The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell (2 page)

* * *

It was dark when the train pulled into Port Jervis. The station was filled with people waiting to get on the train or to meet those getting off. No one made way for me, and I had to use my elbows. When I reached the street, I found it lit by gas lamps, something I had never seen. The light danced off the cobblestones and floated in the fog that drifted up from the river. I stopped to watch it, but others pushed past me as though it were nothing. Laughter and loud conversation led me to the Canal House Inn. I followed two men in long coats into a hall filled with men drinking mugs of beer. After a quick look about, I cut a path through the room to where the innkeeper sat adding numbers. He was a small, wiry man, but on his stool behind the counter he seemed imposing.

“Have you rooms to let?” I asked, my voice cracking on the last word. The innkeeper looked up, and I coughed as though clearing my throat.

“Two bits for jus’ yerself,” he said looking back down at the ledger. I nodded and with a shaky hand signed his book
Joseph Israel Lobdell
, taking the name of my grandfather, gone years now but still missed by me. Granddad had never made me feel less than my boy cousins, and once I heard him brag about how well I could shoot. And when he died, he left me money as he did the boys—money given me on my marriage day and not a nickel of it spent until now. Would my taking his name insult him? I didn’t think so. More likely, he’d be up in heaven having a good laugh.

The room at the inn was no larger than a horse stall, but I sat on the bed, happy to be alone. I undid my shirt and then the wrap, suddenly able to breathe again. It would take some getting used to, although, in truth, I never had much of a chest, even after nursing my Helen. I lay back and looked at the ceiling, wishing to rest and think about nothing. But the candle let off a flickering light, and I began to see strange faces in the cobwebs above. I would have gone at them with a broom had there been one.

A little later I was downstairs, bowl of soup in hand. I made my way through the crowded room till I found a table with an empty place. Already there, bent over their bowls, were three men in oil-stained overalls. I was ready to meet them in the eye, but no one looked up as I sat down. They just slurped the broth and belched in turn.

I sat before my soup and looked at my spoon. Should I too slurp? But then what if I did it wrong? Safer to be quiet. I found the broth a little briny, but the mutton was good, and tasted all the better because I hadn’t spent the day cooking it. With food in my belly, the clamor in the room turned melodious. I sat and watched as men gestured, guffawed, and slapped each other on the back. I liked it. I liked being there. And why couldn’t there be a hall where women could go and do the same? A regular slap on the back might do us all some good.

After a while, I got up from the table, not wishing to remain the only one without beer in hand. I found a hallway that led to a room where men sat in large chairs and smoked cigars. I would have been more out of place in that room, so I stayed in the hall and looked at the notices posted there. I had the faint hope that someone might be looking for a schoolteacher or a music teacher, but there was nothing like that. A carriage was for hire; a wheel-wright sought; a teamster needed. But then a notice in bold letters caught my eye: TO ADVENTURERS! OPPORTUNITIES IN HONESDALE! The bill was faded and worn, but I read it top to bottom. Then, when no one was looking, I took it down and put it in my pocket.

* * *

That night in my room I wrote a letter home. Using a careful hand, I said only what I had to, not wishing to pile one lie upon another:

Dear Mother and Father,
I have left Basket Creek in search of work. Please forgive me. I will return for Helen when I have a proper place to live. I am sorry I did not heed your warning about Mr. Slater, but I hope I can redeem my mistake. John, Mary and Sarah have been so dear with Helen, and I am truly grateful for all the love you have given me.

Your devoted daughter,
Lucy Ann

I folded the page so I could post it in the morning, but there was a tight feeling in my throat as though more words wanted to come. I took another sheet and began a wild scrawl:
Dear Ma and Pa. I have cut off all my hair and I’m wearing John’s clothes, the skunk. If Reverend Hale could see me now, he’d have me tied up and burned, for sure. Please tell him that I’m staying upstairs at a den of sin with many drunken men below. No, George isn’t with them, but you were right—he was a drunk and a lout. But that didn’t make me a harlot. Tell John that his dumb old knife is under the bucket in the barn, not far from where he left it. And kindly suggest to Sarah that she should, once a month, as hard as it might be, give a thought to someone other than herself. I don’t know where I’ll sleep tomorrow. Your footloose first-born, Lucy Magdalene.

