By Tom Moran
Tom Moran is a professor at Rochester Institute of Technology whose stories have appeared in Penumbra, Brevity, Reed, Stone Canoe, and the R-SPEC anthology 2034: Writing Rochester’s Futures.
Tom loves the beauty and power of waterfalls such as the ones where daredevil Sam Patch made his wondrous leaps. In fact, Mr. Patch himself is the focus of Tom’s tale, “High Falls,” recounting the final days of one of Rochester’s most colorful legends.
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Miss Eveline Stoddard was one of the cases that greeted me when I began my employ at the state lunatic facility in the city of Utica. The year was 1846, and I had only recently completed my medical studies with Dr. Chapman at the University of Pennsylvania. I had secured a two-year appointment at the New York asylum, which everyone called The Main.
It was not my first choice among possible assignments for a young medical graduate, but my grades were not stellar and I believe my professors were less than generous in their letters of reference. With no other opportunities beckoning, I was happy to have upstate New York welcome me at the onset of what was to be a summer of unusual warmth and revelation.
I found The Main to be quite unlike the Philadelphia hospital where I had gained practical experience during my studies. At the asylum, each day I was met with physical assault, hysteria, the rawest curses and blasphemies, and a profusion of most foul human odors. As hard as I might want to believe that God loves us one and all, there was no sign whatsoever that any of our charges at The Main had been even faintly smiled upon by our Lord, let alone loved by him. They were poor things, wretched one and all.
Eveline Stoddard was, however, the exception. She neither ranted nor raved. She took decent care of herself, bathed, saw that her hair was neat, kept her clothing laundered, and managed as well as possible under the conditions. Many of our charges were poverty-stricken, cast off by families that had little themselves and certainly nothing extra to care for a member who was mad or half-mad and unable to contribute to the family’s weal. That was not the case with Miss Stoddard. She owned multiple properties in the city of Rochester. The rents she took in, although not enough that one would call her wealthy, were certainly enough to take care of her day-to-day needs with relative ease.
Miss Stoddard had admitted herself to The Main, traveling east on a canal packet, showing up at the front gate with a hand-written note from her physician requesting that she be taken in and given care. She had, it seemed, been struck mute and could not or would not say a word. The asylum’s doctors and nurses, one after the other, had done their best to coax a meaningful sound from her, but Eveline remained as silent as a stone. If she had some complaint or ailment that needed attention, she would communicate by signs and by writing messages. When I arrived at the facility I was informed that Miss Stoddard would be an easy patient, a ward who would require little attention and offer scant danger, unlike many of the others.
Like most of those at The Main, Eveline resided in what was termed a private room, a small cell with barely enough room for a bed and wash stand. On the third week of my employ there, I was surprised during my afternoon visit when she reached out and touched my face, her fingertips moving slowly across my cheek. “You look like him,” she said, a soft wistfulness in her voice. “Your features are so similar. I can see him in you. My Sam.”
“Who is it that I resemble?” I asked, quite taken aback by this stream of words suddenly coming from a woman well known to be incapable of speech. “Sam?”
Her fingers playfully pinched at my cheek. “Why, Sam Patch, of course. Do you know of him? He is quite famed as a jumping man.”
Of course I knew who Sam Patch was. It was some years back but there had been a time when the newspapers and gazettes were filled with accounts of the exploits of Mr. Patch. His death-defying leaps at Niagara had made his name as oft spoken as that of Old Hickory, who was then campaigning to be our president, or Mr. Fenimore Cooper, the writer whom every literate was reading in those days.
I was just a youth then, of course, but I can recall my father reading aloud from the pages of The Democratic Press, clearly incredulous at the reporters’ descriptions of Sam Patch’s jumps, suicidal descents from the rocks above into the maelstrom that boiled at the foot of Niagara Falls. I had not yet seen those splendid falls, but my father had viewed them when he served under General Jacob Brown at Lundy’s Lane. Father he made it clear that in his view, no human could possibly survive the power that resided in that cascade, a force that would either drown a man or grind him to a pulp on the rocks below, or, quite possibly, do a fine job of both. “This Patch fellow is not like the rest of us,” my father opined. “He is either the luckiest man on earth or he is no man, no mortal man at all.” I have now been to Niagara and understand my father’s concern, as overly dramatic as it may have seemed at the time.
After his stunts at Niagara, Patch journeyed to the city of Rochester, intent on jumping the big waterfall there, the one that is called High Falls. Since moving to New York, I have on several occasions seen the fury of the water pouring over that spot. I admit that it does not seem so fearsome as the cataracts of Niagara. But it is a plunge of 100 feet or more, and the flow storms over the precipice in two directions, a furious deluge crashing upon massive rocks far below. Patch’s luck persisted briefly and he managed to survive a jump at Rochester but, greedy for adulation, he attempted the feat a second time and perished. That sad result demonstrated that Mr. Patch was, like the rest of us, of human form and frailty.
