Medusa (NUMA Files 8)

SWALLOWED BY A WHALE.

A Living Jonah Tells His Tale.

Strater hired a hall for the first show and had to turn away hundreds. For two hours, Caleb told his thrilling story, standing with harpoon in hand in front of a moving diorama.

With Caleb’s whaling earnings, Strater had hired an artist who had painted reasonably accurate pictures on a long strip of canvas several feet high. The backlit canvas was slowly unrolled to reveal pictures of Caleb in the whaleboat, the attack by the whale, and a fanciful depiction of his legs sticking out from between the mammal’s jaws. There were images of exotic, palm-studded locales, and their inhabitants as well.

The show played to enthralled audiences, especially in churches and halls in cities and towns along the eastern seaboard. Strater sold story booklets, adding pictures of half-nude dancing native girls to spice up the narrative. After a few years, Strater and Caleb retired from public life as rich as the wealthiest whaling captains.

Strater bought a mansion in New Bedford, and Caleb built his wedding-cake house in the village of Fairhaven across the harbor from the whaling city. From the roof turret, he watched the whaling ships come and go. He rarely went out in daylight.

When he did leave his mansion, he covered his head and shaded his face with a hood.

He became known to his neighbors as the Ghost, and he became a generous benefactor who used his fortune to build schools and libraries for the community. In return, the townspeople protected the privacy of their homegrown Jonah.

Caleb guided Strater into a large chamber that was empty except for a comfortable revolving chair in the center. The diorama from Caleb’s show wrapped around the walls. Anyone sitting in the chair could pivot and see the “Living Jonah” story from beginning to end.

“Well, what do you think?” Caleb asked his friend.

Strater shook his head. “It almost makes me want to go on the road with the show again.”

“Let’s talk about it over a glass of wine,” Caleb said.

“I’m afraid we don’t have time,” Strater said. “I carry a message to you from Nathan Dobbs.”

“The captain’s oldest son?”

“That’s right. His father is dying and would like to see you.”

“Dying! That’s not possible! You have told me yourself that the captain looks as hale and hearty as a young bull.”

“It’s not an ailment that brought him down, Caleb. There was an accident at one of his mills. A loom fell over and crushed his ribs.”

Caleb’s old man’s face lost its last faint traces of color. “When can I see him?” he asked.

“We must go now,” Strater replied. “His time is short.”

Caleb rose from his chair. “I’ll get my coat and hat.”

THE ROAD TO THE Dobbs mansion wound around New Bedford Harbor and climbed to County Street. Carriages lined the driveway and street in front of the Greek Revival mansion. Nathan Dobbs greeted Strater and Caleb at the door and thanked them profusely for coming. He was tall and lanky, the younger image of his father.

“I’m sorry to hear about your father,” Caleb said. “How is Captain Dobbs?”

“Not long for this world, I’m afraid. I’ll take you to him.”

The mansion’s spacious parlor and adjoining hallways overflowed with the captain’s ten children and countless grandchildren. There was a murmur as Nathan Dobbs entered the parlor with Strater and the strange hooded figure. Nathan asked Strater to make himself comfortable and escorted Caleb to the captain’s room.

Captain Dobbs lay in his bed, tended by his wife and family doctor. They had wanted to keep the sickroom dark, as was the medical practice then, but he insisted that the curtains be opened to let in sunlight.

A shaft of honeyed autumn sunlight fell on the captain’s craggy face. Although his leonine mane had gone silver-gray, his features were more youthful than would have been expected for a man in his sixties. But his eyes had a far-off look, as if he could see death creeping closer. The captain’s wife and doctor withdrew, and Nathan lingered by the door.

Dobbs saw Caleb and managed to crack a smile.

“Thank you for coming, Caleb,” the captain said. The voice that once boomed across a ship’s decks was a hoarse whisper.

Caleb pushed the hood back from his face. “You told me never to question the captain’s orders.”

“Aye,” Dobbs wheezed. “And I’ll give you more good advice, green hand. Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. Tried to fix a balky loom. Didn’t move fast enough when it keeled over.”