The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell (3 page)

The captain liked the playing well enough, but once it was done, he was ready to talk. “You been on the ditch before?” he asked. I shook my head. “Well, she’s a hunert miles from Kingston to Honesdale. The
Mary Ellen
carries ninety tons and needs only five foot of water.” The captain then mentioned some recent trouble—the canal company had tried to lower the hauling fee. “Most the free owners like myself refused to carry,” he said, spitting overboard. “A bunch of us dressed like Indians jumped a company boat near Wurtsboro. Lit her on fire. You should’ve seen it when the flames reached the coal dust—blew like she was carrying gunpowder.”

I paid my fare that afternoon by giving the captain half an ear, making the occasional nod as he told his stories, all the while imagining conversations taking place at home. I had never been hunting for more than two days running. They would worry as it got dark—my letter wouldn’t arrive for another day. In the meantime, with his bad legs, Father couldn’t go looking for me, and I doubted my brother John would even bother.

A sudden silence from Captain McAdams interrupted my drift. His attention was forward, and I turned to see three piers of stone rising out of the river. It was a bridge of some kind, but not like one I’d ever seen. It had curved shapes and high walls, as though it were the guarded gateway to a lord’s castle. But there was no castle, only the bridge, lit up by a sun now low in the sky—forest and mountain on one side, forest and field on the other. And the two figures at the end, who might have been footmen with pikes, were, instead, old men with fishing poles. I looked back at the captain. “What is it?”

“Mr. Roebling’s Bridge,” he said proudly, “and we’re goin’ over it.”

I wasn’t sure I had heard him right, for I had never seen a bridge that carried one river of water over another. But when we got closer, I saw it was true, though I didn’t know how it was done. McAdams was bragging on how the bridge had to carry not only the barge and its tons of cargo but the weight of all the water needed to float that boat some thirty feet above the river. According to him, the whole thing was hanging by wire rope. I knew that couldn’t be true, but before I could think more on it, the towpath changed from dirt to oak plank, and the hooves echoed loudly as the mules pulled the boat out over the Delaware. By then I didn’t care if angels were holding it up, as I was seeing the bridge in a whole new way—one life of mine on the near shore, an entirely new one on the far.

H
ONESDALE WAS NOT the polite place I had imagined—certainly the canal basin wasn’t. Dead rats floated in the black water. It stank. On the wharf men were shouting and cursing as they hauled carts and stacked crates. I jumped off the
Mary Ellen
and had taken but ten steps when I was shoved aside by a man carrying a large sack. “Watch your arse!”

Compared to Port Jervis, Honesdale seemed the more roughly hewn, though, as I would discover, it was better in two respects—the number of drinking halls and their signs. Over every tavern door were brightly painted boards with seafaring expressions and short poetical works.
The seaworn sailor here will find / the porter good, the treatment kind.
One portrayed a canal boat next to a flagon of beer.
This is the ship that never sailed / this is the mug that never failed.

The notice that I’d taken in Port Jervis directed me to Blandin’s Tavern on Main Street, a block east of the basin and a more respectable avenue. The tavern stood proud on the corner of Fourth, and, like the others, its motto hung by the door.

’Twas thus the Royal mandate ran,
When first the human race began;
The friendly social, honest man,
What’re he be,
’Tis he fulfills great Nature’s plan,
and none but he.

I blinked and read it again, never having seen the problem so briefly put. None but
he
, indeed!

I stepped through the swinging door and was greeted by a sour smell that I remembered from the tavern in Port Jervis. At several tables men were drinking and talking in afternoon voices, but I went unnoticed except for the man rinsing glasses behind the bar. He looked at me without expression and went back to his work as though I were a fish not worth the bother. I took a breath, approached, and at the last moment the barkeep looked up with a questioning eye, as though he’d been watching me the whole time.

“I’m looking for Mr. Daniel Blandin,” I said, herding the words like sheep.

The man took his time wiping a glass and then threw his chin toward a table in the back. “He’d be over there.”

The master of the house was a large man with thick eyebrows and thinning reddish hair. With him were two others, talking and laughing. Not knowing what to do, I stayed where I was and asked for a beer. When it came, I held the mug tightly and tried to look as though I had done this many times. But simply holding the beer wouldn’t do, so after what I judged a proper moment, I raised the glass. My first few swallows disappointed. I had imagined that the enthusiasm surrounding the drink would somehow be reflected in its taste.

