The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell (9 page)

* * *

On the morning of the Fourth, as Joseph Lobdell, I joined the parade up to the Bethany fairgrounds. The near meadow held events for children—sack races and the like. In the meadow beyond the grandstand rose like an open-sided barn, decked out in flags and banners, and filling quickly, as many were there to see Winter Wheat run in the Dyberry Derby. Lydia’s uncle Karl had a horse in the race, a filly named Sophie’s Birthday. I was curious as to how she would do against the unbeaten Pike County stallion, but I didn’t go to the track. I didn’t want to be cornered and led into conversations. Or sit where lots of people could see me. They’d get their chance later.

I walked across the great meadow to where the fire companies were laying hose back to the creek. The contest was to see who could shoot a column of water the greatest distance. For weeks, the Honesdale Fire Brigade had drilled with its new artillery piece, called, affectionately,
Le Deluge
. Confidence in the town was high, judging from the bragging at Blandin’s. The pumper required six strong men, three on each side, to push and pull the levers that forced the water out the hose. The firemen poked fun at one another as they readied their machines.

Then I saw him.

It wasn’t the first time, for I had seen David Horton about town on several occasions. He was, as Lydia had said, something to look at. His sun-darkened face was framed by sandy curls, and his shoulders were at the chin level of the two young men he was walking with. As he made his way into the crowd, I saw several young women cast glances in his direction. I turned back to watch the firemen.

The competition did not turn out as the Honesdale firemen had hoped. The Carbondale company bested the two teams before it by throwing a stream of water almost two hundred feet. But the wind that had been blowing in their favor died before the Honesdale firemen had a chance to shoot, and when they did, they came up two feet short. The Honesdale men wanted the Carbondale men to shoot again, without the wind. They wouldn’t. I heard shouts and insults.

I turned from the bad manners to see a large, red balloon rising from the field across the way. I hurried over, as I had never seen such a sight, though it wasn’t a complete surprise. The week before, the balloonist, a Mr. Henri Sinclair, had advertised that for one hundred dollars each, he would provide two fortunate souls “an experience for the ages.” Mr. Sinclair, however, had only one taker—a Honesdale storekeeper named Whitaker, who, from the comments I heard, was the very last person anyone expected to see ascending into the sky. But there he was, dressed for church and trying to smile even as the basket rose and his cheeks paled. Mr. Sinclair in leather cap leaned over the rail and waved.

I watched the balloon rise and then felt a sudden danger. I looked around and found a pair of eyes hard on me. They belonged to David Horton, a good thirty paces away and watching me as I had watched him a short hour before. Our eyes met, then others got between us. It was not a friendly moment, but what could he know? What was there to know? Had Lydia spoken of me in a way to make him resentful? Had someone else said something? Feeling unsteady, I looked up at the balloon, now floating south—Mr. Sinclair still hanging over the side. When I brought my gaze down, David Horton was not in sight.

Along with others, I walked back to the first meadow, where we were joined by those coming from the racetrack. Winter Wheat had won. Sophie’s Birthday had taken a respectable fourth. On the far side of the field, the Honesdale Guard was standing at attention in a double line. An officer on a horse trotted down the line and shouted a command to an officer in the front. That officer gave a crisp salute and turned and repeated the command to another officer, who saluted and repeated the command. Finally, a volley of musket fire rent the air, announcing the end to the morning events—the dry, sweet smell of gunpowder drifting over us. Then the Guard, in dress uniform, complete with hats and feathers, marched down the field and formed the vanguard of a ragged parade back to Honesdale.

* * *

The town square looked like a tiny village, what with all the tables and tents lining the walkways. Charities and Bible societies sold woolens, quilts, cookies, pies, and cakes—all to benefit one deserving something or another. I strolled about and smiled at the thought of Burton hiding in his house. Then I saw Lydia up ahead with her two younger sisters, stopped before a table covered with sewn dolls. I went the other way.

Early in the afternoon, picnic lunches were auctioned to benefit the orphans' home, the highest bidder not only receiving the treats within the basket but the company of the young lady who made them. Most of the girls in my older class had prepared baskets, including Lydia. I soon observed that the winner of each auction was understood from the start, the bidding only to make the young man pay a proper price for the attentions he sought.

