Giving Up the Ghost (6 page)

“That is all very curious,” Strong said.

“It was more than curious,” I said. “It was otherworldly, uncanny, and downright weird.”

“Yes, I imagine it would seem that way.”

“Of course it was that way,” I said.

The men who had attached the jumpers to the telegraph line came inside the car.

“Pardon me a moment,” Strong said to me. Then he turned to his pair of employees. “Are we tapped in, gentlemen?”

The man in the denim said the connection had been made.

“Then let us close the circuit,” Strong said, and moved a blade on the base of the telegraph key. A puff of blue smoke emanated from the apparatus, and the sounder began to chatter, much like the one at the Dodge City depot had.

“How odd,” the man in denim said. “So many messages at once.”

“I believe I can pick something out,” the man in the vest and shirtsleeves said, and sat down at the table and began to copy the code with a pencil. He wrote out a few more lines, but then frowned.

“This can't be.”

“And yet,” Strong said. “Tell me.”

“It's a message to John Pemberton, the Confederate general in command of Vicksburg during the siege,” he said. “It says, ‘Expect no help from this side of the river.'”

“Ridiculous,” Strong said.

“There's another message, a Bible verse—”

“The one about lightnings and ‘here we are'?” I asked.

“The very one.”

“Nonsense, Lawson,” Strong said. “It is just noise on the wires.”

The key began furiously tapping, amid a great ball of blue sparks. Smoke began to curl up.

“It might ruin the batteries,” Lawson said.

“It's about to set the desk on fire,” the man in denim said.

“Disconnect it, Mr. Salisbury,” the general manager said.

The man in denim, Salisbury, unscrewed the wires, and burned his thumb in the process. He put the smarting digit to his lips. The cacophony of tapping and chattering slowly died away.

Both Lawson and Salisbury expressed relief.

Then, improbably, just as it had back in Dodge, the sounder began to vibrate and the key to click again. This time, however, the racket was louder.

“There is no rational explanation for it,” Lawson declared.

“It might be the end of the world,” Salisbury said.

“That's what Mackie thought,” I said. “But we're still here.”

Strong looked out the window at the odd lights in the northern sky.

“Of course, there
is
an explanation,” he said. “There always is. The natural world jealously guards her secrets, but surrender them, she must, eventually, to men of reason and steady disposition.”

I wanted to punch him in the throat.

“What explanation could there be?” Lawson asked.

“None of you are old enough to remember this, but in late August and early September of 1859 the entire telegraphic systems
of the world
were paralyzed because of a peculiar atmospheric condition,” Strong said. “The wires became hot, cells exploded, some devices did burst into flame. For three days, there was just noise on the line, and it was nigh to impossible to send a message. Batteries were disconnected, and yet current still flowed through the circuits. In truth, the lines were somewhat more usable when the cells were switched off. And there were lights in the sky, just as we see now.”

“But how?” Salisbury asked.

“It is the northern lights we're seeing, rare for this latitude, but not unheard of,” Strong said. “In 1859, they were seen as far south as the Indian Ocean. In the Rocky Mountains, miners got up and went to work at midnight, believing dawn had come. In San Francisco, the lights were bright enough to read the smallest newsprint. And in New Orleans, crowds gathered in Jackson Square to alternately admire and fear the celestial display.”

“I remember the lights,” I said. “I was eleven years old, and we lived near Memphis. My Tante Marie led me out in the fields to see the sky. But these lights seem different. There were no falling stars back then.”

What I didn't say is that Tante Marie had knelt beside me in the field and whispered in my ear that the mantle of fire in the sky was a sign that God's judgment would wash the stain of chattel slavery from the land.

“What caused them?” the man with the pencil asked.

“The theories were various,” Strong said. “Some believed that volcanic debris from a Pacific island eruption was responsible, others concluded that the display was the result of sunlight reflecting from icebergs in the far north, and some felt that it was caused by debris floating in the ether between the planets. They were, every one of them, wrong.”

“What, then?” Salisbury asked.

