Wreaths of Glory

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “Jim Alistair,” he said. “My sleeping partner is John Benedict. Dover isn’t much, I guess. It’s on the Ohio Canal, though, so we have blast furnaces for steel, railroads, farms, salt mines, taverns, inns. And schools, of course. My father was a schoolteacher. I don’t know, ma’am. It’s home, I guess.” He looked at the window. “And I fear I am far from it.”

  At least, that part was true. In Kansas, the land of redlegs and jayhawkers, he felt far, far from Clay County, Missouri.

  Leaning back, he smiled at the woman, hoping desperately that Beans would wake up, and relieve him from this interrogation. Yet he found it easy to lie. Criminy, he had never seen Ohio, let alone Dover.

  “It’s on the Ohio River then?” Conor Shea asked.

  “No, sir. The Tuscararwas.”

  Quantrill had spent months drilling Beans and Alistair on Dover, on how to lie, and how to fake what might be the truth.

  “That’s right,” Shea said. “Now I remember. It has been such a while since I’ve been to Dover.”

  It was hot, so Alistair had reason to mop his brow with the handkerchief. One reason Quantrill had told them to play the part of cattle buyers from Dover, Ohio, was that he doubted that in Lawrence, Kansas they’d run into anyone who had ever heard of Dover, Ohio.

  “A lot of Irish there,” Shea said. “It’s grand to be Irish.”

  “It’s grand to be Irish, sir, but Dover is mostly German. Although a number of Irish have settled there since the mills opened.”

  “And just a hop and a jump from Cincinnati. Now there’s a great town!”

  If he had said that before the comments about the river and the Irish, Shea might have been able to trip up Alistair. By then, however, Alistair was on to this man. He knew one thing about Cincinnati—coming from his travels to and from Richmond—and, honestly, not a whole lot about Dover.

  “Cincinnati’s spitting distance to Kentucky, sir.” He turned away and managed a sheepish look at the woman. “My apologies for my language, ma’am.” Again, he met Shea’s eyes. “Dover’s closer to Pennsylvania and Virginia than it is to Cincinnati, sir.”

  Shea bowed. “Geography was never my best subject in school, young man.”

  The mules slowed to a crawl, the driver began speaking as the stage crept carefully along. The coach rocked gently. Craning his neck, Alistair peered out the window. The dust had stopped, but not the wind, and he could see the river, knew they were on a ferry.

  “Your hair,” Conor Shea said, “is as long as a guerrilla’s.”

  Alistair kept looking out the window. Down the opposite bank, a side-wheeler was pulling out of the levee, twin smokestacks belching black smoke, and a smaller packet was making its way to the landing.

  “After we were invalided out of the Army,” he said, not looking at Shea, “John and I decided not to cut our hair until victory is won.” Part of that was true. He leaned forward even more, causing Beans to jerk awake, groggily muttering something, and wiping sleep from his eyes.

  “Commendable.” Shea’s voice was tight.

  “This is the Kaw River,” Mr. White said. “South is the Wakarusa. You can cross there at Blanton’s Bridge … used to be only a crossing … but here we use the ferry.”

  “Not for long,” the lady said. “For soon an iron bridge will span this river.”

  “More progress for a great city in a great state,” said a man in a bowler hat who had just awakened.

  Alistair watched the slow-flowing river, felt the ferry rocking. Minutes later, they had crossed the Kaw, and the stagecoach again picked up speed. “Welcome to the Free State City, gentlemen,” the drummer said. “Welcome to Lawrence.”

  “You appear to know much of this city, sir,” Alistair said.

  “Balderdash.” He elbowed Mr. Shea. “Conor’s your man. He came with the New England Emigrant Aid Company back in ’54. Myself, I did not arrive till September of ’57.”

  Shea cleared his throat. “Have you arranged accommodations?”

  Alistair glanced at Beans, but he hadn’t fully awakened.

  “No, sir,” he answered. “Do you have a place you would recommend?”

  “The Free State Hotel is the best, but, unless I miss my guess, it will be full up. We call it the Eldridge House. But you can likely find a good room at the Johnson House on Vermont. If need be, I shall put in a word for you with the proprietor. I have some pull in this town.”

  Of that, Alistair had no doubt.

  He could see buildings now, church steeples, wooden façades, two-, three-, even four-story structures, plus hacks, farm wagons, buggies, and plenty of Yankees—men and women, old and young, black and white. Beyond that, toward the west and north, he spied a barren mound overlooking the city.

  “That hill, sir?”

  “Mount Oread,” Mr. Shea answered.

  “Mount!” the drummer scoffed.

