Doug WaltersBy Doug Walters
First published in Spring, 2009, Volume 6, Issue 1, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.
An Ancestral Miscreant
or
No Mules Left in Ireland
Now I have mentioned a time or two, Reader, the beginnings of my acquaintance with young Seamus Feeney, but perhaps I ought say a bit more about it. If I were a literary sort I might well say that a fine, soft day in the spring it was when I first encountered young Feeney. To say that is well and good, except that there isn’t much truth in it—not a scrap of truth now that you mention it.
The plain fact is that the day I first became aware of Seamus Feeney the weather was neither fine nor soft, although it was at least springtime. The city of Fall River was very nearly that (at least the river part of the business), owing to several days worth of hard, unremitting rains.
“So help me, John, if I find out you’re the dirty dog that’s been praying for rain, I’ll have to whip you right here.”
Now I admit as greetings go it wasn’t much, but it was the best I could muster as I hobbled through the doorway of the post office. The last thirty feet of my journey to the Bedford Street establishment was an ordeal reminiscent of Sherman’s march from Savannah to Columbia for all the mud and sluicing puddles.
Postmaster Whitehead roared with laughter as he saw me come through the door.
“It pleases me no end, John Whitehead, that you find such merriment at the sight of a man near drowned,” I said, feigning a hurt tone.
“Well, I might not be so merry if you didn’t look so pitiful, feller,” Whitehead said, chuckling. “You might have telephoned at least, rather than”—
“Oh, I thought of that feller, I did. Actually, had I known the streets were so bad as they are up this way I might have stayed at home. If nothing else, the swim upstream did me good.”
“Is that a dead possum curled on your head there feller, or have you taken up Samaritan acts of animal rescue with the rains?”
“That, my good postmaster, is my hat, a family heirloom now passed from father to son over several generations, thank you very much.”
“How many generations ago was it the poor beast gave himself up?” Whitehead inquired. “From the looks of things, I should judge his a fresh end, as though struggling against the torrents he managed to claw his way up your back to the top of your head, taking a last labored breath as he collapsed into a soggy, bedraggled heap.”
Whitehead punctuated his conclusion with an exaggerated, gasping cough, which dissolved into an even more pronounced slurring lisp as his body convulsed in a feigned tremor.
“Oh that’s good, John,” I said, looking down my nose at him with a snort. “Did you come up with that on your own or steal it from that actor feller, Mr. E. A. Sothern?”
Whitehead winked at me and took a small bow, seeming rather pleased with himself.
“Tell me, my Lord Dundreary,” I said, “would you by chance have any coffee about this place of business? I could use some, if you please.” As if on cue, the ancient heirloom began to slide from its perch, helped along by the weight of accumulated water. I reached up just in time to stop its forward progress.
Whitehead laughed at me, but nodded. “I’ve got a pair of scones wrapped up too if you’d care for one,” he said, adding that they might just still be warm.
I nodded my thanks and after a minute or two, we were both enjoying scones and hot coffee.
“Do you always drink coffee with a corpse draped over your head?” Whitehead inquired before taking a bite of his scone.
I shook my head and removed the humble hat.
“This, my dear Whitehead, is an antique,” I said. “You might not believe it, but it survives today as evidence of a young man’s epiphany. Are you at all familiar with the Chiswick Charm School, Whitehead?”
The postmaster shook his head after a moment. “I know what—Chiswick is an ancient Saxon word. What the devil would a cheese farm have to do with a charm school?”
“The Chiswick Charm School, my dear Whitehead, is a bygone relic once located up to Grafton County in New Hampshire, in the general area of Littleton. My father’s ancestors have lived up to Grafton County since before New Hampshire was New Hampshire if I remember my timeline correctly.
“Now to answer your question, feller—the Chiswick Charm School existed for about 15 years. The charm school was actually a reformatory of sorts, and as such was not especially charming, nor really much of a school, to be truthful about the matter.