When my scribbling was done, I felt better. I took the second note to the lamp and gave it to the angels to deliver, watching it burn as I held one corner. Then I shed my brother’s clothes and got into my grandfather’s flannel shirt, the one that I had slept in for years. I reached for my hairbrush and then realized I wouldn’t need it. Brushing out tangles was a chore I didn’t like, but now I felt deprived. I wanted to be home in front of the fire, sewing or darning—I didn’t care. I wanted to talk to Mary. I wanted to lie down with Helen and kiss her good-night.

This would not do. This would not do at all. A woman crying upstairs at the inn would be the end to everything. Thinking then to summon other spirits, I went into my bag and pulled out my violin. The lacquer glowed orange in the dim light. I plucked the D string for good luck.

I was eight when Father taught me to play. He told me the strings were magic, and I had seen it for myself. Father could wave that bow and make a tear roll down my face. Or he could lift me out of my chair and make me dance like a fool. Not anymore—his hands had become swollen and stiff. The violin was mine. I had even thought to offer instruction on it or in dance, as I had received training in both while at school in Coxsackie. But in Long Eddy it was hard enough to get children into the classroom to learn their letters. There was no one who would sit still for music lessons, much less pay for them. I looked at the violin and imagined the songs I might play. My tiny room could have used a little magic, but, not wishing to draw attention, I put the instrument away.

I
WOKE IN the morning to the smell of spilled beer. I was in a lumpy bed, looking again at the cobwebs—no faces there now, only spiders. I dressed, all the while aware of the letter on the table that I’d written the night before. I felt an urge to tear it up, but I put the letter in my pocket and went downstairs. After porridge at the tavern, I walked to the mail depot and posted it to Long Eddy.

Coming out of the depot, I noticed a shop across the street—a shop that sold clothes for men. I went over and peered through the glass in the door but couldn’t get myself to turn the knob. I had bought clothes in a store only twice, each time in Albany with my mother and never as a man. How was it done? I stood in place like a statue, till I thought people might be looking. If they were, they saw me leave with a purposeful step as though remembering some errand. A minute down the street I stopped to scold myself—if I were to live as a man, there would be things more difficult than this.

I returned to the shop, stepped inside, and was greeted by the smell of brushed wool. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, and as they did a young man appeared as though birthed by the clothes hanging nearby. His starched shirt was gathered gracefully above the elbow and his head was held high, as though he too were performing for some unseen audience. Might he be of service, he asked, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. I didn’t curtsy in return—just said I wanted to buy a few things. The man’s eyes traveled my body, while his face did its best to hide a grimace. Was I deserving of the clothes in his store?

The shopkeeper led me to some shelves off to the side, all the while speaking in an overly mannered way. “Would the gentleman like this? Would the gentleman prefer that?” I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to slap him.

My host sighed and gathered his patience. “Can you describe the occasion?”

Suddenly, a new truth came to me—I mustn’t hesitate when it comes to deceit. “Yes,” I said. “I’m going to visit my aunt in New York.”

With mere mention of the grand city, the man looked at me with new eyes. He took down a pair of smoke-gray britches and, from another shelf, a white shirt with a stiff collar. He handed them to me, and I went behind the curtain. When I came out, I stood before the mirror and looked at myself as I thought a man might.

As I continued to admire my new clothes, the shopkeeper fluttered about. His fingers brushed imagined dust off my shoulders. Then they went to my waist and began to wander, as though, perhaps, to assure a proper fit. I felt myself stiffen. Then his hand moved over my bottom! I nearly jumped. For a woman, this was a brash liberty; for a man, I didn’t know. In no position to make a fuss, I let the moment pass.

In less than an hour I came to own the britches, several shirts, and a pair of leather shoes. I had spent a good part of Granddad's money and might have given more thought to my shrinking purse, but I didn’t. Feeling cheerful—victorious even—I bade my nosey-hands friend good-bye and returned to the inn to collect my belongings. A short while later, dressed in my old clothes, the new ones in my bag, I set out for Honesdale, Pennsylvania, some fifty miles up what everybody was calling
the ditch
.

