Steamboat Dispatch: A Crime Serial
By Our Special Correspondent
Chapter Two recounts the haunting summer of 1879 when the young composer Charles Ives ventured to Chateaugay Lake. Lured by tales of avant-garde music played by the Chateaugay Lake Steamboat Pirate Syndicate, Ives sought to witness this revolutionary art. The wilderness of the Adirondacks provided a mysterious and unsettling backdrop to his journey, where nature seemed to whisper ancient secrets. Ives attended one of the Syndicate’s infamous steamboat concerts, where the music defied all conventions—wild, dissonant, and primal. This chaotic blend of sound resonated with something deep inside him. Later that night, Ives joined a local “hootenanny” at a tavern, where the music overtook him. In a trance-like state, Ives jumped atop a table, mimicking animal cries and playing a strange, makeshift instrument. Locals believed he had been possessed by the Wendigo, the mythical spirit of the North Country. This profound experience left Ives forever changed. The eerie and otherworldly sounds of Chateaugay Lake would influence his work for years to come, shaping his music with a transcendental and primal quality. The Syndicate’s dark musical magic spread far beyond the lake, carried by those who had witnessed its raw power.
Chapter Three: The Observer in the Shadows
Quinn wasn’t one to draw attention. He prided himself on blending in, an art he’d perfected over years of slipping through the shadows of society’s more colorful figures. A “sport,” he’d call himself when asked—a gentleman of leisure, a lover of the outdoors, here to soak in the rustic charm of Chateaugay Lake. And for the most part, folks accepted the story without question. In a place like this, where the land was wild and the people prided themselves on their independence, a man could be whatever he said he was, as long as he didn’t give anyone a reason to think otherwise.
That was how Quinn found himself in the dim light of the steamboat Adirondack that fateful night, watching the young composer Charles Ives lose himself to the wilderness music of the Steamboat Pirate Syndicate. Quinn had heard the stories—the whispers of strange concerts held on the lake, the wild, discordant sounds that drew artists and composers from as far as Boston and New York. He’d come to see for himself, not out of curiosity, but out of something colder, something more calculated.
He’d been in the tavern, too, standing at the back of the room, a silent observer as Ives, overcome by whatever force had taken hold of him, leaped atop the table and began his strange, frenzied performance. Quinn had watched it all with the detached interest of a man studying a specimen in a jar. Ives was a pawn, just like so many others who came to Chateaugay Lake, drawn by the lure of something new, something dangerous.
The morning after the hootenanny, Quinn hired Nathaniel Collins, a local guide with a reputation for knowing every inch of the wilderness surrounding Chateaugay Lake. The man was wiry and weathered, his skin tanned from years spent under the open sky. He had the sharp, knowing eyes of a man who saw more than he let on, but Quinn wasn’t concerned. He’d dealt with men like Nat before—men who thought they understood the game but were always two steps behind.
They set out for Mountain Pond, a secluded spot near Eb McPherson’s place at Indian Point. It was an area Quinn had chosen carefully—remote enough for his purposes, but close enough to the lake that they could return by nightfall. He wasn’t here to fish, but appearances had to be maintained.
Nat was quiet as they paddled across the still waters of the pond, their small canoe cutting through the reflection of the sky above. Quinn cast his line with the ease of a practiced angler, but his mind was elsewhere, turning over the events of the previous night. He could still hear the echoes of Ives’ guttural cries, see the wild look in the young composer’s eyes as he surrendered to the music, and, perhaps, to something more.
“You don’t seem much like a fisherman,” Nat said suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was rough, like gravel underfoot. He didn’t look at Quinn, keeping his eyes on the horizon, but there was a note of suspicion in his tone.
Quinn smiled, a slow, practiced grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “And what does a fisherman seem like to you, Collins?”
“A fisherman enjoys the quiet,” Nat replied. “The peace of the water. But you… you’re listening for something else.”
Quinn’s smile faded. Nat was more perceptive than he’d given him credit for. “You’ve got a keen eye,” he said evenly. “But you’re mistaken. I came to Chateaugay Lake for the same reason as anyone else—to get away from the noise of the world.”
Nat finally turned to look at him, his expression unreadable. “Maybe so,” he said. “But you’ve got the look of a man who’s running toward something, not away.”
The two men locked eyes, the tension between them crackling like the dry leaves underfoot. Quinn considered his options—he could play the part of the affable tourist, laugh off Nat’s suspicions, or he could reveal just enough of the truth to keep the guide off-balance.
“I’m here to learn,” Quinn said finally, choosing the latter. “There’s a power in this place, something that draws people in. The music, the wilderness… it’s more than just entertainment. It’s something older, something that people like Charles Ives can’t help but be consumed by.”
Nat didn’t respond right away. He dipped his paddle into the water, steering the canoe towards a small cove shaded by towering pines. “And you think you can control it?” he asked quietly.
Quinn shook his head. “No one can control it,” he admitted. “But I can understand it. And maybe, just maybe, I can use that understanding to my advantage.”
Nat grunted, his skepticism clear. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said. “People come here thinking they can take a piece of this place with them, but it doesn’t work that way. The lake, the mountains—they take what they want. You’d do well to remember that.”
Quinn didn’t answer. He knew the risks, had seen the consequences of underestimating the forces at play. But he wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t here to create or to experience. He was here to observe, to analyze, to report back to those who wanted to know more about the strange goings-on at Chateaugay Lake.
They spent the rest of the day in relative silence, casting lines and catching nothing but a few small trout. But Quinn wasn’t disappointed—he hadn’t come for the fish. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the water, he knew it was time to return. There were other things to be done, other pieces of the puzzle to put together.
Back at Indian Point House, Nat helped Quinn haul the canoe ashore. He didn’t say much as they unloaded the gear, but Quinn could tell that the guide was still watching him, still trying to figure out what kind of man he was dealing with.
“Thank you, Collins,” Quinn said as he handed over the payment for the day. “Your services have been invaluable.”
Nat took the money, his eyes narrowing slightly as he pocketed it. “I’ve seen a lot of folks come and go from this lake,” he said slowly. “Some leave with what they came for, and some don’t. I hope you’re one of the lucky ones.”
Quinn nodded, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Luck has nothing to do with it,” he said. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”
As Quinn walked away, heading back to the small cabin he’d rented for his stay, he could feel Nat’s eyes on him. The guide wasn’t fooled by the act, but that didn’t matter. Nat could suspect all he wanted—as long as he didn’t interfere, he was of no concern.
Quinn had work to do. The events of the past few days had only deepened the mystery surrounding Chateaugay Lake and its strange hold on those who came here. And Charles Ives… well, the young composer had been just the beginning. There were others who would come, drawn by the same forces, and Quinn would be there, watching, listening, piecing together the truth that lay hidden beneath the surface.
He knew that Nat was right about one thing, though—this was a dangerous game. But Quinn had played dangerous games before, and he always came out on top. The trick was knowing when to take a step back and when to push forward, when to let the others make their moves and when to strike.
As he reached his cabin, Quinn paused at the door, looking back at the lake, now shrouded in twilight. The water was dark and still, its surface unbroken by even the smallest ripple. But beneath that calm exterior, Quinn knew, there were currents, deep and strong, that could pull a man under if he wasn’t careful.
He turned away, opening the door and stepping inside. The night was far from over, and the Steamboat Pirate Syndicate would be gathering again soon. There were plans to be made, reports to be written, and Quinn intended to be at the center of it all.
To be continued in next week’s edition of the Steamboat Dispatch…
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?