Miss Stoddard, as it turned out, was an elective mute, and I was the only one granted the privilege of hearing her words. I selfishly held this knowledge back from my colleagues, doubtful that any of them would believe my account. I was quite sure that should I reveal our secret, Eveline would respond to me with complete silence. I feared that greatly, as the tale she was weaving had piqued my interest, and I looked forward to more revelations of her time with the famed Mr. Patch. It was slow, like piecing together a most complicated jigsaw puzzle, but as the weeks passed I began to realize that I was either privy to a great and fabulous secret or being taken for the biggest fool in all of New York state.
Miss Stoddard claimed that she had met Patch at an Exchange Street saloon late in October, when he first set foot in Rochester. She had been a wild girl then, she recalled most candidly, known to frequent the saloons that offered the travelers and bargemen moving up and down the Erie Canal a place to drink, play at cards or dice, and tell their tall stories to anyone who would listen. Sam, seemingly at his happiest in places that reeked of stale beer and cheap tobacco, caught Miss Stoddard’s eye immediately and was pleased to offer her refreshment and tales of his many exploits. Before she knew it, she was upstairs in Sam’s room and they were together in every way. They stayed together, rarely parting company, for more than three weeks. “What a time it was,” she said, squeezing my hand as if it afforded her some security as the memories surged through her. “I would not trade those few days for a queen’s lifetime.”
It was during that brief span that Patch was to make his jumps from High Falls, and as word spread, an army of visitors descended upon the blossoming city, eager to view the spectacle with their own eyes. Rochester’s hotels were full; the overflow rented space in hallways, slept on tavern floors, and filled the parks with their bedrolls. Everyone wanted to see Sam Patch, the jumping man, and the daring performances set to take place at the High Falls.
“Sam loved the attention,” Miss Stoddard told me one afternoon. “Everyone wanted to shake his hand and buy him drinks. People thought that Sam was a drunkard, the way he put away his whiskey. That was not the case,” she said, shaking her head. “Liquor had no more effect on him than lemonade. He could drink two pints or two gallons, it would make no difference to Sam Patch. But he chose to act tipsy, to slur his words and stagger about. He wanted people to take him for a souse. It was Sam’s way of keeping them from asking too many questions.”
“About what?” I asked.
Miss Stoddard’s lips formed a tiny, rueful smile. “About the truth,” she answered. “He knew they would find it shameful.”
But she would tell me no more, and for a great deal of time this truth, as shameful as it might be, eluded me. I, of course, was unsure of the truth in any of her narratives. But Miss Stoddard was making progress, and I sought to spend more time with her, walking the long halls of the facility and eventually accompanying her outside for strolls on the lawn. When we were outside with the elms and the soothing warmth of that summer’s sun, just the two of us, I believe she felt freer and spoke more openly.
I was enjoying our little walks, almost too much it seemed. Eveline, although much older than I, did not really seem so, and despite the dissipation associated with her life in Rochester, she still was quite handsome to my eye. One afternoon, as we climbed the steps toward the huge limestone columns that marked The Main’s entrance, she said something so strange that at first I thought I had, perhaps, misheard her.
“You have Sam’s face,” she said, running a fingertip down the ridge of my nose. “His eyes. That long chin. But Sam’s skin was of a different texture. It was slick, taut. More like the covering of some sea creature. I did not find it repellent. Far from it. You have his look, but there was so much that was different about Sam Patch. I wish I could tell you. I dare not.”
I wanted to question Miss Stoddard about this assertion, but she had become speechless with the appearance of our director, Dr. Brigham, and two nurses at the building’s entrance.
One humid afternoon, she recounted to me her story of Sam Patch’s leaps. “Everywhere you went, people were making and taking wagers. Most were sure that he was going to perish. Sam was of a different mind,” she said. “His was more than the confidence of a man who feels his skills far outweigh the challenge ahead. With Sam, I felt that he could see ahead, that he knew—absolutely knew—what would happen when he made his jumps.”
Patch had bet every cent he possessed on his own success and, at his urging, Eveline had herself borrowed additional money for him to wager. She had been less certain of the jump’s outcome and had to force herself to watch as Sam leaped off the cliff’s edge into the void. It would have been certain death for any of us, but for Sam Patch the long drop, the bone-crushing impact with the roiled, icy water, the current flailing his body against the slime-covered boulders arrayed around the base of the falls, meant nothing. He climbed out of the Genesee River without the slightest sign of a scratch or discomfort. “It had all been,” Miss Stoddard offered, “as simple as touching his nose.”
The announcement that Patch would stage another jump brought even more people into Rochester to witness what many realized might be the event of their lifetime. For this attempt, Sam ordered that a platform be built at the edge of the falls so that this jump would commence from a position that was even higher and more dangerous. Even so, Sam had become a hero to the workers and sporting gentlemen who mobbed Rochester’s betting parlors, and the odds now strongly favored Patch’s survival.
