Shovels and Spades

Julia Gideon was reading aloud by lantern light. “Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day’s wine to La Guillotine.” Raising her eyes from the book, Julia looked across the room. Had James fallen asleep?

No, he was turning his head on the pillow to look at her. His single eye was dark and brilliant in the lantern light, but once again he pulled the sheet over the rest of his ruined face. Julia remembered the way her old father had covered his mouth to hide his toothless jaw. She murmured, “Can you sleep now, James?”

He nodded, but she guessed it was a lie. When Isabelle came into the room in her nightdress, her hair falling down her back, Julia laid the book on the table, whispered good night, and turned to go. But then she had to stand aside for her husband and Eben Flint.

In the lantern light, their faces loomed up out of the dark hall. “Hello, Eben,” said Isabelle, feeling her cheeks grow warm.

Eben gazed at her for a startled moment, then backed away in confusion. Josiah struck a match and lighted a candle. He handed it to his wife, picked up the lantern, and gave her a flashing look. “We need it outside. Don’t wait up. We may be gone awhile.”

Something in her husband’s face alarmed Julia, but she took the candle and said nothing. The floor creaked under two pairs of boots and the circle of light moved away, leaving only the candle.

Soon there were noises from the shed, soft clinkings and clashings. James lifted his head and Julia went to the window with Isabelle. Moving the curtain aside, they saw Josiah and Eben emerge from the shed. The lantern in Eben’s hand made silhouettes of the long-handled tools on their shoulders.

Shovels and spades. What were they doing out-of-doors in the dark of night with shovels and spades?