“The sun,” Strong said, “the natural dynamo that is at the center of our solar system, and which exerts a powerful but unseen influence upon the earth. An English astronomer named Carrington, whose hobby was to daily count the number of spots on the sun, noted on the first day of the manifestation a series of spectacular geomagnetic explosions that sent waves of electro-magnetism hurtling toward our planet. A similar helio storm has not occurred until, apparently, now.”

“That is a fantastic story,” Lawson said.

“All the more fantastic because it has been proven true by science,” Strong said. “If only we could harness the electro-motive power of the aurora borealis, mankind would have a limitless source of cheap power. It is something I understand that Mr. Edison is hard at work on. Until that time, we must make do with our galvanic cells.”

“What about the odd messages?” I asked.

“Yes,” Salisbury said. “I'm sure I copied the text correctly.”

“Bah! Your mind is tricking you into making sense of the noise,” Strong said. “It is a perfectly understandable human trait, but perfectly wrong. Somewhere in your brain, long was there that biblical verse and that message about Vicksburg tucked away, just waiting to bubble to the surface.”

“I don't believe both Salisbury and Mackie would have the same bubble just waiting to froth up,” I said.

“Coincidence,” Strong said. “It means nothing.”

“And the black train?”

“I saw no other train,” Strong said.

“But sir,” Salisbury said. “We all of us saw it. And heard the cursed thing.”

“It wasn't there.”

“Another trick of the mind?” I asked.

“Did you see it?” Strong asked. “Up close?”

“I had my eyes closed,” I said. “But that was only because I was afraid it would ram us. I saw it approaching, however, and then watched as it rumbled off to the east.”

“Did you see it distinctly?”

“Nothing about it was distinct, except the threat it posed.”

“And do you have any expertise in railway matters?”

“None,” I said.

It was true. Not knowing the names or purposes, I struggle to describe even the simplest of railway things. And the extent of my ignorance didn't end there, but in some cases it was willful ignorance. Guns are an enigma to me, and that's the way I like to keep it, because you can't write a poem or sing a song or paint a picture with a gun. I am as dumb as a sack of hair when it comes to banking and commerce, and the stock market to me seems as rigged in favor of the house as the faro and dice games in any frontier saloon. Confidence schemes I understand, because it had been my profession for so long, and I had lived with greed and obsession and guilt. But the everyday world of double-entry bookkeeping, of regular hours and customary wages, of hearth and home and pudding after dinner, was as alien to me as the sands of the Levant.

“I wouldn't expect a woman to know about such things,” Strong said.

“Nor pudding,” I said.

“What?”

“It's not important,” I said.

“Need I say more?” Strong asked, and gave Lawson and Salisbury a fraternal look.

Delaney came with the tea then, two steaming cups on a lacquered tray. He placed them on the desk before us. I turned the handle of mine around and brought it beneath my nose, breathing in the rejuvenating aroma. The events of the night had left me somewhat more fatigued than I had realized.

“Thank you, Delmar,” I said.

“Mr. Delaney, if you please,” Strong corrected. “There is no reason to be overly familiar.”

“Of course. What was I thinking?”

I sipped my tea. It was hot and strong and some expensive brand that I was never likely to have again. The general manager did not touch his cup.

“How long do you think the phenomenon will tie up the lines, sir?” Salisbury asked.

“A few hours,” Strong said. “Back in fifty-nine, as I recall, the longest stretch in which it was impossible to operate was only eight hours. The railway will be back up and running by dawn. Until that time, we will remain on this siding, and monitor the circuit until normalcy returns.”

“What if it doesn't?” I asked. “What if this is, from now and forever, the new normality?”

“A preposterous thought,” Strong said, then laughed with derision. Then he turned sober. “It would be the end of the civilized world that men have built. No telegrams, no railway schedules, no immediate news from any farther than your backyard. The stock markets would be paralyzed. The security of the country would be jeopardized. Why, we would be thrown back to the unimaginably primitive days before 1844, when Professor Morse announced his wondrous device with that memorable message—”

“
What hath God wrought
,” I said.

“Precisely,” Strong said. “We would be limited once again to communication at the speed of the fastest ship or horse, instead of at the speed of the lightning bolt.”