“’Long about 1742, in February, as I recall, a small band of enterprising juvenile delinquents took into their fool heads one night a fine and dandy notion: Let’s sneak out and see how many privies we can upend. Their leader was a redheaded little squirt, name of Ebenezer Dickensen. Young Eb Dickensen, so the story goes was—well, he was a fine-hearted lad, but cursed with a streak of rotten in him, you might say, not terribly different from any other boy of 12, then or now, I suppose. His cohorts were a pair of Wentworth boys, twins, aged 11.
“The boys had a fine old time for awhile, but the third privy turned out to be their undoing. As luck would have it—‘and poor luck at that’, young Dickensen recalled many years later—the third privy was occupied by none other than the wife of the local sheriff, who started to howl and caterwaul the minute the privy started off-kilter. Over she went, in an instant. The Wentworth boys scattered one way, Ebenezer Dickensen the other way. The sheriff’s wife, who was shaken up but unhurt, peeped her head up just in time to see all three boys by the light of the moon.
“Now as you might suppose, more than light came with the morn. By 9 a.m., all three boys were rounded up and hauled before the judge, before whom they were formally charged with assault and peace breaking.
‘How do you plead to these charges?’
‘Guilty, sir,’ the trio replied in unison.
‘Have you anything to say?’
“This time the three were silent.
“The judge looked long and hard at each of them. ‘Before I pronounce sentence, I have something to say. I want you boys to hear and hear me well: Sometimes in life, we must do things we do not especially care to. That is where I sit today. I myself was once your age and no more immune to the temptation of mischief than you are.
‘But life is filled with lessons that must be learned, and your learning experiences begin today.
‘Having considered the evidence and taken your pleas into account, it is therefore the judgment of the court that you, Ebenezer Dickensen, shall be confined not less than 10, nor more than 30, days in the Chiswick School For Wayward Youths.’
“The judge turned to the Wentworth twins, fixing them with a hard gaze. ‘Young gentlemen, having considered the evidence and taken your pleas into account, it is therefore the judgment of the court that you shall serve not less than 8, nor more than 28, days in the Chiswick School For Wayward Youths.
‘I want you two to know that the only reason for the slight difference in your punishments is the slight difference in your ages. All things being equal, however, I do not doubt on the evidence that each of you bears an equal weight where guilt is concerned.’
“The matter being concluded, Eb Dickensen and the Wentworth twins were thence escorted to Chiswick. Nothing but a few stones at the entry gate now survive, but it’s fair to say, based on surviving accounts, that accommodations there were. . . somewhat less than ideal, so to speak.
“For the next month, the boys were ‘schooled’ at primarily two things: the hardness of life and the wages of even the most benign sin. Seventeen hours of daily work was their lot at Chiswick, tapping maple trees for sap, tending the buckets, the fires in the sugarhouse, that sort of thing.
“What book learning they got came from the Bible for the most part, although they were also permitted to read passages from Poor Richard’s Almanack. The Wentworth boys, for the most part, read these things because they had to. Ebenezer, however, was rather impressed with old Saunders’ observations, finding true solace, guidance and amusement in Dr. Franklin’s annual.”
I picked up the hat which Whitehead had derided as a beastly corpse. “This here hat, my good feller, was made by Ebenezer Dickensen himself to mark his graduation from the Chiswick Charm School in April, 1742. If you’ve ever seen that illustration of Benjamin Franklin garbed in ‘Western’ attire, this hat was inspired by the very one he wore. Dickensen himself wore it every winter for thirty-odd years, and gave it over to his son upon the first day of May, 1775. Within 24 hours, Eb Dickensen surrendered this life for the next, owing to a gunshot wound received some two weeks earlier courtesy a British Regular’s musket ball.”
“Well, I’m glad to know that story, feller,” Whitehead said. “I think I can top it though. According to the family lore, one of my own ancestors was there the day old Wedderburn chewed on Dr. Franklin’s backside before the Privy Council in January, 1774. He, too, was a student of old Saunders’ scribblings, and apparently wrote that events in the cockpit would be eternally remembered as an instance ‘when force shat mercilessly on the backs of reasonable men.’”
