“Enjoy the mosquitoes,” I said, and climbed up onto the driver’s seat. I felt his eyes burning into me a long distance down the road. Fortunately for me the horses were streetwise and docile; they ignored my jerky rein-handling and commands that probably would have smashed us into passing wagons.
It must have been the adrenaline wearing off. A giddiness overcame me. I’d just shot a man, beaten him senseless, taken his money, left him bound and naked. And I felt damn good about it.
The Stockings were gone. I found a police station and gave an abridged version of events, handing over Le Caron’s pistol and the money—they were satisfied when it matched the amount Champion had reported missing—and was told to return in the morning.
I wired the Bingham House in Philadelphia, assuring Champion that all was well. Early next morning, after a miserable night in a fleabag hotel near the station, I was taken to Le Caron’s cell. He jumped up when he saw me.
“That’s him! The one that robbed me!”
“You’re cute in stripes,” I told him.
The cops were pleased with me. Le Caron was wanted for a number of indiscretions in New York. I signed a statement. They said I’d have to appear in court later in the week. That didn’t sound good, but I let on that I’d cooperate.
Stepping into the bright morning, I made my decision. I’d thought about it most of the night. I knew of only one way to help Mrs. Leonard. And it might not hurt to keep a bit of distance from the club just now.
I sent another telegram informing Champion that a family crisis had arisen; I would rejoin them in several days. Then I went back to the station and bought a ticket on the Sunday train to Elmira.
I was going treasure-hunting.
The new white courthouse sat like a wedding cake on Lake Street, glistening in the sun, its Greek Revival portico and balustraded windows trimmed with stone frosting. I looked out one of its windows. Heat waves shimmered on the Chemung River two blocks away. Flies buzzed in the corridor outside the county excise commissioner’s office, where I sat in a straight-backed wooden chair, waiting and sweating.
I’d arrived in Elmira Township late the previous afternoon and taken a carriage up to Woodlawn to scout the situation. It was unsettling to know that in time Twain and Livy, their infant son, and three grown daughters would be buried there. The grounds were hushed and cool, with shade trees and winding paths. But they held no military graves. Finally a caretaker set me straight: the Confederate section was in Woodlawn National Cemetery, adjacent to the municipal facility. In gathering darkness I trudged to the top of Davis Avenue and set out across fields. Beyond a row of young maples I found wooden markers—soldiers’ graves, but Union soldiers. I hadn’t gone ten paces among them before I was challenged by a guard in blue who cradled a rifle.
“Cemetery’s closed.” His New York accents seemed to fit the uniform. “Open tomorrow.”
I asked him where I could get information about the Confederate graves. He said to see Sexton Vincent at the Baptist Church. I thanked him and retraced my steps. But before leaving I climbed partway up a nearby hill for a broader view. Above me, on its crest, stood a squat fortresslike structure with a posted sign: ELMIRA CORRECTIONAL FACILITY. A guard stared at me from a sentry box. A savage-sounding dog barked nearby. It all gave me a bad feeling.
I studied the burial ground. No fence. Just the one guard—no, there came another. I watched them talk in the glow of a lantern. One rolled a cigarette; they looked bored.
Did I dare try it that night? No, too big a risk. Even if they fell asleep later, how would I carry the loot? I’d need a horse and rig, tools, a light to work by.
So, obliquely, I was going through channels. I’d found Sexton Vincent—a gaunt, kindly, Lincolnesque man—at his church and obtained the information that Corporal O’Shea lay in plot #3117. Vincent sketched that portion of the grounds for me, indicating the grave’s exact location.
“Were you related?” he asked.
“Acquainted,” I said.
He said that even four years after the war, many still came searching for lost friends and relations. Most he could not help; I was among the fortunate few. I assured him that he was performing a valuable service. Precisely how valuable, I reflected, would soon be determined.
The Chemung County courthouse was proving more difficult. I’d gotten as far as the anteroom of Commissioner Costigan’s office. There a clerk with the overbite of a woodchuck and clearly not enough work to do proceeded to belabor my ears with a capsule history of the township. Did I know why it was called Elmira? Well, back in ’28, when folks were choosing a name, they recalled an early settler who’d yelled for her daughter in a piercing voice. Why not use the name they’d all heard so often? He looked at me expectantly. “Isn’t that something?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Something.”
He went on about how the Chemung Canal was dug and linked with the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania. How during the war the Woolen Manufacturing Company put half the town to work producing cloth for uniforms. How the new Elmira Rolling Mills and all the others were turning out tons of iron now, and soon the whole valley would be a paradise of industrial prosperity.
“What about the military prison?” I interjected.
He looked startled. “What?”
“Wasn’t there a prison camp here during the war?”
“Why, yes,” he said, shifting gears.
