The Other Nineteenth Century Read online

  Not that I mean for a moment to indicate anything but the most wholehearted approval for the work done by our regularly appointed young missionaries, but of course nothing can equal the zeal and energy of sailors! And, walking down the Embarcadero and seeing the vigor with which they toss their Orange Julius drinks down their thirsty throats, I think how different the scene must be in (for example) that terribly overgrown and misnamed large city in Southern California, where seafarers may be seen abusing their systems by the use of alcohol, tobacco, tea, and coffee—all, of course, forbidden by The Word of Wisdom of the Prophet Joseph.

  When I speak of the role played in this by one of the only two people who know the whole, true story, I am referring to my maternal grandfather. I am the other. And I suppose I’m a chip off the old biock—or, perhaps, stated more exactly, a chip off the stalwart old Mormon family tree, so well set up (on paper, of course) by Grandpa Spence during the later years of his retirement. How he spent the earlier years, we will see very shortly. As is usual among L.D.S. people, I take a great interest in my ancestors, but most of all in Grandpa Spence. It may be because I inherited (if such things be hereditary) both his interest in genealogy and inventions, as well as that slight speech impediment which becomes troublesome only at moments of excitement. I have always said to myself, “Nephi Spence Nilsen, your grandfather rose above this, and so will you.” It invariably helps. Grandpa was aware of all that and it constituted another bond between us. To sum it up: he and I both tended to stammer, both were interested in Mormon history and genealogy, both loved to consider mechanical devices.

  It was a combination of these characteristics of Grandpa’s which brought about a certain incident which I feel can now, safely, and should now, properly, be made known to one and all. And above and beyond that, my grandfather specifically (though in veiled language) asked me in his will to speak out on this matter at this particular time.

  Grandpa was a peach. Perhaps it was the very enthusiasm of his devotion to the Latter Day Saints (though Grandma drew the line when he dutifully considered taking a second wife) which accounted for his unfailing good humor and zest even when he was quite old. Needless to say that he was a respected and responsible citizen, having for many years been Mechanical Supervisor for the various industries operated by the Latter Day Saints Church, and was valued for his circumspection as well as for his technical competence. Unfortunately (or fortunately: let History decide) his circumspection failed him at one crucial point in his life when—

  But let me simply state the facts.

  Grandpa had left England with a party of immigrants (all converts like himself) as an already full-grown young man of fifteen, crossed the plains to Great Salt Lake City, and within a short time was hired by President Brigham Young to copy letters in his clear and graceful longhand. His promotion in the Church was rapid, and after fifty years of remarkable service, he retired to his own three-story home on First North Street. Grandma had passed from Time into Eternity years before, and all the children had homes of their own; a neighbor lady acted as part-time housekeeper, leaving him free to follow his own inclinations in his own now fully free time.

  The inspiration for the chief of these inclinations arose out of the only real regret that he had ever had. Much more out of his reverence for Mormon history than personal pride, he wished so much that he had not missed by only a year or so having been present on that great day when Brother Brigham led the weary pioneers to the bluff overlooking the great Utah valley and announced that they would stay and make the desert bloom like a rose. In his retirement, Grandpa Spence secretly determined to build a device which would transport him back to that decisive moment.

  “I was born in the age of the covered wagon,” he declared to himself, “and have lived to see the age of the flying machine. Eternity is one thing, but Time is another, and surely to a Saint nothing is impossible!” He was of course not certain of being able to return, he might even be scalped by an unconverted Lamanite, but to these considerations he gave but a shrug and a smile. His enormous dedication to the idea of fulfilling himself in this singular way enabled him to work like a steam engine (he had helped drive the Golden Spike at Promontory Point—Utah!—incidentally); he was a vigorous man with great inventive ability, and he was inspired. He completed the machine one bright May morning and got to Observation Bluff one hour and seventeen minutes before Brother Brigham and his advance party arrived.

