Читать книгу The Bucket Flower - Donald R. Wilson - Страница 10

The next few days slipped by too quickly. She was reminded of the weekends during her senior year at Wellesley. Life had been a merry-go-round of parties and dances, and the moods of both the young ladies and the gentlemen had been light and carefree. But now her outlook was different from the others. While everyone should have time out to play, more serious matters needed to be addressed. Mama had said this was a man’s world. Women who allowed themselves to be confined to the strict, customary roles were contributing to that ancient tradition. She admired women like Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Julia Ward Howe. Other women like Susan B. Anthony and Carrie Nation worked toward prohibition, women’s suffrage, and other rights for women. But even more than these ladies, she revered professional women like her mentor, Alice Katherine Adams, who was among the first women to attain a doctoral degree. Even fewer women were like Dr. Adams, a professional who was also married and had children. Custom was against a woman becoming educated, achieving professional status, and raising a family if she chose. Was she expecting too much of herself by aiming for that goal? She decided she was not. Now was the time for her to get on with her reason for being here.

Another worry was Aunt Sarah. After her return from the Oklawaha trip, she remained confined to her room for the next two days. Her aunt pooh-poohed all concerns for her health and reassured her that she was just overtired. True to her promise, she was up and around again on the third day, but still looking pale.

Planning the immediate future was imperative. Without telling anyone, she assessed the three gentlemen, looking for that male companion who might escort her into Florida’s interior. The excursion up the Oklawaha had helped her determine which gentleman was to be her partner on the trip into the Big Cypress Swamp. No one was capable of holding a candle to Mary’s Michael Otis, of course, but at least one of them might qualify as an acceptable escort to accompany her down the Fakahatchee River. Her decision had to be made soon, since they had to leave before Mr. Cushing arrived.

Of the three, Mr. Everett ranked as her favorite, perhaps because he was also from Boston and they had much in common. But Mr. Everett, in addition to being from a good family, was a gentleman and very kind. His assertiveness on their river trip, and his agreeableness toward inviting their family members to join the “St. Augustine Six” impressed her.

It took several days to confront Mr. Everett alone, but at last she managed to corner him in the garden before dinner. “Would you like to take a trip across Florida with me, Mr. Everett?” she asked. She was horrified; the phrasing wasn’t at all like she had practiced.

He stared open-mouthed at her proposal and then finally spoke. “What a courageous idea! It’s an honor to be asked to escort you across Florida, but unfortunately I’m going to Europe with my parents in a little over two weeks. Then I must be in Newport for the season.” He appeared to be disappointed.

She was stunned. She hadn’t considered that he might have other plans. She felt the redness rising up her neck as she mumbled an embarrassed apology and hurried into the dining room to have dinner with Aunt Sarah. Her aunt told her she had received a telegram from Papa confirming Edward Cushing’s arrival in Jacksonville on one of Oceanic’s ships in three days. Until this moment, her ideas about a trip across the state were hypothetical. Now she was determined to break away, even if it meant going alone.

The number of guests at the hotel, which had never been overflowing thanks to the panic on Wall Street, was even fewer now as the season came to a close. Still looking for an escort, she made her plans without informing Aunt Sarah. Mr. Davis was also a good candidate—intelligent, full of fun and adventure. But she asked him what his immediate plans were before revealing her own. Mr. Davis, she was disappointed to learn, was leaving for a family gathering in Saratoga in the morning followed by an excursion to the Chicago World’s Fair.

That left the enigmatic Mr. Bolton, of whom she expected little—not that he wasn’t a gentleman, but he was quiet, and she had difficulty knowing what he was thinking. On the trip up the Oklawaha, he had worked with the Negro at the boiler, a positive quality. He had been almost as frenetic as Henrietta Thompson when there had been mosquitoes around. Nevertheless, he was her last hope. She waited for a favorable moment to speak to Mr. Bolton alone. She came up to him in the grand foyer while Aunt Sarah was on the far side of the room making arrangements for the handling of their trunks. Her aunt had agreed to leave St. Augustine before Mr. Cushing arrived.

“Mr. Bolton, when Aunt Sarah heads north tomorrow, I plan to travel across the peninsula to Fort Myers, and I will require an escort. I was wondering if you might be willing to favor me with your company. We would observe all the social proprieties, of course.” Approaching a gentleman in such a fashion was embarrassing, especially a second time, and her words sounded stilted.

He looked at her without expression, making it difficult to predict his response. Then, to her satisfaction, he said, “Yes, Miss Sprague, I’d be delighted to accompany you, and naturally we will observe all the social proprieties.” Surely he realized that for two unattached persons of opposite sexes to be traveling across the state together was highly improper. “There is just one thing,” he added.

“Yes, Mr. Bolton, what is it?”

“I’m a little short of cash until I get back to Baltimore.”

