The Siren's Tale (11 page)

Besides Widow Brown, there was another native who was sure
Clare's bridegroom was up to no good.

Caleb Scattergood, Clare's
self-appointed knight in shining armor (and a disappointed suitor for Miss Brighton's hand), was alerted to possible trouble on First Fire Night, when Horatio Nelson, in wandering home in the dark, took refuge in his wagon. The frightened and tired boy spilled to the coal miner what he had seen: his mistress and the innkeeper deep in conversation, outlined in the light of the bonfire at Mill's Creek. 

Now, Widow Brown's reaction to Horatio's story was to hex the evil woman
who was preventing the rightful nuptials. Caleb's was to focus attention on the wavering ways of the bridegroom. But, his daily life as a coal miner was not conducive to being a spy. To keep an eye on Drake for Clare, he would need to go into business for himself. It occurred to him he might re-open his father's old ice business.  

The Indians say that while the cow runs away from an approaching storm, the buffalo charges directly at it and thus gets through the sto
rm more quickly. The following week, the coal man became an ice man and, by metaphoric extension, a buffalo. 

Monday, Caleb tendered his resignation
to the mine operator in New Gillette, who was very sorry to see his best worker go. Tuesday, he negotiated a business loan on the strength of a handshake at the fledgling Farmers Bank. Wednesday, he exchanged his cart for a much larger wagon, suitable for venturing high up into the mountains and finding summer ice for harvesting. Thursday, when he drove his wagon into Alta and called on Widow Brighton, she was only too glad to become his first account for ice delivery. She also offered her former ranch-hand shelter in a herder's shed, at the far end of the Brighton Grange, to stay in when he was in town.   

“
Thank you kindly, ma'am. I will do so until I am on my feet.”

“
It won't be long before you are a success, Caleb. I'm sure of that.”

As the Widow predic
ted, Caleb's ice business was thriving within a month. On a beautiful, sunny mid-November day, he finished calling on the list of new clients, which was growing by leaps and bounds. He sat outside his hut, a faint smile on his lips, but it was not his improved prospects that made him happy. He was reading Clare's letter to him, dated December 21, 1899.  

“
…I like and respect you very much, Caleb. I always put you near my cousin Nicholas in my admiration. But it wouldn't be right for me to keep you in suspense. I hope I will soon be married to Mr. Drake. My feelings on this page are naked as an Indian. I'll count on your honor I will never regret having confided in you. Your faithful friend, Miss Clare Brighton.”

Caleb
reverently returned the letter to his jacket pocket and then he took the only pleasure he allowed himself in his abstemious life: he masturbated.

Afterward, he
checked the placement of the sun in the western sky, put on his stoutest walking shoes, and set out in the direction of Hatter’s Field. 

He had been going through this
same ritual every evening for a week, prior to spying on the couple whose anti-social passion was thwarting his beloved's happiness. As the Brighton women were convinced Clare must have her wedding to keep the family's good name intact, dogged Caleb had no choice but to make sure she got just that. The agony of being Beauty's dog was not lost on him; he was in a glum mood as he descended the path from the Grange onto the roadway and moved along the long, flat portion of Hatter’s Field and then upward toward a glen that was near the Hat but secluded from view.

Hearing approaching voices, he bolted to the far side of the glen and hid, crouching between
a holly bush and a rickety wooden well-house, where crude initials had been carved by lovers on the boards. That evening, because of the wind's direction, he could hear Cassandra and her lover perfectly. Drake was first to speak.

“
If you knew why I have come, you would not have kept me waiting.”

“
What has happened?  Are you in some trouble?”

“
Matters have come to a head with Clare. I must steer a clear course, and I wish to consult you.”

“
Me? You must be mad!” 

Cassandra's
voice, when she next spoke, was haughty and cold. “Then marry the insipid fool for her fortune and be done with it. She is much more your type than I am.” 

“
You know that is untrue, damn you. I’m in a fix is all I’m trying to tell you.”

“
Where is she?”

“
To avoid gossip, at the Grange, and I am blamed for her seclusion. Now the old bitch is demanding the wedding take place before her son returns at Thanksgiving. She is putting pressure on me by—well, never mind about that.”

“
Ha! So the widow's planning a family feast, and you are to be the carved turkey.  What do you want me to do about it?”

There was a pause, then Cassandr
a began again. “You come here grinding on Clare's reputation. But, if you really cared about her, you wouldn’t be talking with me. You do love me best, don’t you?  Admit it!”  

“
I'll admit this much: I never want to lose you, even if the going gets rough.”

“
I agree. I would hate for love’s course to always be smooth.”

“
No fear of that,” he groaned.

“
What clear course were you speaking of earlier, Curly?”

“
Frailty, thy name is woman! Why, taking you away from this hellhole, of course. Eloping and marrying. We spoke of it before.”

“
But why the rush? I told you I would give you my answer at Thanksgiving. I need more time to consider. I had not thought of marrying anyone.”

“
Well, the situation is different now.”

“
Explain how.”

“
If I do, it will only irritate you.”

“
But I must know the reason. What has changed?”

“
Not my passion for you, if that is what you think.”

“
I think no such thing. But why are you acting like a beaten dog?”

“
If I am, I’m not aware of it. But no matter. How did Shakespeare say it? All’s well that ends well. Widow Brighton—but hang her.  Her shenanigans are nothing to me, and certainly they are nothing new.”

