The Mark of Merlin

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I was aware that I should be more grateful. The train was after all headed in the right direction. Track was laid from Boston to the end of Cape Cod and eventually this train, too, would arrive at its destination. Maybe not on the day of embarkation, March 18, 1945, but sometime. Such vague reassurance didn’t make the journey from Boston to East Orleans in a frigid baggage car any less cold and dreary.

Not that this was the first trip I had made in a baggage car. Merlin and I had traveled that way all over the United States, including the territory of Alaska. But this time the ignominy of forcing a gentleman like Merlin among common crates, bales, and boxes, and having to have him muzzled and chained, was one more insult to the injuries of spirit I had already sustained. My rebellion was complete. The only living thing it did not touch was Merlin. He was, all totaled, the one being who cared for me, Carlysle Murdock. I should say, James Carlysle Murdock, driving that particular thorn deeper into my side.

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