“Things might be better in some ways,” I said.

Strong shook his head.

“Progress always moves forward, young lady,” he said. “You can no more stop the forward movement of man's ingenuity than you could stop the sun in its course. Both are ordained.”

“As you like,” I said. “Now that I have had my lecture, would you be kind enough to explain why you wanted to speak with me?”

“To give you my thanks, of course,” Strong said. His left hand rested on the table, and with his fingertips he was gently turning the cup on its saucer. Still, he made no move to actually drink the tea.

“That would be pleasant,” I said.

“Pardon?”

“Meaning I am still waiting.”

He cleared his throat.

“I am grateful.”

“You're welcome,” I said.

“Of course, we should discuss the matter of your reward. Thirty dollars should be sufficient. Mr. Delaney, please gather the required funds.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said. He placed a cash box on the table, unlocked it with a key on his watch chain, and rummaged inside. “Um, I'm afraid our expenses in New Mexico were rather higher than expected. There are no gold eagles left. I have only greenbacks . . . no, wait. I have silver dollars.”

“Thirty silver dollars?”

“You would be required to sign the customary agreement,” Strong said.

“Agreement?”

“A simple contract,” Delaney said. “That you would keep your dealings with the railway confidential, including anything you may have witnessed tonight, from the time you set foot in our depot to, well, now.”

“For how long would this silence last?”

“It would be irrevocable.”

Slowly, I sipped my tea.

“For thirty pieces of silver.”

“Yes,” Delaney said.

“Gentlemen,” I said. “I must decline.”

Strong harrumphed.

“The biblical allusion alone is enough to make me wary,” I said. “But the promise of silence is simply unacceptable. I have made my career chronicling the otherworldly things that intrude upon our otherwise rational lives, and I have the feeling that taking your thirty dollars would prevent me from pursuing a line of inquiry that promises to be personally more satisfying.”

“What could be more satisfying than money?” Strong demanded.

“Where on the list do I begin?” I asked. “Love and friendship and creativity and learning. Helping troubled souls with unfinished business. Prairie dogs. Solving a mystery.”

I finished my tea, then carefully placed my cup on its saucer.

“Miss Wylde,” Strong said. “There is no mystery here, only superstition.”

I took a ten-cent piece from my vest and placed it on the table.

“What's that?” he asked.

“For the tea,” I said. “Just so that there is no misunderstanding. We are square.”

It was a short walk back to Dodge, where I found the westbound freight safely on the siding beside the depot, and Doc McCarty waiting for me on the platform. He was sitting on a bench, legs stretched and ankles crossed, hands behind his head. Beside him on the bench was the telegraph key that had started the trouble.

“Earp spoke to you?”

“Briefly,” McCarty said. “Enough to set me at ease that you were safe.”

I motioned toward the train on the siding.

“Any trouble?”

“It required some persuasion,” he said. “The engine driver relented just in time, because not two minutes after the freight was sided, a dark train flew past on the main line.”

“We saw it as well.”

“Mackie and the freight crew were badly frightened,” McCarty said. “They did not expect it, nor did they recognize it. Some said it was a ghost train, and swore it was crewed by the dead.”

“It seemed solid enough to me,” I said. “It very nearly struck us, and had that occurred, I'm sure I would be quite solidly dead. Did you get a good look at the interloper?”

“It was dark and fast and silent,” he said. “Its appearance was disquieting, but I saw no indication of any spectral hands on the throttle or brake.”

“And the telegraph lines?”

“Still clogged with gibberish,” he said.

I recounted my conversation with the general manager aboard the
Ginery Twitchell
. McCarty listened patiently, and had a few questions of a scientific nature about the helio storms, which I could not answer.

“Perhaps it will clear by morning,” McCarty said.

I smiled.

“Let us hope,” I said.

But it wasn't hope that tugged at my guts.

“Here,” he said, handing me the key. “You said you'd take this, and Mackie's going to hold you to it.”

I said good night to McCarty, then walked down the street to the agency. Calder was inside, with his boots up on his desk, the toes so close to the lighted lamp I was afraid he would knock it over.