I watched from a distance as David Horton, with just token resistance, won Lydia’s basket. They walked off together, he carrying the basket, she taking hold of his arm and laughing at some remark. I was surprised, thinking I would see at least some trace of her dissatisfaction with this young man. Nothing.

Again, I went in the opposite direction, forcing smiles as I wandered about. Had Lydia been misleading me? And if she had, why did I care? David Horton was her affair. I told myself this several times, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling of being discarded. It reminded me of a time at school when a girl with whom I shared my closest thoughts suddenly took a liking to a young man. Overnight she forgot me. It took me months to get over it, and now I had similar feelings as I watched Lydia and David walk off together. But this made no sense, because Lydia hadn’t put me aside. She liked me and, moreover, liked me as a man. And there it was. Standing in the town square, I realized that I had been playing my part so well that I was feeling a man’s resentment. I didn’t want him touching her.

* * *

The lanterns were lit as it began to get dark. Abram Stryker gamely limped onto the stage and assumed the duties of ceremony. Behind him was an assemblage of horn tooters and fiddle players, of which I was one. Stryker made some announcements and then got things started by calling several dances. After the first sweat was broken, he spoke about Honesdale’s good fortune in now having a school of music. “I would like to introduce to you a young man who has made quite an impression in his short time with us—our very own Professor of Dance, Mr. Joseph Lobdell.”

I tipped an imaginary hat to mild applause, stomped three times, and, as arranged, we began a very spirited rendition of “Cow Bell Crazy.” Everyone clapped and yelped, except one older man who danced a jig as we went flying through the piece.

“Now, folks,” I shouted. “Pick your partners; we’re goin’ to Virginia!” In a minute the lines were formed, and I called that reel and a couple more. Everyone was in good spirits, and my voice didn’t betray me. The rebellion, instead, came from my eyes. From the stage, even in the dim light, they found Lydia and David, still together. I could see every movement—each time she took his arm, laughed, or leaned on him in a playful way. She was having a perfectly wonderful time.

“Now that I’ve got some of you looking for a chair,” I said, as though I was having the most fun of anyone, “we’re going to go a little slower. Partner up, those of you who wish to dance the waltz.”

As I had arranged, some of my students took to the floor, Lydia now with Dorothy. They were joined by several older couples I didn’t know. With a nod, the band began a rehearsed but ragged version of “Laura’s Waltz.” The couples began to turn, stiffly at first but then more naturally, like whirlpools left by an oar, the grace of the dance seeming to point to the town’s bright future. Blandin stood nearby, a glass of beer in hand and a big smile on his face. I had not forgotten the day when he mocked the town’s social aspirations, but now he stood there proudly, like a dog by a box of puppies.

I thought a cheer might rise up when we finished the waltz, but as the final note faded, I heard an unhappy ripple run through the crowd. A moment later, Constable Gary rushed to the stage. Breathing hard, he informed us that a riot was taking place at the canal basin. The rail workers from Hawley had come over and drunk themselves into a mean state and were attacking people and breaking into stores and maybe even starting fires, because Gary asked for the pumper. “There are good citizens,” he said, “your neighbors, who badly need your help. I want every man to step forward!”

No one stepped forward, because that would have been the wrong direction. Instead, they began to move quickly toward the canal. I handed my violin to Abram Stryker and followed with no idea of what I thought I would do when I got there. Then someone called my name. I turned and saw Blandin, a half-block away. Using his big voice he asked if I would go over to the tavern and stay with Damon. I waved and turned downtown, happy for a task. At the tavern, I found Damon, guarding the door like a piece of grizzle—plug in his jaw, a rusty musket across his lap and a big coon grin on his face that was maybe meant to scare people.

“Do you have powder and wadding for that?” I asked, looking at his unconvincing weapon.

Damon spat on the floor and kept grinning. “If it were pointed at you, would you bet that I didn’t?”