When the two men rose to leave, I took my beer and walked up to the table. “Mr. Blandin?”

The man looked up, pleasant enough. “And who might you be, lad?”

“Joseph Lobdell, sir.” My hand wanted to reach for the paper in my pocket, but I spoke of it instead. “I saw a bill bearing your name in Port Jervis.”

Mr. Blandin smiled. “I’m afraid you’re a little late if you’re looking to purchase a property on Main.”

“I’m not. I’m not here to purchase land.”

A twist of surprise showed on the man’s face. “What then? You’re not here to load coal, that’s for sure.” He let go a laugh, and I felt funny in the knees. My life as a man was near its end—that seemed clear. I wondered if I might turn and run out of the place, but what good would that have done? I’d just have to keep running. There wasn’t much to do except spit it out.

“Well, sir,” I said in a tin voice, “your notice spoke of social amenities, and I am a music teacher. I seek to open a school to instruct young people in the art of dancing. I thought you might offer me some direction.”

Mr. Blandin put his mug hard to the table and coughed as though the beer hadn’t gone down right. “Dancing?” he finally said. “Does this look like a ladies’ shop?”

“I’ve made a mistake,” I said, glancing about for a path to the door. “I’ll go.”

“Not so fast,” said the tavern keeper. “I like to get to know my guests.”

I didn’t like the sound of this, and as my host looked me up and down, I felt like a mouse cornered by a cat—a cat more eager for entertainment than for a meal. The man’s eye then came upon my bag and the neck of the violin sticking out. “Can you play that?”

A hesitant nod was all I could manage. Mr. Blandin folded his arms and gave the order. “Do it.”

I took the violin from my bag and brought it to my chin with the small hope it would buy my freedom. Had I been asked to sing, I couldn’t have hit one true note in five. But the strings felt no fear, and my fingers knew their way in the dark. I played “Brennan on the Moor,” and when I stopped, every head was turned.

Mr. Blandin rose. “Well done!” he said, giving me a hearty clap on the back. I felt the binding wrap loosen. “Have you eaten?”

“No, sir,” I said, holding myself so as to not come undone. “Not since morning.”

The tavern keeper motioned for me to take a chair. The noise of conversation returned to the room as I looked about in disbelief. My father had spoken true—the strings really could cast a spell. Moments before, I’d been laughed at. Now I was a guest. Dizzy from the reversal of fortune, I grasped the chair’s edge as I sat.

My host called over his shoulder for two bowls of stew. Then he asked where I was from. I pulled myself straight and said that I was from a town near Albany, where I had studied music. Two steaming bowls were set before us, and Mr. Blandin dipped his bread into the gravy.

“A dancing school,” he said, nodding slowly. “Might work. People seem to need all kinds of things these days.”

Had I heard him right? My face must have asked its own question, for Blandin bent forward and lowered his voice. “I’ll let you in on a little something. A few years back, Bethany was county-town here in Wayne, but then Honesdale took it from Bethany, and I confess I had a little somethin’ to do with it.”

The man swallowed some more beer, while I pursed my lips and nodded as though I knew what he was talking about. Then he spoke in a near whisper.

“But living among us, there are some who believe that Honesdale will continue to its destiny, overtake Harrisburg, and govern all of Pennsylvania. They imagine grand occasions with guests arriving in fancy carriages. So you’ll have a clientele, son, as long as people have high ideas, which I think we can depend upon.”

Mr. Blandin speared a small potato and brought it to his mouth, where it vanished in a single swallow. “Now, what won’t be so easy,” he said, “is finding a proper hall. But there must be something. I’ll ask around.”

“That’s very kind,” I said, still not entirely sure if he were serious or making fun of me.

A wave of Blandin’s hand said the favor was of no consequence. He pulled his chair closer. “Now let’s you and I discuss a little business of our own.”

I imitated his gesture and leaned toward him. What could our business be?

“Not long ago, we sadly lost our piano player,” he said, looking over to a dusty piano in the corner. “So you might like to come by in the evening and play a few songs on the fiddle. I’d give you dinner. It wouldn’t be first-pickin’s, but you’d be fed.”