  Grandpa had not calculated on finding a smooth or barely downy chin instead of the full beard his hand automatically sought to stroke in satisfaction, but after a moment he realized what had happened: he had traveled back in time so successfully that he had become a stripling once again! Fortunately he had always been moderate in diet and his 20th-century clothes were only slightly loose. Unfortunately he no longer had the gravity and patience of his former years and soon became overanxious and restless. And as the pilgrim travelers approached, his excitement drew him away from the machine, which was well hidden by the bushes on the bluff above the new arrivals. He was recklessly determined to get as close as possible to the principals of this historic moment and to hear the historic words, This is the place! And in moving towards the travel-worn Saints, creeping along in the low bushes, he accidentally dislodged a stone, which tumbled down the slide, gaining momentum.

  Forgetful of all else, he stood up to warn them out of the way, but in his excitement he found his speech impediment rendered him unable to release a sound …

  The stone rolled and bounced and hit Brigham just above the worn and dusty boot on his right leg. The square, heavy face winced and swung around and saw the still-speechless stranger above on the bluff. All the weariness and travel of the long journey west, all the tragedy of the Mormon martyrdom, all the outrage of the persecuted was in Brigham’s roar of pain and astonishment. “Look ye there!” he cried. “Who’s that? Not a speck of dust on him! Throwing stones already! I thought this place was empty and I see that the Gentiles have got here before us!” And while poor young-again Spence struggled vainly to give utterance, regret, and denial, Brigham turned and swung his arm in a great, determined arc.

  “This is not the place!” he cried. “Onward!”

  Not for a moment did anyone dream of controverting the word of the President, Prophet, Revelator, and Seer. Onward! they echoed. And onward they went. And the conscience-stricken young stranger, where did he go? Well, where could he go? He went after them, onward, of course. Of course they couldn’t make heads or tails of his stammering explanations, nor even of the ones he attempted to write. But they understood that he was sorry. That was enough. Mormons have suffered too much to be vindictive. And that night when the band camped, he was brought to the leader’s wagon, where a small lamp burned.

  “Young man,” said Brigham, “they tell me that you have expressed a seemly contrition for having raised your hand against the Lord’s Anointed; therefore I forgive you in the name of Israel’s God. They also say you write a good, clear hand. Sit down. There’s pen and ink and paper. Dear Sister Simpson. It cannot have escaped your attention that I have observed with approbation your

  —no, make that—

  the modesty of your demeanor, equally with your devotion to the doctrines and covenants of the Latter Day Saints, which is of far greater importance than the many charms with which a benign Nature has adorned your youthful person. My advanced years will always assure you of mature advice, and in my other seventeen—is it seventeen? or nineteen? —pshaw, boy!—a man can’t keep all these figures in his head—my other eighteen wives you will find a set of loving sisters. Since it is fitting that we be sealed for Time and Eternity, kindly commence packing now in order to depart with the next party of Saints heading for our original destination which as you know was tentatively the peninsula called San Francisco in Upper California. Yours & sic cetera, B. Young Pres., Church of J.C. of L.D.S.—sand it well, son, for I hate a blotty document.”

  You’ve all read your history and must cert
ainly have often felt thankful that Brother Brigham did not yield to the momentary impulse he admitted he had, and that he did not stop in Utah. Despite its impressive name, Great Salt Lake City is just a tiny town with a pleasant enough view, but even that can’t compare with the one from my window alone. It’s a pleasant thing to sit here in my apartment atop the hill on Saint Street, sipping a tall, cool lemonade, and admire the view. To the west is the great span of Brigham Young Bridge across the Golden Gate, with its great towers and seven lanes of cars; to the east is the Tabernacle, its otherworldly shape gracing the Marina Green, with the stately Temple nearby. I see a network of wide, dignified streets feathered with light green trees, giving the city the look of a great park. And, being truly a Mormon city, it is undisfigured by a single liquor saloon, tearoom, tobacconist, or coffee house.