“Say. . . speaking of your relations feller, I thought it was all set for one of them to fill that vacant clerk’s position?”
“Well, as it happens, he came home from the examination at Boston terribly proud of himself. As I understood it, his scores were the second-lowest ever, since they started giving the examinations.”
“Well, now that won’t do at all,” I said.
“Indeed not!” Whitehead laughed. “I’ve got another young feller to come in though, tomorrow morning I believe it is. He’s not long off the boat, mind you, but made a near-perfect rating at his examination. So, I’ll give him a try. The gent I spoke to up to Boston about him was impressed, thought I would be, too.”
Whitehead then proceeded to give me a rundown on this new feller: 23 years old, fresh off the boat from Galway, Ireland. Unmarried, but not averse, although an elder sister might hamper things a bit in that area. “She’s already on a first name basis with certain members of the Boston Police Force, who, in all fairness, describe her as a lovely girl, but possessed of a slight tongue for whiskey, as they say.
“To answer the question in your eyes feller, it would appear not. What I hear is that they only see him in connection with the sister, when he comes to collect her.
“That, I think, will do for now,” Whitehead said, looking somewhat sternly at me. “I’m not sure if it’s the rain lately or what, feller, but you’re getting to be as much for this back fence nosey-body business as is Mr. Porter, and I must say, it looks better on him than on yourself.
“If you can hold onto your bloomers just awhile longer, you’ll see with your own eyes all about young Mr. Feeney—Seamus Feeney.”
“Whitehead, forgive me, please. I lost my head for a moment.” I knew all-too-well Mr. Edwin H. Porter’s penchant for nosing about in other folks’ affairs. He flapped his yap endlessly about one thing or another (which as often as not had little or nothing to do with himself) during our weekly card games. Mr. George Buffinton set the trait down to Porter’s fine reportorial skills. Those of us who suffered knew it for what it was: one large pain in the backside.
“Well, John, I think it’s time I got along home,” I said. “It looks as though the tide has reversed itself, so the trip downstream will be a bit kinder at least.
“Thanks so much for the coffee and the scone—and if the opportunity presents itself, tell the young feller I wish him the best of luck.”
“If all goes well, you’ll be able to tell him yourself in a few days,” Whitehead said, chuckling.
“Mind you, keep that possum dry!” he called after me as I stepped out the door to begin the homeward slog. The city clock struck 3 as I turned toward my Eight Rod Way domicile. It was the tenth day of May, 1892.
“Whitehead! Blast your hide, open the door please, feller. I got your message. Burn the evidence, wipe up the blood, do whatever you must, but open the blasted door!” It was 9:05 p.m. when I arrived at the Bedford Street post office. The door opened within a few seconds and there was John Whitehead looking none the worse for any wear.
“Well, I’m glad to see you finally” —
“Just a minute please, John, I said, raising my hand to stay him. “I need a word with you.”
Whitehead nodded, stopped speaking and stood.
“First off, John, you should be ashamed. Miss Fitcher got hold of me just a few minutes ago in the shop. Whatever you said upset her terribly—something about whipping Seamus Feeney . . . ”
Whitehead nodded, started to speak, but I held him off.
“Just a minute, please, John. I had a Western Union telegram from up north late last night. The short of it is I’m leaving Fall River for good, going home to New Hampshire to take over the family businesses.”
Whitehead looked at me, mouth agape.
“That’s why I was at Fairhaven, Whitehead; I’m selling the whole lot to Mr. Moses Delano. I’ve got three weeks or so to wrap things up here. Bless his heart, he told me not to hurry on his account, but I don’t want to impose on his kindnesses.”
Whitehead asked if I meant the family situated in Grafton County.
“Well, yes, John, but . . . ”
“Come in here with me, then. If I can talk some sense into his head, I’ll introduce you to the feller who just might be the newest postmaster in Grafton County, New Hampshire.”
