These Honored Dead

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “But why your carriage? The other carriage at the shed that night would have provided an equally good hiding place.”

  “I heard the other carriage was your father’s—is that the case?” Gustorf said. “‘Speed’ was painted on the rear panel?”

  “My father’s very proud of his coach.”

  “There’s your answer, I wager.”

  I didn’t follow. “Are you suggesting someone wanted to incriminate you?”

  “That’s unlikely,” he said. “I’m a foreigner, just arrived in town. I didn’t know a soul here at the time. I mean the opposite—the person who did it wanted to avoid incriminating you.”

  As I thought about this logic, Gustorf turned his attention back to Martha. “How did it ever happen, my dear, that such a delightful young woman was saddled with such a tedious older brother?”

  “I ask myself that question practically every day,” Martha replied.

  I took her firmly by the arm. “It’s time to be going, Sister,” I said. “We don’t want to tire out Herr Gustorf. And look, it’s getting late.” As indeed it was. It had turned dusky outside and the windows above the Prussian’s couch reflected the dancing lights of the doctor’s miasma candles.

  Martha and I let ourselves out and headed through the darkening streets toward her temporary residence at the sheriff’s house.

  “He’s very clever, isn’t he?” Martha said after a few minutes.

  “He’s thoroughly unsuit—”

  “Joshua! You can’t possibly think I have an interest in him. A girl likes to be flirted with, but that’s all it was.”

  “Very well,” I said with relief. “Still, it appears he had nothing to do with the murders. He didn’t react like he’s trying to hide something. And I suppose he seems an honest man, though he’s quite a rogue.”

  “I think he’s a very good liar,” said Martha with a laugh. “But I can’t imagine he’s a murderer.”

  We had reached the Hutchason house and Martha went up to the front door. But it proved locked, and no one responded when she knocked loudly.

  “Maybe Molly’s around back with a prisoner,” suggested Martha. She led the way as we went through the gate of the white picket fence surrounding the Hutchasons’ large rear yard.

  Sheriff Hutchason kept the town’s inmates in a rectangular shed adjacent to his barn. The jail was roughly twelve feet deep and six feet across. It had a steeply pitched wooden roof and the long sides featured wooden planks fastened on the outside of an iron skeleton. But the short sides consisted of iron latticework, open to the elements, which allowed rain and wind and—during the long wintertime months—snow easy access to the unfortunate men confined inside. The early morning racket made by Hutchason’s two cocks in the neighboring barn tended not to improve the prisoners’ overall humor either.

  The area around the jail cell was lit by the gibbous moon. Molly Hutchason was standing in front of the cell’s grill, and she turned as she heard us coming. I tried to avoid staring at her heavy belly, which was closer to bursting than ever. Can’t be long now, I thought.

  “There you are, Martha dear,” Molly said. “I wondered whether you were coming home for Friday night supper. Humble promised me he’d be home, for once, though I’ve no sight of him yet.”

  “You should be inside at this hour,” said Martha.

  Molly shook her head and said, with a weary sigh, “I’ve been too busy looking after Amos, in Humble’s absence. Or trying to, anyway.”

  I saw there was a figure slumped on the wooden ledge about two feet off the ground that ran the length of the jail cell. Amos Anderson was one of Springfield’s most unrepentant drunkards and thus one of Hutchason’s more frequent guests.

  At the sound of his name, Anderson groaned and rolled over, falling onto the dirt floor of the jail with a soft thud. “Come now, Amos,” Molly said, rattling a tin cup against the bars. “Have a drink of water. It’ll get you home quicker.” Anderson began snoring loudly in response.

  “Fool,” Molly said with a sigh. She tipped the tin cup on its side and poured the water through the bars and onto the drunkard’s boots. He stirred briefly, rubbing his feet together as if scratching an itch, then relaxed again into a contented snore.

  The rear door to the Hutchason house opened and the slave Phillis poked her head out. “Evening, Miss Martha,” she said. “I’ve been telling Miss Molly she’s spending too much effort on a man who don’t deserve it. And this night air isn’t good for her baby.”

