Posted by An amazing number of Bardines by name and/or by blood live in the northern New England town of Benedict, Vermont. Founded in 1781, the name arose out of the town’s misunderstanding that, the then loyal Revolutionary general, Benedict Arnold, had passed through close by their area on his march to Quebec in 1775. In fact, Arnold’s route was considerably further east of the town and, of course, later in the war Arnold defected to the British. The town, however, was incorporated near the time of Arnold’s defection, news traveled slowly, and no one knew until much later that they had named their burg after a traitor who made a famous march somewhere else. Apparently, no one was willing to repaint the sign, and the name stuck.
The first Bardine arrived in Benedict in 1857 having left New York City barely ahead of a rabidly angry mob. The inveterate small-time chiseler, con artist, second story man, and lesser member of the notorious Dead Rabbits gang, Peleg Bardine, known to his intimates as Sardine, had been peripherally involved in the July 4th riot with the Bowery Boys. (Google it.) A dozen people were killed in this bloody melee and all but two were civilians. The next day the decent folk of the Five Points neighborhood, sick of the gang’s reign of terror, were hot tempered, on the prod, and looking for a scapegoat. And right on time for a disaster, Sardine, in the company of his best girl, Margaret “Hell Cat Maggie” Ahearn, rounded the corner just up the street on which the vengeful mob was assembled. “Brothers” of his own, “loyal” Dead Rabbits, sitting on a nearby stoop and quick to notice a pot of hot tar, pointed out the lowly foot soldier down the street as a riot ringleader. As Sardine looked down the street, he could see a mob boiling up the sidewalk, brandishing a wide variety of garden tools, and carrying a large metal pot with black goo dripping down its side. It did not require an advanced degree to see where this was headed. There is an old saying that is used to distinguish oneself from the ignorant rabble. It goes something like: “My mother didn’t raise any stupid, gullible…” You fill in the blank as it suits your purpose. Contrary to that old saw, Mrs. Await-the-Lord, “Whiskey Sal,” Bardine had indeed raised some long pondering children. But the fourth and cleverest child, Peleg, (and certainly Maggie) could see with crystal clarity what the future held should they not immediately and with the greatest celerity take to their heels. And that is exactly what they did.
No one knows exactly how the then ill-starred couple came to settle in Benedict. No question but what they arrived by rail. Both were experienced train hoppers. Fortunately, when they were forced to flee, Sardine chanced to have his entire fortune, such as it was, in a leather purse in the pocket without a hole, so they needn’t have starved or ridden the blinds. They could afford tickets, and presumably they rode trains north until they ran out of track or money or both in Benedict, Vermont. And the story really begins when the unfortunate, exhausted, and dispirited couple, funds depleted, first strolled down the High Street and had a remarkable stroke of good fortune.
Trudging along with no destination or even a dime for beer, they heard a loud round of profanity issuing from behind some bushes across the street. Intuitively alert to assessing the main chance, Sardine, the longtime grifter, crossed the street and offered his assistance to a small, elderly, white-haired gent who was breathing heavily and seemed on the verge of hurling himself against the substantial front door of what the overhead sign announced as Sledge’s Clocks. Sardine step assuredly up the walk and inquired whether he might do the man any service. The gentleman bellowed that he was unable to unlock the door as the key had broken in the lock. As if in proof of this, he waved the remaining piece of key in Peleg’s face.
Peleg was unperturbed. All his life people had been shaking one thing or another in his face.
“Well, sir,” he said in a calm, authoritative tone, “It seems you have in your possession the bow, shank, collar, throating and pin of the key, but sadly, the key wards appear have broken off inside of the lock.”
Taken aback by this bit of erudition, the angry gentleman seemed to simmer down. “You seem to know what you are talking about. If that is so, what’s to be done?”