“
Ah, I might have guessed the Brighton women were involved. Tell me what has been said, truthfully. I don’t like your holding back.”

“
Nothing, really. Only the Widow says she wants me to declare myself broken off with Clare. It seems someone else is anxious to be her husband. Now the Widow don’t need me, she feels free to spit in my face. How I hate that woman!”

Th
e silence lengthened. Cassandra spoke in a low tone: “They have the upper hand. You are a bridegroom who is no longer needed.”

“
But I haven’t even spoken with the young woman I am being asked to renounce!”

“
You are upset by this turn of events.”

“
I deny it. But even if you're right, what difference does it make?”

“
What difference? Suddenly you cannot have Clare, so you make unreasonable demands on me. Am I the woman whose love you want so passionately you would deny yourself a secure future and reputation? Or am I a party of convenience, a second prize you carry off while licking your wounds?  And to Scotland, of all places!”

“
For the love of God, Cassie, how you twist things around!”

“
Me? Haven’t you been twisting two women around your little finger and enjoying every minute of it? And now you find you have overplayed your hand, you expect me to drop everything and run off with you! My mother married in a rush, and she came to a sad end.”

“
But lass, I proposed the same thing yesterday, and even before that, weeks ago. I was eager to run off with you before I found anything out about Clare's other suitor. You are the one who has been dragging your feet lately. What has changed?”

She was silent.
 

“
My own darling,” said Drake, “will you agree to go with me right now and marry me?  Say yes.”

“
I don’t know. Scotland, or somewhere in Europe, what are we talking about here? If it could be San Francisco or Saratoga, instead of a foreign country, then surely I would go with you. Well, I will think it over. It is too great a change to decide offhand. I wish I hated this place less, or loved you more. Then it would be easier to decide.”

“
A month ago, you loved me enough to go anywhere with me.”

“
A month ago, you loved Clare enough to marry her. The only change is you no longer can get her with a snap of your fingers.”

“
Not true. The Widow is trying to railroad me into moving faster and getting her out of a pinch. Come on, lass, don’t be difficult. If you don’t agree to go with me, and quickly, I will go and leave you both behind.”

“
Oh, threats now. If you only knew the trouble I see ahead for us…”

A
fter that, the wind changed, and Caleb was only able to hear bits and pieces of their conversation until the wind veered back again. By then the debate had devolved into passionate sex. When the guttural sounds of their lovemaking reached Caleb, he could not help himself. He unbuttoned the flap on his trousers and stroked his engorged penis as he listened. Finally they were finished, and so was he.

Drake said:
“No later than the night before Thanksgiving, Cassandra, for your answer. I will signal with stones at your window.”

“
We will meet here at the well-house. My grandfather may be dining in. Oh no, you must not touch me there. Scotland is so far off,” she fretted. “I thought of escaping to San Francisco, where it is ever so gay. Will you walk with me a little?” 

Her last words faded, as she was beginning a descent from the hideaway, wi
th Drake following. Caleb was not able to hear any more.  He came out from behind the holly bushes and stared after them. The arm-in-arm figures sank and disappeared into the darkness. Then he walked back to his hut and sat on the three-legged stool, slack-jawed and dejected.

I dare not tell my lover about my dire visions of the future. His pressing me for a marriage decision because of the Widow's ploy was a most unwanted complication. I willed Curly to stay away from me while I decided what to do. 

Day after day, while I paced the floor, my
grandfather asked no questions, only drank his rum. From time to time he would refill a square glass bottle from flagons of Pusser's Rum purchased from the Plush Horse. Whenever his supplies were exhausted, he would go there and tell tall tales of the sea in an attempt to win over the dour native sons. Then he would return home, a bit the worse for wear.

As Grandfather often said, the way women's minds worked was an unsolvable mystery to him, and so we rarely talked when I was vexed. I was therefore surprised when he spoke up one day, as we sat down to a supper of parsnips and roast duck.

“I suppose you have…have heard the news,” he said tipsily.

“
I’ve heard nothing,” I said absently.

“
The natives are talking about it as though it were a matter of…national importance,” said grandfather with a hiccough. “Nicholas Brighton, the son of the Widow, is coming home to spend the…holidays. He is quite the fine fellow now, an accountant in the gold trade with a college degree in assaying. I s'pose you…'member him?”

“
Not at all. I never saw him in my life.”

“
Oh, yes. Brighton left before you arrived. I met him a few times; he seemed a promising enough chap, very earnest. Not your type…I wouldn't think.”

I yawned.
“Where has he been living all this time?”

“
San Francisco -- the capital, as they say here, of all that is sinful and vain.”

Grandfather gave an
uproarious laugh. He did not agree at all with the native assessment of the raucous port city. Neither did I. I had long desired to live there. Abruptly I kissed him and went up to bed, though I didn't sleep. I was aroused by a lively curiosity about the returning native who lived in San Francisco. I stayed awake for some time, conjuring the possibility of an alternative scheme for a triumphant exit from Alta. 

At the crack of dawn, I was awakened by a great hubbub outside my window. I stumbled out of bed and ran outdoors. Our outhouse, which lay close to the pond, was burning up; the smoke was pouring into the sky. My grandfather was sitting on the ground in burned long johns, howling in pain and screeching imprecations at the top of his lungs. Villagers who had been riding by and had seen the smoke were there, throwing pails of water onto the fire.

It was generally known that when the Captain took his morning constitutional, he lit a match to butcher paper and threw it down the hole.