  Martha gave me a quick hug, took Molly by the arm, and led her into the house. Meanwhile, Phillis came out with two large earthenware jugs and started filling them with water from the wellhead that stood a few feet from the door. I was about to take my leave when I heard the sounds of approaching horses and two men talking. One of the voices I recognized at once as the sheriff’s. I slid into the shadows cast by the jail shed.

  “. . . wish we had another choice,” the sheriff was saying. The riders pulled up as they reached the barn on the other side of the shed, and I listened to the horses being tied up and a saddle being removed and hung.

  “I’ve told you, we don’t,” returned the other voice. Prickett, I thought.

  The men walked into the yard and stopped a few feet from Phillis at the wellhead, although neither said anything to her nor even seemed to notice her presence. The slave looked up briefly in my direction, though she took pains to avoid direct eye contact. I shook my head. She looked down and continued working the pump handle.

  “I still have trouble believing she could commit such vile actions, and against her own kin,” the sheriff said to Prickett.

  “The widow’s guilty for certain,” replied Prickett, whose stiff-necked white shirt peeked out from his frockcoat. “All the evidence points that way. And this letter I’ve intercepted leaves no room for doubt. It’s all there in black and white. The jury will have little trouble reaching that conclusion once I’m through laying out the evidence of her actions. And of her character.”

  The sheriff made a noise of resigned acceptance. Meanwhile, I felt my heart pounding so loudly I worried the men might be able to hear it.

  “So we’re agreed you’ll arrest her tomorrow?” Prickett said. “It’ll be convenient for you, at the least. The courthouse will be closed for the weekend, of course, but I’ll walk over to Judge Thomas’s house in the morning and tell him we’ve solved the two murders. He’ll want to proceed with the trial immediately on Monday morning, just as soon as the clerk can round up a jury.”

  “Very well,” said the sheriff. “I’ll send word when I’ve returned with her.” With a curt nod toward Prickett, he headed for his back door. Phillis had filled her jugs and, giving a fleeting final glance in my direction, she followed after him.

  Prickett stood alone in the yard, the moon bathing the prosecutor in a soft light. I was silent and still, though my thoughts raced. To whom had Rebecca written? Had she foolishly put into writing something that called into question her sincerity? I had no answers.

  After a long minute, Prickett clasped his hands together and shook them above his head—foreseeing victory, I thought—and went to retrieve his horse from the sheriff’s barn. I exhaled, then jumped when a soft moan issued next to me.

  “Amos,” I whispered. The drunkard had turned over on the floor of the jail cell. He rubbed his cheek against the ground until he found a new resting place and resumed his contented snore. I listened as Prickett readied his horse and trotted away. As I leaned my flushed face against the cool iron bars of the jail shed, my mind aflame with dire possibilities, I found myself envying Amos Anderson and the simplicity of his drunken slumber.

  CHAPTER 22

  I tossed and turned all night, but I awoke before dawn with crystalline clarity of thought. I had to warn Rebecca. I had to get her out of harm’s way. And if that meant helping her flee from Prickett’s clutches, even at great risk to myself, so be it.

  I left our bed, careful not to wake Lincoln, dressed s
ilently, and went to van Hoff’s yard to saddle up Hickory. The horse was surprised to see me at that hour but eager for the early morning exercise, and we were out on the prairie just as the sun edged over the horizon. I took an indirect route out of town, and I thought I’d been successful at avoiding witnesses to my departure. If I was about to help Rebecca become a fugitive, I wanted to make it as difficult as possible for the sheriff and Prickett to reconstruct our actions.

  My plan was only half formed, because much depended on Rebecca. She was, as I knew better than anyone, a proud, independent woman who would not readily take suggestion, to say nothing of direction. She would be reluctant to abandon her business. But I was hopeful that when presented with the stark reality of the impending arrival of the sheriff and his manacles, she would see there was no course available to her other than flight.