Surprised and pleased, I accepted the offer. I then asked if there were a simple place to stay nearby.

“You could stay here,” he said, motioning toward a stair. “A dollar a week, two with breakfast. The room ain’t large, but it’s yours alone. Sheets every three weeks.”

“I would like to stay here,” I said. An approving nod was followed by a handshake. An older man named Damon took me upstairs.

As promised, the room was small—bed, table, and window. I pulled aside the curtain. Over the building behind, I could see the barges lined up on the far side of the basin. Beyond them were mountainous piles of stone coal. I couldn’t see where the coal was being loaded, but I could hear the rattle as it ran down the chutes.

Damon left, and as the door closed behind him, it revealed a mirror that seemed to have a history. Its frame was scorched, and a crack ran up the glass. The left side offered a true image; the right produced a reflection you might see in broken water. I stood before the good half and ran my fingers through my hair, missing my brown curls as though someone had stolen them. My face looked undressed. While growing up, I had waited for it to become round and full, like the faces of the pretty girls I knew. It didn’t. It stayed angular. This was now helpful, perhaps, in my deception, though my smooth skin made me look more like a boy than a man. I considered not washing my face for a while and then thought of rubbing in a little coal dust, a ready supply on the windowsill.

I
WAS TIRED and the bed beckoned, but rather than rest, I decided to take what was left of the day and explore the world beyond Mr. Blandin’s Tavern. I redid my wrap and put on the shirt and britches I had purchased in Port Jervis. The new clothes added a month or two to my twenty-five years. I felt respectable.

I left my room, walked down the stairs and out the door to discover the Honesdale that might imagine itself an important town. There were stores of every kind on lower Main Street. They all had painted signs as one might expect, but most didn’t need them because they had large windows that showed what there was inside to buy. Farther up, I came upon a hotel, several churches, and a red brick courthouse on the town square with its walkways and benches. I sat on one and watched people pass by, trying to guess at their troubles or schemes. No one gave me any notice, a good measure of my disguise, but after a time, I began to think about home. My letter had arrived by now, and I could almost see the looks and hear the words as though I were in the room—John, Sarah, and Mother voicing their outrage, each of them secretly glad I was gone; Father shaking his head but saying nothing unkind; Helen and Mary looking lost and betrayed. I vowed to make it right to them when I could.

In the failing light a man approached, his hat pulled low. I near fell off the bench when I recognized my scoundrel husband, George. Had he run away to this very town? It wasn’t him, of course, only my busy mind, which wasn’t a bit embarrassed to be proved wrong but went ahead and imagined George passing by anyway. In this drama, I would follow him and witness his dissolutions in some saloon. It wouldn’t be all that entertaining, not that part of it, but after things had gone on a while, I would go up to him and start a conversation, watching with great interest his drunken confusion as the man he was talking to turned into his former beloved. That might cure him.

* * *

George Slater was not my first boyfriend. That honor belonged to William Smith, who would walk with me after school when we lived in Westerlo. Not for long. Father put a stop to it, saying I was too young for
romances
. I hadn’t even considered it a romance, but Father’s meddling made it one. For a while, William and I left little notes to each other under a particular rock.

After Mr. Smith, there was Henry St. John. I was fifteen then, and this I did consider a romance, but it bloomed for only a few months. He fell ill. After he had taken to his bed, I wasn’t allowed to see him for fear I’d get the cough, so we smuggled short letters by way of his sister. Then one cold afternoon she brought a note written in a bad hand. “You are my treasured memory,” it read; “Pray for my soul.” A week later I watched them lower his box into the ground. I was shattered, certain he was my one true love, his being taken from me somehow proof of that. But spring came and then summer. No one spoke of Henry, and his memory slowly became more a sadness than a sorrow. By then, there was George Slater.

He was a pretty boy with dark hair that fell over a troubled brow. He thought this or that about everything, not shy during our walks after school. I found his brash opinions entertaining, not seeing that most of his stories had to do with some clever trick he had played or some injustice done him. I was young, and to me, he seemed like a poet set upon by cruel fate—his mother was dead and his father a drunk.