“May I?” queried a very humble Peleg. He stepped up to the door, and produced from a pocket a very long, thin pair of tweezers. Crouching down he slid the tweezers into the lock. In no more than ten seconds he pulled out the tweezers and dropped the key wards into the man’s open hand.
“A very nice piece of work, certainly,” said the old man, only partially mollified, “but how shall I get in without a key?”
“Shall I carry on?” inquired Sardine, appearing so humble in visage and tone that any casual bystander would have accepted him at face value which was, of course, his intention. Maggy, who was standing off to the side through all this, never ceased to marvel at Sardine’s ability to slip into any one of a dozen very convincing personas at the drop of a hat, even though he often looked like a dropped hat himself.
“Please do,” the old man replied.
Again, Peleg reached into his pocket, and this time it was hard to see what he pulled out as if he had palmed it. He went to work – again with the tweezers and the unseen object. Very quickly quiet clicking sounds could be heard, and in less than half a minute the door swung open.
“Wonderful!” The proprietor of Sedge’s Clocks sighed with relief. “You seem to know something about locks,” he offered.
Replied Peleg, from under his cloak of servile abashment, “Though not a professional, I think I can safely claim to have made extensive study of them over many years. And, if I may be so bold,” (And when were you not,thoughtMaggie) “the protection this lock provides, not meaning any impertinence, good sir, well, I am not sure it guarantees the safety of what looks to be,” now glancing through the wide-open door, “a very valuable inventory of horological devices.” (Ah, thought Maggie, cast the lure, you clever rogue.)
“Every clock in my shop is, if I say it myself, at least a cut above the average. And by the way, I’m Ira Sledge, proprietor.”
“And I am Peleg Borstal Bardine, and I am very pleased to me you, Mr. Sledge. Seems every bit a high-class establishment you have here.” And it was here that Peleg, on his way to respectability, parted company with Sardine, the nom de guerre acquired because it rhymed and its owner was renowned for fitting into as well as getting out of some very tight spaces.
“I would certainly like to think so,” replied Sledge not a little chuffed at this praise. “Come in, won’t you?” He gallantly motioned Maggie to enter first which she did with a shy, beguiling smile. (The other thing that never ceased to impress Maggy was the ease with which she also slipped into character following Peleg’s lead.)
Standing just inside the door, Peleg gazed slowly all around the shop his face betraying sincere admiration and wonder at all he was seeing. Clocks of every description hung on every wall. A trio of grandfather clocks stood, as if in conference, in a far corner. Against one wall under shelves on which were droves of little storage boxes sat two work benches which were covered with the tools of the trade. Gob smacked, Peleg stood in awe and tried to take it all in. And then, as it was noon, the chiming began, and the B and E man looked like a small boy might as he stood before the tree on Christmas morning. And all of this was not lost on Ira Sledge.
“What do you think?” he said. Although he was pretty sure he knew the answer.
“I.. I.. I don’t know what to think,” Peleg stammered. “It’s, it’s wonderful. Makes you want to get to know each one of them. Understand who made them, how they work, how all the parts,” and he gestured toward the benches, “go together to make a clock.” Peleg turned and grinned at Ira and Ira grinned right back as they moved as one to the benches. Maggy sighed quietly and found an upturned keg on which to sit and rest while Sardine did whatever it was he was going to do.
n awe and tried to take it all in. And then, as it was noon, the chiming began, and the B and E man looked like a small boy might as he stood before the tree on Christmas morning. And all of this was not lost on Ira Sledge.
“What do you think?” he said. Although he was pretty sure he knew the answer.
“I.. I.. I don’t know what to think,” Peleg stammered. “It’s, it’s wonderful. Makes you want to get to know each one of them. Understand who made them, how they work, how all the parts,” and he gestured toward the benches, “go together to make a clock.” Peleg turned and grinned at Ira and Ira grinned right back as they moved as one to the benches. Maggy sighed quietly and found an upturned keg on which to sit and rest while Sardine did whatever it was he was going to do.