  I would help her get to the great Illinois River, two days’ ride to the west. From there, she could board a steamer or hitch onto a flatboat and head downriver. I’d arrange for her to obtain a purse full of gold coins from my father’s agent in St. Louis. And at that point, the entire length of the Mississippi River would be open to her. I didn’t know where she’d go or what she’d do, but I had no doubt there were several avenues of survival available to a woman of her abilities.

  Of course, all this meant I’d never lay eyes on Rebecca again. But I felt no sadness at that prospect because I knew the only alternative was to witness her standing trial in Springfield for two horrendous crimes she did not commit. A trial, I realized full well, where my own name might be sullied during the attack on her character. And then—unless Prickett’s supreme self-confidence from last night was very much misplaced—to watch her swing from the gallows.

  I wasn’t sure how much time we had to flee Menard before the sheriff arrived. In reality, I thought as Hickory and I rode through the stillness of the wakening prairie, I might have been better served by riding up to Menard in the moonlight, as soon as I’d overheard the sheriff’s conversation with Prickett. But riding through the prairie at night was treacherous. And I knew the sheriff, with his regular evening rounds, to be a late riser. He had no reason to suspect Rebecca would be alert to his design. In all likelihood, he would enjoy a full breakfast at his table before mounting his horse. Even so, I would have less than two hours to convince her of the necessity of my plan and get her on the trail.

  I reckoned we were within a few miles of Menard when I spotted in the distance a large white mound, like a huge snowdrift, hard against a stand of dark timber. As the mound came into focus, it took the shape of an enormous tent, and the small forms darting in front of it resolved into soldiers in full military attire. I cursed my misfortune at the presence of witnesses.

  I tried to hurry past the soldiers without interaction, but as Hickory and I began to circle around the tent, the closest soldier squinted at us through the risen sun and shouted out a greeting. He was a boy, surely not yet sixteen years of age, with the burnt features of a farmhand. He wore light blue trousers that were much too long and obscured his shoes; a long, darker blue coat with shiny buttons and a golden sash; and a tight-fitting cap, also in a shade of blue.

  “What’s all this?” I shouted, waving with my straw hat at the several clusters of similarly clad soldiers who were loitering in front of the tent, which I now saw was large enough to have sheltered a couple dozen men.

  “Colonel Hinkle has ordered a general muster today, for the field at Menard,” the boy replied, his voice cracking with adolescent excitement. “All the regiments of the Illinois Militia will be there, and we hear several columns of veterans of the Indian Wars, the Black Hawk, even some boys who went south to gut the Creek, are marching on as well. Should be a right spree, the lads all think. Brandy and whiskey and women too.” He grinned hungrily. “Do you think—”

  I spurred Hickory onward before he could finish the sentence. General musters were invariably the site of great public merriment, outdone as an occasion for general drunkenness and debauchery only by election days. It was sure to be hectic at Rebecca’s store, with men and women arriving in want of new items of clothing and bagatelles to attract the opposite sex, though scarcely anything beyond the abundant alcohol would be necessary for that trick.

  There would be witnesses, and plenty of them, to whatever Rebecca and I decided upon. No matter; the sooner I reached Rebecca, the sooner I could spirit her away from the sheriff’s path. The presence of so many onlookers might mean I would have to answer for my role in the affair, but that was a risk I’d already undertaken.

  I pressed Hickory into a fast trot. As we neared Menard, we encountered military troops mustering in from all directions. Some groups were well uniformed and coordinated, like the first I had encountered, but many more were ragtag groups of a half-dozen men, a single rifle among them, straggling along the road. I doubted anyone in these units had ever been within earshot of an actual battle. Many regiments brought along their bands, drums, and fife and an occasional large horn, such that the air soon filled with a discordant jumble. I guessed several hundred men, at least, were converging on the little settlement.

  At last Hickory picked her way across the rocky streambed and we were there. The commons was already bustling. Several battalions had erected battle flags to claim a particular portion of the green as their own. Soldiers milled about in boisterous congregation.

  I tied Hickory to a post and walked up to the familiar storefront. There was no sign of anyone inside and the door would not budge. I tried pulling it harder when a portly old man came up behind me, his white and blue uniform instantly marking him as a veteran of the Late War with Great Britain.