“No need to concern yourself, Mr. Bolton,” she said. “I can extend you a loan until we return.” She was disappointed that it had come to this, but in effect, she was paying for him to accompany her. He hesitated, and it looked as if he had something else to say. She waited.

“I wonder if you could make me an advance to settle up my hotel bill.” His eyes darted about as if he were embarrassed to have to reveal to a lady his lack of funds.

After Aunt Sarah had gone back to her room, she told the clerk that there had been a change in plans and to have two of her trunks put on the train through Palatka to Tampa instead of New York. The day before she had shipped her botanical equipment to the Hotel Hendry in Fort Myers, hoping that by now Dr. Worthington had received a telegram from Mr. Flagler. Fortunately the train to Palatka was scheduled to leave before Aunt Sarah’s train headed north. She had asked Mr. Bolton to meet her on the train.

Deceiving Aunt Sarah was hateful. The dear lady had been so kind and patient, but there was no way for her aunt to allow her niece to go off on her own with a male escort. In the note she planned to leave at the hotel desk at the last minute, she thanked Aunt Sarah for accompanying her to Florida, apologized for running away, and explained her reasons.

The next morning she told her aunt that she wanted to say good-bye to a few friends and thereby needed to take a separate carriage to the railway depot.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Aunt Sarah. “This is the strangest thing. I received a letter from your father, and in it he included a check for you for twenty-five dollars. Without any further explanation he said the check was for your allowance. Also, this telegram came for you last night.”

“Maybe Papa has come around to accept my decision about Mr. Cushing,” she said as she opened the telegram.

ELIZABETH.

SINCE YOU ARE INCAPABLE OF HANDLING YOUR INHERITANCE FROM HUBERT JACKSON, I HAVE ARRANGED TO BECOME TRUSTEE OF YOUR ACCOUNT UNTIL YOU CAN PROVE YOU HAVE RETURNED TO YOUR SENSES. I WILL SEND YOU A MONTHLY ALLOWANCE OF TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS THROUGH YOUR AUNT SARAH.

WALTER HARRISON SPRAGUE

She numbly handed the telegram to her aunt. “Oh! Aunt Sarah! How could he do this? It’s my money, and I’m of age.”

“Probably it was very easy, dear. All he had to do, I suppose, was convince a friendly judge at his club that you are incompetent and have himself named as your guardian.”

“By ‘returning to my senses,’ he means when I agree to marry Edward Cushing.”

Aunt Sarah sighed. “Yes. In all my born days I’ve never heard of such a despicable act. I’m ashamed to say he’s my brother.”

“What am I to do now?” She collapsed into a chair, unable to stop the tears. “I can’t afford to complete my master’s thesis. I can’t travel on twenty-five dollars a month.” She realized that Edward Cushing’s expected arrival the following day was no coincidence and felt the walls closing in around her. The one hundred dollars she had loaned to Mr. Bolton had left her almost penniless and stranded without being able to tap her inheritance.

Her aunt sat down beside her. “I have money, dear. Not a lot of it, but I can make you a loan until all this is straightened out.”

“I will not agree to marry Mr. Cushing.”

“I know. I can write you a check for four hundred dollars. If you need more, I will be able to send it to you wherever you may be. Send me a letter at Arlington Street telling me where you are, and I’ll keep your secret.”

She looked up. Aunt Sarah was smiling. Her aunt knew. “Aunt Sarah, I didn’t want to deceive you.”

“I know, dear. During unusual times a body has to do unusual things. It’s better that I know nothing more. But I will see to it that your third trunk is shipped back to Boston.”

She stood and hugged her aunt.

After departing from breakfast early, she picked up her valise and took a carriage to the train. She boarded a sooty car like the one they had ridden to Palatka one week earlier. Mr. Bolton must be in the other car and would come searching for her once the train was moving.

Nervously waiting for the train to start, she looked out the window, half expecting that Aunt Sarah had changed her mind and was coming after her. She breathed a sigh of relief as the train jerked forward. Mr. Bolton was not among the other passengers in this car. One row behind her on the opposite side sat an older man, mostly bald, whose remaining hair and mustache were a reddish-gray. He was staring at her and did not look away when she noticed. Wishing Mr. Bolton was already beside her she placed her valise on the seat to prevent a stranger from sitting there.

She reached into the valise for The Biography of Charles Darwin to hold as if reading. She hoped to look nonchalant. She had started the book at the hotel. Her hand closed around an unfamiliar object, which made her look into the bag. To her astonishment, she held in her hand a small, chrome-plated gun. It had to be Aunt Sarah’s double-barreled derringer. How it came to be among her possessions she had no idea. Then she saw the envelope. Inside was a note. It read:

May 7, 1893

Dear Elizabeth,

I understand why you are running away, but I cannot fathom how you have found so much courage to do it. I wish you safe journey. I have done everything in my power to keep you safe. Mr. Moses Gallagher is a reliable man.