“You left the door unlocked,” he said.

“There was some excitement.”

“I've heard,” he said. “And seen the lights in the sky. It is all mighty queer.”

“Yes,” I said, opening the bottom drawer of the desk and dropping the key inside.

“What's that?”

“A hunk of brass that speaks for the dead,” I said, easing myself into my chair. “A haunted telegraph key. Does the phrase ‘Avail Speedwell' mean anything to you?”

“Are you speaking English?”

“I'll take that for a no,” I said. “It's on the telegraph key, Jack.”

“You were in no danger?” he asked.

“Nothing to speak of.”

“Whenever you say that, Ophelia, it makes me nervous.”

“I am in one piece, Jack,” I said.

“And I am glad. Have you found a new case?”

“A mystery, perhaps, but no more,” I said.

Briefly, I described the events of the night.

“Mackie is a nervous fellow,” Calder said. “He might have misinterpreted that message about Hopkins being murdered at Florence. As for the dark train, who knows? Considering the confusion with the telegraph service and the operating schedules, a renegade train seems likely.”

There passed a few moments of silence between us.

“Earp walked down the tracks with you.”

“I told you he did.”

More silence.

“Did he act peculiar?”

“What do you mean by ‘peculiar'?”

“Strange, I reckon,” Calder said. “
Bold
would be a better word.”

“You mean, was he forward with me?” I said. “No, he assumed no liberties, and I offered him none. I do not understand the fuss that Marshal Earp generates in this town. Is it his looks? I have seen no sign that he is in any way exemplary, and he displayed tonight no special dash or daring.”

“He is a good man in a tight spot.”

“Possibly,” I said. “But his choice of friends is questionable.”

“The dentist?”

“Among other things, I understand.”

“Holliday
is
strung different.”

“I will rely on your word for it,” I said. “And Jack—are you jealous that Earp walked with me down the tracks?”

Calder laughed.

“Jealous?” he asked. “Now, there's a rare idea. I've never had call to be jealous of any man. It is a weak emotion for weak men. A jealous man skulks, while a confident man acts.”

“Nice speech,” I said. “Been reading Horatio Alger again?”

“No,” he said, his feelings riled. “While
Ragged Dick
is a very instructive book, it is a book for boys. There's nothing about jealousy in it. My thoughts on the subject are my own.”

“If it were anyone else protesting so strongly that he was not jealous,” I said, “I would be inclined to think that he was indeed filled with envy.”

“It's good then that you don't think that of me.”

“We are in perfect agreement,” I said.

“We could not be more so,” he said.

Not long after, Calder bid me a chilly good night. I locked the door behind him, then took my lamp and went to the stairs. Eddie, who had been asleep on the newel post, gave a start. He flapped his wings in protest and made an ugly cawing sound in his throat, and as I passed I apologized for disturbing him.

Unlike my previous room at the Dodge House, the rented room above the agency almost had the appearance of home. There were deep blue velvet curtains over the window, an oak gothic revival table with a wash basin and mirror, and a bed with a violet cover and six goose down pillows. I placed the lamp on the table and sat on the bed.

As I unbuttoned my vest, I saw Horrible Hank's glowing green face leering at me from the mirror on the table. The oval mirror was about the size of a pie tin, and mounted in a wooden frame that turned, so that I could face the glass down if needed. I had long ago given up on hanging mirrors on the walls, in favor of a little privacy.

“Don't mind me,” Hank said. “Continue.”

“Stop it,” I said. “Or I'll turn you face down.”

“I'll tell you a joke,” he said.

His hair and clothes were gently billowing. Most times, he seemed to be standing in a windstorm, but now it seemed as if he were floating in cold green water.

“No,” I said.

“But I have a new one.”

“How can you have a new one?” I asked.

“I don't know.”

“Perhaps your brother is sending you material.”

He thought about that for a moment, then shook his head.

“Sam's not that funny,” he said.

I reached for the mirror.

“No!” he said.

“Then get on with it, Hank.”

“All right. Are you ready?”

“Now, Hank.”