  And Grandpa? After his retirement, he sold his house on Joseph Smith Esplanade and moved to the fine apartment in the Saint-Ashbury District where I now live. Having decided to leave well enough alone the second time around, he devoted his last last years entirely to the study of Latter Day Saint genealogy. He felt right at home here, as do I, and why not? After all, the Saint-Ashbury can boast of more lemonade and Postum stands per square block than any place in the U.S.A. and one is always seeing and hearing those inspiring and exciting initials: L.D.S.! L.D.S.! L.D.S.!

  AFTERWORD TO “PEBBLE IN TIME”

  Cynthia Goldstone is a highly regarded San Francisco artist. Ray Bradbury once wrote her a letter of appreciation. Cynthia and her late husband, artist Lou Goldstone, exhibited their work at many science fiction conventions, and were a much-loved couple in the Bay Area science fiction community. Avram and the Goldstones were good friends in San Francisco during the lively 1960s and 1970s, before Avram relocated to Washington State. Cynthia has always been fond of her Mormon heritage. I can imagine the fun Cynthia and Avram had, writing this story—perhaps while passing around a pitcher of lemonade.

  —Grania Davis

  THE SINGULAR INCIDENT OF THE DOG ON THE BEACH

  Sitting here in the sunshine and looking at my orange trees, I know there was no way I could have stayed in that awful English climate. But there I was, just gotten off the train in what they call Paddington Station, London, and my arm hurting something bad; however, I tried not to scratch it. A station official gave me pretty clear directions to a nearby doctor, so off I went and in I went. Took off my coat, rolled up my sleeve, lit my pipe as much to distract my mind as because I wanted a smoke, and waited. And waited.

  And waited. No sign of the servant who had let me in, but by and by I heard men’s voices, and called out. In came two men.

  “I hope you haven’t had a long wait,” said one. Burly fellow. “My friend and I are just at the point of leaving. But Dr. Anstruther, round the corner, or Dr. Jackson, down the street, will be pleased to attend to you on my behalf.”

  “I had understood that your office hours were going on now, sir.”

  He gave a look at his companion—a tall, spare, limber man—and said, “Well, well, yes, but, ah, you see—well, Jones?”

  “Well, what, sir? Let’s just have a look. Hm.” It was just a look he gave me. And then he said … and then he said this … all this: “Your arm has a bad case of creeping eruption which you no doubt picked up on the beach in Florida where the dog was. It must itch badly and no doubt has much bothered you all the way from Liverpool, and may even have bothered you while you were grafting the sweet oranges on to the bitter orange root stock.”

  Many years as a poker player had given me control of my face. Merely I asked, what made him say all that?

  He smiled. “Your clothes, my dear sir, are American-cut. Your hip pocket sags, as though it had long carried the weight of a pistol or revolver; this is not the usual custom here in the United Kingdom, although, I believe, far from uncommon in the United States … though, I understand, far less common in the northern than in the southern states. The raised weal of the concentric circle on your arm is certainly that of creeping eruption, an infection often picked up on a tropical or subtropical beach, where the parasite is evidently carried by dogs. Your clothing, if you will pardon me, has a definite tang of pine wood, and it is not the season when our timber merchants receive their Baltic pine. And although your trousers have been brushed, hotel servants are often careless, and there are still some slight traces of the unmistakable mud of the Merseyside, where the timber-boats from Florida often put in. Is there not in your pipe tobacco the aromatic herb, deertongue, a product of the Florida forest? Do I not observe that a drop of the sap of the orange tree has fallen on your sleeve and dried? And had you been cutting down sweet orange trees because they had become infected with the disease to which they are, alas, prone, you would surely have taken off your coat so as to swing the axe more freely. And—”

  And in another minute he would have reminded me that we certainly do graft sweet orange onto the bitter orange root stock which is so much more resistant. I said, “And my arm, sir? My poor afflicted arm? Is nothing to be done for it?”