“Bless your soul, Feeney. You’ve proven yourself to be a fine and good man in the years I’ve known you,” Whitehead remarked as we joined Seamus Feeney. “All I’m asking you to do is be sensible, Seamus, that’s all.”
“Excuse me a moment, but what’s all this about?” I inquired.
“Well, I’ve decided to retire,” John Whitehead said. “More than 20 years with the postal service is, it seems to me, time enough.”
“I agree completely, Whitehead, although I am sorry to see you go, feller.”
Whitehead threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Well, since you bring it up, that’s part of the reason you’re here. Young Seamus and I have been discussing a thing or three and it appears we’re not in agreement.”
“Seamus, is this true?”
Seamus Feeney nodded.
“All right,” I said, “let’s have the whole story, please. Whitehead, you have the floor.”
“Well, now you know as well as I do the way things go around here sometimes,” Whitehead said. “As I said, I’ll be retiring fairly soon here. It has almost always been my hope and intent that young Seamus here might succeed me as postmaster of Fall River. I conveyed that desire to the ‘powers that be’ who said ‘Thanks ever so much, John, we’ll surely take that into account.’”
“Meaning, I suppose that someone else was already being considered,” I said.
“Indeed so. But that’s not the worst of it.”
“What is the worst of it, Whitehead?”
“They’re passing over Seamus in favor of Mr. Sullivan—and I don’t mean the mail carrier, but the other one.”
“I see.” There were two Sullivan’s then in the employ of the Fall River post office under the supervision of Postmaster John Whitehead. The other (to whom Whitehead referred as the presumed heir apparent to the Postmaster’s position) was primarily an assistant clerk, because as Whitehead expressed it, that was the one job that would put him under near-constant supervision during working hours.
“That feller, I will surely tell you,” Whitehead said with a sigh, “is one of the relatively few things that I will not miss about this job—not one bit.”
“But Mr. Whitehead . . .” Seamus Feeney started to say, before Whitehead stopped him.
“‘But Mr. Whitehead’ nothing, Seamus; I like you and have since the day you walked in here in the springtime of 1892. But that’s not the only reason. You’ve earned the high regard, every blessed bit of it. The fact is, Mr. Feeney, I wouldn’t give a second thought to trusting you with anything at all, up to and including my life, I think. That clerk feller Sullivan, on the other hand—well, the fact is that if he weren’t so well-connected I’d have put my boot in his backside and sent him out the door long ago. You know as well as I do the reason why, Seamus.
“I wouldn’t trust Mr. Sullivan most days to carry the milk, much less the mail,” he said with a snort. “You deserve far better than you’d ever get from Sullivan, and that’s the truth.”
Not to tell tales out of school, Reader, but a rumor had existed for quite some time regarding the clerk Sullivan’s connections. Although its circulation was generally confined to backroom tongue-waggers who sprouted up and began their whispered caterwaulings shortly following Miss Lizzie Borden’s acquittal on three indictments of murder at New Bedford in June of 1893, the rumor was that the clerk Sullivan let it be known in higher circles that he had information which, if it were released, would virtually guarantee a retrial and conviction of Miss Borden for her part in the infamies of the 4th August 1892. Sullivan claimed to know enough not only to ensure a hanging, but also insinuated that certain ones in these higher circles did not wish the matter dredged up again at all. My informant was Porter, so I naturally considered the source in the fairest light possible, pocketed my winnings of 72 cents, and told him he was crazy as a loon.
Whitehead, however, paid no mind at all to that. His concerns centered on the fact—and it was a fact, supported by the police blotter—that Sullivan was a notorious drunkard, and was absent from work at least once a week on that account.
Whitehead turned to me, handed over a few papers. “This is what nearly got Seamus whipped—and may get him whipped yet.”
I took the document from John Whitehead and looked it over. “Mother of God—Seamus, do you know what this is, what it means?”
The documents in question were nothing short of astounding, at least to me. The first was a letter to John Whitehead signed by Governor Charles Busiel of New Hampshire. The Governor thanked Whitehead in part “for supplying documentary information of Mr. Feeney’s records with the postal authorities in Massachusetts and of your own personal experiences as his employer.”