If Sam was prescient, as Miss Stoddard had suggested, he would have known of his coming demise. I asked if he had shown any emotion prior to this second jump at the High Falls. “No, it was all the same to Sam. He was deadly sure of himself,” she recalled. “He wagered the entirety of our winnings from the first jump as well as an advance payment he had received from Mr. Drake, his sponsor in Rochester. It was a steep sum. I had to place the bets myself, scattering them among different bookmakers and barmen throughout the city. Sam wanted no one to know he was wagering against his own survival.” She let out a short laugh, surprising herself with its sound. “That would certainly ruin the show.”
I was stunned. “You bet that Patch was going to die!”
There was, perhaps, too much the sound of disapproval in my voice, for when Eveline turned to me, her eyes had narrowed and her face bore a cross look. “Yes,” she said, all softness gone from her voice. I had not previously experienced her anger and feared it could provoke a return to muteness in her dealings with me. Still, I wanted to learn more of what had happened in Rochester.
“So, you collected the winnings?”
Eveline stared at me for some time, saying nothing, and I was sure I had lost her. Then, finally, she spoke. “It was a tidy sum. With Sam’s counsel, I purchased several buildings using our winnings. Those have enabled me to live rather well for many years now. Why, do you begrudge me them?”
“I don’t begrudge you anything,” I pleaded, not wishing to further aggravate her. “I was just curious as to the outcome. Many would say it is a poor trade, riches for a man’s life. A man for whom you cared. I make no such judgment. But I wonder if you do not impose a sentence upon yourself when you choose not to speak. Is silence your punishment for Sam Patch’s death?”
The anger in Eveline’s eyes loosened and her mouth rolled into a sly grin. “But Sam Patch is not dead.” She made a sound much like a girlish giggle. “He is alive and well, raising hell somewhere. You can be sure of it.”
“But he died in that jump. He drowned.”
Eveline’s head wagged back and forth and her grin widened. “Sam didn’t die. He stayed under the water for a long time, hiding in the rocks, evading the searchers. He could do that, hold his breath as if he needed it not. A lot of things were possible with him that you and I would find quite unusual,” she said, her eyes widening to underscore her words. “Sam stayed in the water until it was dark and then I made my way down stream and met him just below a small island that breaks up the Genesee’s flow. We sneaked back to my rented room and stayed there together for three more days. When Sam made his departure, he left me with the majority of our winnings. It was a great stack of money.”
It had been widely reported that Sam Patch’s body had been found the following spring downstream at the village of Charlotte, where the Genesee River meets Lake Ontario. “What about his corpse?” I asked. “How do you account for that?”
“That was not Sam. On our last evening together, I went for a stroll along the towpath. I quickly caught the attention of a drunken mill hand who had hopes that he might partake of my favors,” she said, offering me a sly wink. “I led the poor sot away from the canal, into a dark alleyway where he staggered after me. Sam lay in wait. He broke that man’s neck as easily as if he were snapping a dry twig.”
Eveline related how they had dressed the unfortunate man in Sam’s clothing and thrown his body into the river. It floated in the current, going over the falls and flowing north until it snagged on a tree root and lay there under a sheet of ice for the winter. When that body finally washed up in Charlotte, who could say whose name belonged to it? Everyone believed that Sam Patch was dead. That made it quite easy for them to believe that they had found his remains. “Sam was no more dead than you or I are today,” Eveline said, quite emphatically. “And never will be.”
“How can that be?” I asked.
Eveline looked at me and grinned a bit. “I have told you before that Sam was different. You still have no idea what I mean. Once, I told Sam that I thought him to be quite the daredevil. That brought forth a great laugh. ‘You are not so wrong, Evie my love. You have some of it right, yes you do,’ he said, laughing loudly. ‘But, am I a man who dares? Or am I the devil? Which part of daredevil do you think it is, my love?’
“Sam had his appetites. Being with him was experiencing something not of this world, pleasures that were beyond my imagination. Mind you, I was no angel. I had known men before him. More than a few. I am not loath to let the truth be known. But Sam was like no other man. Swept up by our passions, many times my hand would glide down his spine, follow the curve of his back, graze the long stub that lay at its base. I loved Sam Patch and knew exactly which part of daredevil it was that described him. I had known since the very first night.” Eveline turned to me, her eyes challenging. “I hope you don’t think wrong of me. I do not wish that.”
Those were the last words that I heard Eveline speak. The following day I was to learn that she was gone from The Main, released to the care of a Dr. Zamiel who practiced in Rochester. My inquiries about her departure were restrained, as I knew that many of the staff were jealous of the strides I had made with Miss Stoddard and felt our relationship tested the bounds of medical professionalism. It was a month before I was able to journey to Rochester, where I found no sign of either Eveline or this Dr. Zamiel. I write this today because for a long time I thought her recollections were just the ravings of a woman whose mind had softened from years of inebriation and guilt. But the more I have thought about it, the more it is clear to me that she was lucid and totally in control of her faculties during that brief period when she recounted to me her story of Sam Patch’s last jump. Eveline’s tale may have been a total fabrication but as the years have passed, I have grown far less sure that that was the case. We may not wish to believe such a story, but quite possibly it is true never the less.
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