From the tavern we could hear the commotion down by the canal. It was, by all accounts, a nasty event but not a long one. Once the men of the town appeared in strength, the rioters quickly got the worst of it. Some were bloodied and arrested. Others ran away. Many of the town’s defenders then found their way to Blandin’s, which had been closed during the festivities. With them came Jimmy Lawson, on his own feet but kept upright by a man on either side. Jimmy was bleeding from a terrible gash on his head and another on his shoulder. I cleared a table and looked at Damon. “Get me a clean cloth and a bottle of whiskey.”

Jimmy was laid on the table while someone ran to get Doc Richardson. Damon returned, and I soaked the cloth with whiskey and began to clean the ragged wounds, no doubt the work of a broken bottle.

“Joseph, my boy,” said Jimmy, flinching a little, “you have the touch of a woman.” There was laughter, and I looked at my hands, slender and smooth against his rough skin.

“Is that so?” I said, pulling the wound apart and pouring whiskey straight into the shoulder. Jimmy let out a yell, and there was laughter again.

Doc Richardson came through the door, already bloody from the evening’s work. Jimmy took a look at Doc’s black bag, grabbed the whiskey, and took several heroic swallows. Doc told Jimmy to lie still, poured some more whiskey into the wounds, and then dug deep with needle and thread. When the sewing was over, Jimmy got up, belched, and, with his good arm, slapped Doc on the back as a thank-you. Then, with great energy, the oral application of whiskey having taken effect, he told his tale of the riot.

I
MOVED THE chairs as though to sweep the floor, but the floor didn’t need sweeping.

“Did you have a pleasant time on the Fourth?” I asked.

“I suppose,” said Lydia, not looking up from the paper.

“You and David certainly seemed to be having good time.”

“Yes.” Lydia kept reading.

“What did you talk about?”

“What do you think?” she said putting the paper aside. “We talked about what people talk about.”

I didn’t like the manner. We didn’t have to do the lesson. But before I could end the day, Lydia stood up. “Joseph,” she said brightly, as though a new person had jumped into her skin, “Mother asked me to invite you to dinner this week. Will you come?”

This sudden change and the invitation that came with it caught me off balance. Dinner at Lydia’s house? It wasn’t a good idea. I should have pleaded my duties at Blandin’s, but something else came out. “And do
you
want me to come, Miss Watson?”

“Of course,” she said, as though I had imagined her evasions. “What’s got into you?”

* * *

The Watsons’ white house stood at the near end of Bethany village. A large porch guarded the front, and its stairs creaked as I went up, each one warning against my visit. Emily Watson answered the door, a reserved, handsome woman with her daughter’s dark features. I took the hand she offered, bent at the waist, and looked up into a pair of familiar green eyes. Mrs. Watson invited me in and called upstairs to Lydia, bringing forth instead Lydia’s sisters, Beth and Julia. Each sought to claim me.

“Let Professor Lobdell be,” said Mrs. Watson. “Next year you can be in his class.”

Lydia appeared on the stairs like a princess in gingham. She gave a playful curtsy and led me into the parlor where Mrs. Watson joined us. I was a little stiff, but Lydia and her mother did their best to make me feel at home. Helping was the aroma of roasting meat and the prospect of food cooked only once and not many times like that served at Blandin’s.

We chatted about the season and the music school. “I had hoped,” said Mrs. Watson, “that you would bring the violin so we might hear you play.”

“Mother!” said Lydia. “Professor Lobdell is our guest.”

Mrs. Watson threw a look at her daughter and turned back to me with a smile. “Forgive me. It’s just that we did so enjoy your playing on the Fourth.”

“For as long as that lasted,” I said, hoping that the unpleasantness could now be laughed at.

Not by Mrs. Watson. “Such a disgrace,” she said, no doubt speaking words that had been said many times that week in the finer homes in Bethany. Down at Blandin’s, the brawl was a merry topic, as though it had been one of the planned events.

Lydia’s father came into the room. His determined eyes and scarred hands pointed to the days, now gone, when he would skid the logs himself. But how does a man who subdues forests receive one who teaches girls to dance? Henry Watson didn’t seem to know. He gave the smallest greeting, nodding his head but not offering his hand. The awkward moment was saved by the Watsons’ housekeeper, who came in to announce the dinner.