The second document was, in effect, a statement of terms and conditions applicable to the position of postmaster in a newly-created postal district situated in Grafton County, New Hampshire.
“Seamus . . . let me ask you this, feller: Did Mr. Whitehead threaten to whip you over this here letter?”
“I did! He won’t even read it!” Whitehead exclaimed.
Seamus nodded.
“Bless your soul, Seamus,” I said. “Under the circumstances, I’d have to whip you, too.” I couldn’t help but laugh myself at that moment.
“How would you like to be able to retire in about 17 years? This paper says you could if you wanted to.”
“Well, I could do the same here I think, couldn’t I?”
“Yes, I suppose you could at that, Seamus,” I said.
Whitehead grimaced loudly, remarked as how he had no idea where the snakes went when Saint Patrick drove them out of Ireland, but that he certainly knew where a certain mule had gone to.
“Seamus, think of it this way. This letter and certificate—there’s enough behind the both of them, you could have almost anything in the world you wanted—for yourself or for Alice.”
At that, Seamus brightened. “Alice would like that.”
“Alice would also like nothing better than to see you find yourself a nice marriageable girl, feller,” I said. “You could make colcannon for her. Or Alice could show the girl how to make it.”
Seamus grinned, clearly relishing the thought.
“Oh, by the way, Seamus,” I said. “I spent a good part of the day over to Fairhaven. I’m selling out, leaving Fall River for good. I’m going up home to take over the family businesses.”
Seamus looked at me as if torn. I could see that he wanted to express condolences on the one hand, but had other things on his mind as well.
“Bless your heart, Seamus, I appreciate it—I knew exactly what was on your mind.”
“But . . . where is home, sir? How will Alice and me know to find you?”
“Seamus feller, if you take this postmaster’s job, you’ll find me easily enough, I guarantee that.”
“How’s that, sir?” Seamus looked genuinely perplexed.
“Well, primarily for two reasons if I remember correctly, feller: that new postal district—home for me is Grafton County, New Hampshire.”
Seamus grinned at me.
“Then there’s that other thing,” I said.
“What’s that, sir?”
“Well, if my memory is correct and things haven’t changed too awful much, your new office is either next door to or two doors over from the newspaper and general store. You’re looking at the new owner.”
“Mr. Whitehead? Would you mind calling Alice for me, please?”
“I’ll call her if you take the job, Seamus,” Whitehead replied.
“Well I need to break the news to her first, sir—don’t I?”
“That’s a good thought,” I said, laughing.
Whitehead agreed, and in a moment was on the line with Miss Fitcher. “Gracious no, he’s right here Emmaline—they both are, as a matter of fact. Could you ring over on Third Street, please? Yes, that’s it. If she’s available, tell them to send Alice Feeney to the post office right away, please. Now don’t you give it away . . . yes, I’m hoping she won’t faint this time either.”
As I locked up for the last time at the doorway of my Eight Rod Way abode, I thought of the note written and mailed a few hours earlier:
Dear Madame,
My apologies for not being able to reach you; I sincerely regret that events have not permitted it. I’m reminded as I write of an observation by the old Roman poet Seneca, who said that every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end. Having begun life anew at Fall River now many a year ago, I find that circumstances (as well as the heart’s longing to a small degree) impel me to return not to the old life I left, but to one that is, I hope, as fresh and new as the morrow’s sunrise over the White Mountains of my homeland.
This place and these people are such that I shall always carry and remember them fondly – but particularly your own kindnesses and understanding through the years.
Mr. Moses H. Delano will take possession of the property in his own good time, I expect. If you wish to reach me in the interim you may contact him, although when I am more settled, I hope to contact you myself with news of such occurrences as might interest you.
I must catch an afternoon train up to Boston and thence to Grafton County for a meeting tomorrow afternoon. With all good wishes to you dear Madame, I am
Silas Oleander Dickensen
(Your Humble Compositor)