  They had the gaslight on, and barely noon; and they needed it on, too. This fellow—Jones?—gave a slight shrug. “Well, sir, surgery, even minor surgery, is out of my line. I would suppose that my medical friend here would wish to numb the skin and subcutaneous tissue with applications of ice, and then use the lancet—one, two, three—to excise the tiny parasite which has caused the trouble; eh, doctor, what, sir?”

  The doctor said, somewhat shortly, somewhat ruefully, that he had no ice. “I never have ice. I should advise him to go see Creevey, at St. Stowe’s. Creevey is by way of being somewhat of a specialist in tropical medicine and surgery, removal of the guinea worm, and such. St. Stowe’s is very well-furnished, very up-to-date, and has an ice machine. Meanwhile let me put on a soothing ointment, and try not to scratch—Eh? No charge, no. The servant will let you out, my friend and I must be on our way, now; pray excuse haste.”

  His friend had already forgotten me. I heard him say, as they went out, something which has stuck in my mind forever. But I did go to St. Stowe’s, by way of what they call a four-wheeler; the other kind of cab, the hansom, has only two. Huge place, St. Stowe’s! In came a heavy-bodied, short-legged man: stamp-stamp-stamp: this was Mr. Creevey, the surgeon. He scarcely listened to me.

  “Dr. Who? Never mind, don’t signify. Eh? ‘Creeping eruption?’ I daresay; be glad it’s not guinea worm! Eh? ‘Ice,’ what do you want ice for, do you think this is a lolly-shop, this is a surgery; we don’t serve ices here! Dresser! Scrub down that arm! Dresser! A clean lancet! One-two-three: there! All over. Dresser! Patch him up! ’Day!” Stamp-stamp-stamp; exit Mr. Creevey the surgeon.

  The dresser said, “If you feel faint, sir, put your head between your knees while I set this carbolized bandage on your arm. You are lucky to have had one of the foremost up-and-coming men in this hospital, sir. In London, sir. D’you like London, sir? I don’t. Coming from our dispensary at Gravesend this morning I saw that new ship, the Ballarat, starting to get up steam; if I had a purse of gold I’d be off like a shot and aboard her. Ah, sunshine!”

  Wonder what the man’s name was; the dresser, I mean. He put the idea in my head, and an hour later my satchel and I were in the steam launch, heading down river for the Ballarat.

  Doothit had had no business sicking his dog on me or pulling that pistol when I bashed the critter. It was Doothit who’d shot the bank cashier, not me; I never wanted him shot. I only wanted my fair share of the gold, but things being the way they turned out, why, I took Doothit’s share, too. It came in handy while waiting for my new-planted trees to bear. I took a new name here, to go with my new life; they are used to that sort of thing here, anyway. And I raise as good oranges in Queensland as ever I did in Florida.

  It’s not that I think too much about the past, but just that just now this little bitty old scar on my arm reminded me. That first doctor back in England—his name … what … what? No matter. I even kind of forget his f
ace. Funny way to neglect a medical practice, running off from patients because a friend says, such an odd thing to say! “Quick, what, sir! The game’s afoot!”

  But I don’t forget his friend’s face, though. Sharp as a hatchet and just as keen. Yes! Very keen! And very smart! What a beautiful system of logical deductions he had, too. Look what he smelled out about me in a few seconds. Good thing I lit right out for Australia and never came back there, or he might soon have smelled it all out. Yes, he likely might right soon have smelled it all out. I know his methods.

  AFTERWORD TO “THE SINGULAR INCIDENT OF THE DOG ON THE BEACH”

  Nowhere do the names Watson or Holmes appear in this glorious pastiche, which carefully blends the precise recall of events with just five instances where the most celebrated names in detective literature are misheard. The perspicacity of that “one look,” and the “beautiful system of logical deductions” that unfolds as a result, leaves the reader certain that it was Sherlock Holmes who provided the off the cuff diagnosis—and who spooked the narrator enough for him to take ship for Australia.

  —Henry Wessells

  THE ENGINE OF SAMOSET ERASTUS HALE, AND ONE OTHER, UNKNOWN