“Here goes. Ahem. A young couple are engaged to be married, but some weeks before the wedding they are killed in a tragic accident—”

“What kind of accident?”

“It doesn't matter what kind of accident.”

“I think it matters what kind of accident.”

“Would it kill you to just listen for once?”

“I'm sorry. Go ahead.”

“This young couple dies in a
tragic
and completely
inexplicable
accident a few weeks before the wedding. Next thing they know, they find themselves standing at the Pearly Gates. Saint Peter welcomes them, as is customary, gives them their golden harps, and says their mansions are ready.”

Hank giggled.

“The couple thanks old Saint Pete for all of the loot, but naturally they're disappointed because they were looking forward to being married. So they ask, ‘Is it possible to get hitched in heaven?' Pete scratches his head and says he doesn't know, nobody has ever asked before. He tells them to wait there while he finds the answer. So they wait.”

Hank put his chin in his hand and drummed his fingers, signifying waiting.

“After a year, Pete returns and says that yes, it is indeed possible to get married in heaven. Overjoyed, the couple embraces.”

Hank hugged himself.

“But then the woman pauses. Being the smarter of the two, and a stickler for logic, she asks the obvious question. ‘If marriage is possible in heaven,' she asks, ‘then what about divorce?'”

Hank's eyes grew large with barely contained mirth.

“But Saint Pete just rolls his eyes and throws up his hands. ‘It took me a year to locate a preacher up here—how long do you think it will take to find a lawyer?'”

Hank laughed so hard that green tears rolled down his cheeks.

“That was hilarious,” Hank said. “Why aren't you laughing?”

“Your taste in jokes has not improved,” I said. “That was as bad as all the rest of them. Good night, Hank.”

I turned the mirror facedown, then dressed for bed and extinguished the lamp. Then I went to the window and opened it a few inches, to get a bit of air. When I was a little girl, there was a widespread fear of sleeping with your windows open at night; the theory was that miasma emanating from the swamps and the graveyards and the night soil in the necessary houses would waft into your bedroom and make you sick. When I was thirteen or fourteen, I guessed that it might have more to do with wealth, because rich folks like my parents could afford houses where the doors and windows were shut tight, while poor folk—the kind most likely to get sick because of diet, unsanitary conditions, or lack of general medical care—rarely could afford houses that shuttered tight. And even though the British surgeon Joseph Lister had debunked the miasma theory of disease in favor of germ theory, many people across America still continued the habit of sleeping in stifling bedrooms for fear of breathing bad air.

After opening the window, I parted the curtains to look at the sky. Even looking to the south, across Front Street, I could still see wisps of red and green in the night sky, and an occasional blue arc on the telegraph wire. The freight was still sided at the station, the inside of the station was brightly lit, and someone—I presumed it to be Mackie—was sitting in the shadows on a bench on the station platform. Then I looked closer and realized it wasn't Mackie at all, but Calder. He was watching my window, because he gave me a curt wave.

I waved back, then closed the curtains.

Climbing into bed, I closed my eyes. I had been sleepy just five minutes before, but now I was wide awake. I opened my eyes and stared up into the darkness, watching the protean shapes and dark amorphous blobs, which are merely artifacts of human vision, which float before us in such conditions. After a few minutes, I got up, went back to the window, and parted the curtains.

Calder was still there.

I raised the sash.

“What are you doing?” I shouted.

“Taking a rest,” he said.

“You are watching my window.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Shut up!”
somebody called from the hotel next door.
“Won't you let us sleep?”

“Go home,” I told Calder.

I closed the window and turned my back. I was oddly and unreasonably furious at his behavior. He had no right to spy on me, and yet he claimed some proprietary interest in my nocturnal affairs. Then I turned back and glanced through the panes, and saw that he was still sitting and watching.

“Outrageous,” I said.

I fumbled on the clothes pegs behind the door and found my dark hooded knee-length cape that I wear when it is occasionally necessary to leave the room at night. I slipped on the cape and tied it in front, jammed my feet into my boots without lacing them, then felt my way down the dark stairs to the agency.

“
Nevermore
,” Eddie cried from the newel post.

“You said it, bird.”