Free Coffins by Rodman Philbrick

told him you were a friend of Emerson’s.”
    â€œHardly that!” I exclaimed. “Would that I were. But really, Jeb, you know better. Emerson and I are barely acquainted. I doubt he’d remember me.”
    â€œNonsense. You’re too modest. And if I exaggerate slightly, it is because the Captain holds Emerson in such high regard.”
    â€œAs a poet?”
    Jeb shook his head. “As an abolitionist. I doubt my father has ever read the great man’s poetry. Or any poetry, for that matter, beyond sea chantey doggerel.”
    â€œI see.”
    Jeb turned and studied me directly. “Do you? No matter.”
    We had come to a door somewhere in the center of the house. My friend took a key from his waistcoat, unlocked the door, and opened it. “All the way to the top,” he said, gesturing at the steep stairs within the door.
    â€œYou won’t accompany me?”
    He shook his head firmly. “Two of us would likely confuse the, issue. I’ll wait below—if there’s a problem, you have only to shout.”
    I mounted the stairs with more than a little trepidation. It was a long ways up—three landings—but the way was lighted by a series of round windows, very like portholes, and a spectacular view of the harbor gradually came into view. This pretty picture lightened my mood. What, after all, was there to fear from an old man uneasy in his mind? If the meeting did not go well, all I had to do, as Jeb suggested, was call for assistance.
    My destination was at the top of the tower, which rose like a lighthouse over all of White Harbor. With each turn of the stairs another portion of the village appeared and I could not help but linger for a few moments at each of the portholes, one higher than the next, until I felt like a bird hovering above the world. From here I had a clear view of the wharf where I had arrived, of Raven at her mooring, and the protected harbor, the rocky promontory, and the sea beyond, which seemed to melt into the wintery blueness of the sky without a sharply defined horizon.
    At the top of the stairway I came upon a stout door of unpainted oak. There was no knocker. For that matter it lacked a handle, though a pattern of screw holes indicated there had once been a handle, and that it had been removed.
    I was poised to knock my fist upon the oak when an inside bolt was drawn and the door swung open a few inches.
    â€œState your name,” came a muffled voice from behind the door.
    â€œDavis Arthur Bentwood.”
    A glittering eye surveyed me through the hinge gap, and then blinked furiously. “Remove your jacket!” the voice ordered.
    â€œCaptain Coffin? Good day, sir. I’m a friend of Jebediah’s, I believe he mentioned—”
    â€œREMOVE YOUR JACKET!” he bellowed from behind the door.
    This was a voice capable of “starting” a sailor as efficiently as the strike of a lash, and my arms hastened to shed my black frock jacket before my mind had given the order.
    â€œWaistcoat, shirt, collar, cuffs, pantaloons. Step lively now!”
    â€œI’m not armed, sir. There’s no need to—”
    â€œI AM ARMED, DAMN YOUR SOUL! NOW STRIP OFF YOUR GEAR OR I’LL PUT A BLOWHOLE IN YOUR BELLY!”
    Was it true? Had the family allowed the madman to arm himself? Recalling the pistol shot of the previous evening, I hurried to obey his command.
    It is amazing how fast a man can strip when he believes his life may be at stake. In less time than it takes to recite one of the shorter psalms I whipped off my waistcoat, unclipped my starched shirt collar, unbuttoned and removed my cuffs, shed my boiled shirt, dropped my pants, kicked off my boots, and stood before that glittering eye in only the long, one-piece woolen underwear that concealed my nakedness from neck to ankle.
    â€œTurn around! Right! Go on inside then! Sit yourself on the stool and keep your hands on your knees!”
    The tower