Your father will be more favorably disposed toward his sister if it appears as if I had known nothing about any of this.

Love,

Aunt Sarah

P.S. Have you sent your reply to Mr. Cushing yet?

She looked at the derringer again. The chrome-plated weapon was so small she could cover it with her hands. The twin barrels were over one another instead of side-by-side as one would expect. Hunting through the valise for any other unexpected gifts, she found none. She read the note again. Aunt Sarah hadn’t explained who Mr. Gallagher was. The dear lady had known about her niece’s plans and had not attempted to stop her. She felt as if she had underestimated her aunt from the start and was embarrassed that it had taken so long to discover what a good friend she had.

Inside her valise she had pinned the name of the botanist in Fort Myers that Mr. Flagler had promised to contact, Dr. Worthington. Mr. Flagler, being the busy business tycoon that he was, had probably forgotten to send the telegram as he had promised.

Mr. Gallagher remained a mystery.

Where was Mr. Bolton? Had he missed the train? Continuing on alone was not a pleasant prospect, but she was determined to meet Dr. Worthington and get a clear picture of the situation in the Big Cypress Swamp. The conditions that Mr. Flagler had described, with bears, alligators, and other beasts, couldn’t be that bad.

She imagined that the man with the reddish-gray mustache was staring at the back of her head again. Being unable to help herself, she turned around. He was still there, his large, round, blue eyes staring rudely at her as if he had never looked away.

She hadn’t noticed the other man approaching from the opposite direction until he was standing over her. In his hand he held a silver flask, which he brandished in her face. With his other hand he lifted her valise into the aisle and stuffed his fat body into the seat beside her before she could protest.

“Want a drink, lady?” he asked. “Ralph Henry Prichett is my name.” He was clad in a threadbare black suit, black boots, and a bowler hat that he had forgotten to remove in the presence of a lady. His face was fleshy and unshaven, his eyes were watery, and an unkempt mustache and bushy sideburns made him out to be a totally unsatisfactory traveling companion. He punctuated his offer with a one-hundred-proof belch.

“Please replace my valise on the seat and sit somewhere else, sir” she snapped. “My husband is coming right back.” Her bravado was short-lived. She had no idea how to deal with this cave dweller. She might threaten him with the derringer except for his having put the valise beyond her reach.

“You called me ‘sir.’ Now that’s nice. It’s the sign of a true lady, and a beautiful one, too.” Both Papa and Mr. Flagler had warned her about ruffians like this one.

A hand on the drunk’s shoulder made him turn toward the aisle. There stood the little man with the reddish-gray mustache.

“Excuse me, sir, you’re sitting in my seat.”

“The lady prefers my comp’ny. They’s plenny other—” Suddenly the big man jumped from the seat with an agility that bewildered her. Then she understood the reason: The little man was standing in the aisle and had opened his suit coat just enough for both of them to see a holstered revolver.

“Please excuse that unpleasantness, Miss Sprague,” said the little man with the gun. He returned her valise to the seat beside her. Prichett took a few steps away, then turned and gave them both a vengeful glare before heading toward the front of the train. “I should have come forward sooner. Please let me introduce myself. I am Moses Gallagher.” Everything had happened so quietly and quickly that the other passengers were not aware.

“I met your aunt, Miss Sarah Sprague, in St. Augustine, and since you and I were both going in the same direction, I promised to look out for you.” Just then a cloud of sooty train smoke blew through the car making it hard to breathe for a moment.

“Thank you, Mr. Gallagher,” she said with a cough, waving away the smoke. “I appreciate your timely arrival.” She put the valise on the floor near her feet. “Won’t you please sit down?” Relief flooded over her.

“Thank you, Miss Sprague. I was wondering how I might broach an introduction without startling you. That bummer solved the problem for me.” He was mostly bald and wore his remaining reddish-gray hair close-cut. His most outstanding feature was his large, blue eyes. He was wearing a garish plaid three-piece suit with gaiters. His moustache and clothes were meticulously cared for. She guessed he must be in his early fifties.

“Aunt Sarah is full of surprises,” she said with a laugh. “How did you meet her?”

“I was one of the two Pinkerton detectives at the Ponce de Leon. Your aunt asked me, in my official capacity as a hotel detective, to keep an eye on you. That was my pleasure, but in so doing I discovered your plan to go to Fort Myers. You shipped two crates to the Hotel Hendry and later confirmed your intentions when you had two Saratogas put on the train to Tampa. Since the hotel is closing for the season, and I was headed in this direction, I was pleased to take on other work.”

“I don’t recall seeing you at the hotel,” she said.