  “The damned widow’s not there,” he said in a gruff voice reeking of liquor. “I’ve been trying all morning—need a patch for my topcoat here—but the damn place’s never open. Someone told me she wasn’t here yesterday neither. May have to let myself in through the window if she doesn’t show her haggard face soon.”

  Without responding, I raced back to Hickory, who was whinnying at two young soldiers who had started to poke at her fine saddle, and I remounted the animal. Rebecca had been in Springfield two days prior. I realized I had no idea where she’d gone after she left Lincoln’s office. What could it mean that she hadn’t opened her store yesterday? Had she stayed in Springfield for some reason?

  With a jolt, I had the horrible thought that perhaps she had gone back to Torrey’s and remained there and that the sheriff and Prickett knew it. Perhaps her presence there was somehow connected to the letter Prickett had mentioned last night. Had I ridden off to Menard only to abandon Rebecca to the sheriff, who might at this very minute be arresting her a mere few blocks from my store? The idea terrified me.

  I slapped Hickory’s flank and urged her on toward Rebecca’s cabin. We arrived there at a gallop two minutes later. The house looked deserted. The iron bar protecting the front door was firmly latched, and I couldn’t make out any movement as I peered through the windows. My heart beating faster, I walked around to the rear of the cabin. And then the ground beneath me gave way and I was pitched headlong into the void.

  The limp body of the woman who had taught me everything she knew about love lay wedged between the cabin wall and the adjoining stable. I knew at once she was no more. Her arms were thrown out helplessly and her head lay twisted to the side. Her still eyes were open and wide with fear. I sank to my knees, held my head in my hands, and wept.

  CHAPTER 23

  Time passed. I felt numb. The silence of Rebecca’s death roared in my ears, as if I was standing at the seashore and waves were crashing down all around me. I wanted nothing more than to be carried away by one of those waves, carried away into the deep, where I could let go of the visible world and sink slowly to the bottom. Maybe at the bottom—just maybe—would I ever find peace again.

  Eventually I found the strength to approach Rebecca’s body. Either side of the base of her neck was marred with ugly red bruises. I knelt and reached for her
with both arms. Her body was cool and inflexible, and her head lolled back sickeningly when I cradled her and drew her toward me. Her mourning veil remained pinned to the top of her head, a grim reminder of the long hardships of a too-short life.

  “Rebecca!” I wailed. “Oh, Rebecca! Oh, how can it be?”

  I put my lips on hers, somehow hoping to infuse her body with my breath, but her lips were cold and blue and indifferent to my touch. So I lay her body across my lap and held her tight. I stared at her lifeless blue-gray eyes and tried to remember their shine. I contemplated her calloused fingers and recalled their electric touch as they’d traced patterns on my naked chest, twenty feet and a lifetime away. I felt my eyes stinging with tears.

  I knew neither time nor place. The roar of the silent ocean continued unabated.

  CHAPTER 24

  Some time later, there was movement behind me and a shout: “What’s this?” And in the next moment: “Speed? Is that you?”

  Roused from my daze, I looked over my shoulder and saw Sheriff Hutchason on foot, leading his horse. His brows were knit in confusion, trying to decipher the scene he’d happened upon.

  “I was too late, Sheriff,” I said. “She’s gone.” I gulped. “She’s been strangled, I think.”

  “What?” shouted the sheriff. He dropped the lead from his horse and rushed over. “Are you saying you . . .”

  “Of course not. I found her like this. Found her lifeless body when I arrived this morning.”

  The sheriff knelt beside Rebecca’s body. He examined her from head to toe, gently prodding her body and moving her clothing around as he did. Meanwhile, I took a few steps away, staring off into the distance and trying very hard not to be sick. At last, the sheriff rose to his feet and let out his breath in a long, low whistle.

  “She was strangled, all right,” he said. “And she didn’t put up a fight for some reason. There aren’t any bruises on her hands, as there should have been. I wonder.”