The barge canal ran along the east bank of the Delaware. The river was rushing with the spring rains, but the canal was calm and the towpath firm—good walking, the only dangers those left behind by the mules. I did my best to stride like a man, and it wasn’t hard, for I had done it often while hunting. The boats going in my direction were lightly loaded, but those coming the other way were filled to the brim with stone coal. As the canal had only one towpath, I was curious as to how they could pass without becoming tangled. But the etiquette was as formal as the moulinet, a dance figure we had learned at school. The boat heading for the Hudson, being burdened, moved to the far side, dropped its lines and let the lighter boat pass over, the maneuver so graceful that little time was lost by the ceding vessel and none at all by the favored one.

Midday, at a place called Monroe’s Lock, I bought some bread and cheese and found a sunny place to sit. After my meal, I reread the notice taken from the tavern:

TO ADVENTURERS!
OPPORTUNITIES IN HONESDALE!

The DELAWARE & HUDSON CANAL has opened a field for enterprise. The Subscriber offers for sale, on moderate terms, a number of lots in Honesdale. The titles are indisputable. In HONESDALE the Merchant meets his goods from New York; and there the Farmer finds a ready market for his Husbandry. The social amenities are good, and the churches are Presbyterian, Methodist, and Baptist. In each is a Sabbath School. Inquiries may be made at the office of the Subscriber, which is to be found at the Tavern in Honesdale bearing his name: Daniel Blandin

I had chosen the bill with no more thought than a page of the Bible selected by chance, yet I was obeying it with the same devotion. I was in need of a place to go, and I took this for my sign. Honesdale sounded like a town with promise, and I felt as though I knew someone there—Mr. Daniel Blandin. I folded the notice and put it away, my letter of introduction. Then, to keep myself company, I took out my violin and scraped some melodies, mostly sad ones. After several songs, a whiskered boatman appeared, bringing his mules to water. With him was a boy wearing overalls and a slouch hat.

“That’s a fine piece of fiddle playing,” said the man. “The name’s McAdams, Captain Jake McAdams. This here’s my driver, Little Nick.”

“Joseph Lobdell,” I said, rising to shake hands, as I had seen men do. I had chopped many a log on Basket Creek, so my hand was strong, but it was small. McAdams swallowed it in his sweaty paw but didn’t crush it. Our eyes met, and the captain appeared satisfied.

“Are you headed in or out?” I asked.

“Runnin’ light to Honesdale,” he said. “Be lucky to pay the feed.”

I nodded my sympathies, trying to speak no more than I had to. What words I did say, I roughed up in the back of my throat. When the captain learned I was going his way, he invited me to ride with him. A little later we stood on the deck of the
Mary Ellen
and watched the mules returned to the traces, the driver slipping the harnesses over their heads and tightening the buckles under their bellies. I was more or less doing the same with the unfamiliar belt around my waist, not quite able to find the place where it was comfortable yet would still keep my brother’s britches on my narrow hips.

Seated on a barrel nearby was a woman whose hips were anything but narrow—the captain’s wife, I thought. “That’s Martha, our cook,” said McAdams, speaking as if she were at a distance. I waited to greet her with a nod, but she didn’t turn or lift her face.

McAdams next motioned to a hatch and a steep ladder. Something told me not to go, but I didn’t know how to refuse without appearing strange. I took the ladder and watched as the sky became a small square, wondering with each step down if I were to be locked away and sold into bondage. My feet hit bottom in a dark room that smelled like vinegar. Nearby, I could see a table and a coal stove. Further on were two smaller rooms with bunks. A window high up provided a meager ration of light and air—a perfect prison.

The captain’s legs appeared on the ladder. When he got down, he turned and gave a satisfied nod. “This here’s where we all live. It can be cold and blowin’ a gale up top, but down here you’ll be snug and dry.”

I had to laugh at myself. I had read too many pirate stories as a girl. Still, I felt uneasy, and when we returned to the deck, I looked for a sheltered corner, vowing to sleep topside in any weather short of a blizzard.

As we got under way, the captain asked if I would play some tunes. I was happy to do most anything that wouldn’t require talking, so I unwrapped the violin and bowed the most cheerful melodies I knew: “Horse and the Moon,” “The Rusty Shuffle,” and “Lazy Ole Daisy.” The notes floated out into the afternoon, and for a while it seemed as though the land and the people on it were the ones in motion. The music brought smiles to those walking the towpath, and several waved or called out as we went by.