“I’ll accept that as a compliment, Miss Sprague. My job was to stay in the background and keep an eye on everyone. Have you seen this man?” He withdrew a photograph from his pocket. It showed the head and shoulders of a young man with dark hair.

“No. Who is he?”

“Someone I’ve been hired to track down. It’s one of three jobs I presently hold.”

“What’s the third one?” she asked, amused.

“I also sell Dr. Corey’s Cosmic Compound. It provides me with a little extra income and a way to meet people. My case is on the other seat. I can provide you with a bottle of Dr. Corey’s elixir for just one dollar.”

“No, thank you. Aunt Sarah must have been shocked to know that I had arranged to have a young gentleman escort me to Fort Myers.”

“Ah, you must mean Mr. Bolton. I’m sorry to say he had to make a sudden trip back to Baltimore.”

“Oh, dear, I hope nothing serious happened,” she said.

“Not at all. Mr. Bolton, who wasn’t as affluent as he might have led people to believe, came into some money and was induced to go home.”

“Are you saying that Aunt Sarah bribed Mr. Bolton?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that. You might say it. In fact, you just did.” He smiled at his not-too-subtle way of conveying his meaning. “I don’t suppose I could get you to change your mind and go back to Boston?”

“No, Mr. Gallagher. I am determined to accomplish what I’ve started.”

“South Florida is no place for a lady to be traveling alone. You’ll see many more men like that drunkard. And to expect to go into the swamp is foolhardy. Beside that, this heat and humidity gets worse in the summer. You should go north now and come back in November if you must.”

She knew that going north now meant never coming back.

Mr. Gallagher excused himself and went through the cars asking if anyone had seen the man in the photograph and did the same with the ticket agent at Palatka. The Pinkerton man was clean-cut and had a pleasant smile, but then Papa’s words came back to her: “Some no-account can steal your money before you are able to turn around.” But then, who was he to talk? He had separated her from her inheritance.

What Papa had said about many changes and unreliable schedules returned when they boarded the train for Sanford. “You’re going to Tampa, then?” she asked, wondering how long Aunt Sarah had arranged to have him escort her.

“Not if I can convince you to go to Fort Myers by a more direct route, Miss Sprague, or I can get you to go back to Boston.”

“I don’t think I should change my plans, Mr. Gallagher. What are the advantages of taking a different train?”

“It’s not a train. From Kissimmee there’s a river steamer that goes across Lake Okeechobee and down the Caloosahatchee River all the way to Fort Myers. Miss Sprague told me you’re interested in botany. You will see much more from the boat than you can from a train going forty miles an hour. Furthermore, the steamer leaves tomorrow morning, while if you go to Tampa, you have to change trains again, and then take a boat from Punta Gorda. You might have to wait a few days for a schooner that will take you to Fort Myers.”

“I could take a carriage from Punta Gorda to Fort Myers,” she said.

Mr. Gallagher shook his head. “Carriages get stuck in the sand. There are no roads to speak of, and two broad rivers to cross. The steamer has staterooms, serves meals, and is a more relaxed way to travel. Also, you’d have the pleasure of my company,” he said with a wry smile.

“I have shipped my trunks to Tampa,” she said, only half sold on Mr. Gallagher’s suggestion. Despite Aunt Sarah’s affirmation, she didn’t know this man.

“With your permission, I will talk to the baggage smashers and see to it that they are taken off the train when we get to Kissimmee and transferred to the steamer.”

She hesitated. Mr. Gallagher appeared to be a trustworthy gentleman, and Aunt Sarah had vouched for him. His pleasant disposition and protective manner were positive attributes. She had liked the river route when Mr. Flagler mentioned it. Traveling on the rivers appealed to her, knowing that route would bring her closer to the Everglades. And by changing to the steamer she might avoid further confrontation with that bully, Mr. Prichett. But on the other hand, Mr. Gallagher was still a stranger, and they were headed into an unknown region.

“I can understand your hesitation, Miss Sprague. You should be careful. But let me show you something.” He removed a billfolder from his pocket and withdrew an identification card indicating that Moses Abraham Gallagher was a Pinkerton detective. “I am a happily married man, Miss Sprague. My wife, Fanny and I have seven children, I go to church most Sundays, and I imbibe only on holidays. I can assure you I’m harmless.”

She smiled at this last statement. But he wasn’t exactly harmless—he carried a gun. Then she had to laugh at herself: So did she. “All right, Mr. Gallagher. I will take the steamer to Fort Myers provided that I can get a private stateroom.”

When they changed to the Tampa train at Sanford, she was relieved to see that this car was slightly better with painted interior, worn velvet seats, with a little more foot room, oil lamps, and a stove. A stove in this heat! The air was so hot and muggy even with the stove out, her clothes stuck to her. What would the heat and humidity be like in the summer?

Then they noticed that the abominable Mr. Prichett had boarded the train as well.