. “What is it?”

“Miss Josephine was going to be your right-hand man!”

“Not so loud,” Myers hissed, casting an anxious glance at the door. “He may not know that.”

“But she was, wasn’t she? And now she can’t? That’s what the circuit judge was saying—she won’t be a U.S. citizen for another twenty years?”

“
Nineteen
years,” Myers automatically corrected him. But this exchange had the effect of focusing him, such that he stood a little taller. “You overheard all that?”

“I did,” Gordy nodded. “I’m always listening, hearing what other people have to say. And I’m creative, too—like at the bowling alley! You didn’t think I could win, did you? But I did, and not by changing the rules, either. Like you said, I mitigated expectations. Am I right?”

“Not entirely,” Myers frowned. “But you’ve got a keen ear, even if you failed to grasp my meaning. So what? What does any of this have to do with my Josie?”

“Me! Make
me
your right-hand man! I’m smart, I’m motivated—plus, I’m already an American citizen!”

The idea was still new to Gordy, but he was confident of its merit. For this reason, his was disheartened by Myers’s response. In the confines of the narrow stairwell, the Scotsman’s laughter bounced off the walls, almost like a trapped bird.

“Oh-ho, it’s a job you’re after? I should’ve guessed it, shouldn’t I? Well, Mister Right-hand Man, maybe you can answer me this, since you’re so motivated. If I were to employ you, how would you resolve the current situation? Surely you’ve got an answer, being as creative as you are.”