  Other passengers began to come out of their slumbers. The jehu started cursing the mules, and the coach began to slow. Eventually it stopped, the doors opened, and passengers began trying to stand on wobbly feet on terra firma.

  Alistair stamped his feet on the boardwalk until the blood seemed to circulate while Beans caught the grips tossed down by one of the stage operators. Mr. Shea removed his duster, straightened his tie and hat, and started to move on, but stopped, pointing behind him.

  “This is the Johnson House,” he said. “You will do me the honor of dining with my family and me at the Eldridge this evening at six o’clock? We must properly welcome you to Lawrence.”

  “The honor would be ours, sir.” Beans Kimbrough, now fully awake, dropped the grips by Alistair’s feet, bowed, and held out his hand. “I am John Benedict.”

  “Conor Shea. Captain, Seventh Kansas Volunteers.”

  After shaking, Beans said: “No uniform, Captain?”

  Captain Shea did not answer, unless you counted the twinkle in his eye. “The Eldridge is on Massachusetts. You can’t miss it.”

  “Conor!” The voice boomed in the doorway of the Johnson House, and all eyes landed on the tall man with unkempt hair that had seen neither comb nor brush, by best guess, in decades. He was gaunt, his eyes sunk deeply beneath his high forehead. “Welcome back, my good man.” The words came out in wheezes, as if this wild man in good clothes was always short of breath.

  “Senator.” They shook hands, and quickly Shea turned, gesturing toward Alistair and Beans. “Allow me to introduce you to two young cattle buyers from Dover, Delaware.”

  “Delaware?” The tall man straightened to his full height. “You are far from home.”

  “Actually,” Alistair said, “it’s Ohio.”

  “Still. Well, welcome to the freest city in the freest state in the country. I am James Henry Lane.” He held out a raw-boned hand.

  Alistair took the grip Beans handed him, and felt his face pale. This was far too early, far too soon, for this to be happening. He watched nervously, wondering how he could reach his pocket pistol inside the grip, buried under shirts and ties and Dickens, before Beans Kimbrough ruined everything—and likely got them both killed here, the first day of their mission.

  Beans had already recognized Lane from the Osceola raid, yet, to Alistair’s surprise, Beans accepted the senator’s hand, and shook it warmly. “It is an honor, sir. We have heard much about your exploits in Ohio.”

  “Excellent.” Lane liked the praise. He moved to Alistair, who shifted his grip, and likewise shook the butcher’s hand.

  “Well, enjoy your stay, sirs. Conor, we must talk.”

  Conor Shea nodded, and turned to Alistair and Beans as the senator strode down the boardwalk. “This evening. Six o’clock,” he reminded.

  Speechless, the two could only nod. They stood alone moments later, the stage having pulled off, and the streets beginning to empty.

  “What do we do?” Alist
air glanced at his watch. It was a long time till supper.

  “Walk around,” Beans said. “Get the lay of things. But first, we check in.” He spit in the dirt. “I must wash this hand.”

  * * * * *

  Clean, outfitted in casual duds, and braced by excellent rye at the hotel bar, Alistair and Beans stepped back into the streets of Lawrence and began walking around.

  “Five dollars a week for a hotel,” Alistair complained when they were out of earshot. “That’s highway robbery.”

  “We paid more in Richmond,” Beans reminded him in a whisper.

  “Yeah, but that was in Confederate script. This is Yankee money.”

  They found the four-story Eldridge, which looked as impressive as their hotel, and moved down Massachusetts, nodding politely and offering friendly greetings to passers-by. A black man tipped his hat at Alistair, which caused him to stutter and stare.

  “’Afternoon,” Beans said friendly. “Could you direct us to … um … Blanton’s Bridge?”

  “Two blocks up,” the black man said, “take a right. You’ll come to the ford two or so miles south of town. A stretch of the legs on a hot day like this one.”

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you kindly.”

  The Negro tipped his hat, and walked down Massachusetts.

  “You act like you never seen a darky, Alistair,” Beans whispered.

  “Well, I haven’t … I mean … one that’ll look you square in the eye.”

  Beans was watching the black man, waiting to see if he turned back, maybe suspecting these two young spies, but the man disappeared into a haberdashery.

  “Freedman,” Bean guessed. “I warrant he was born in Massachusetts. Not a slave swiped from Missouri. Let’s go.”

  They wandered about the streets, taking no notes—Quantrill had warned them about doing that—and finally headed south. Most of the streets were named after states. Yankee states. A block off Massachusetts, businesses and residences thinned. Two blocks, and they saw only the occasional house or homestead. Another block, and even fewer homes and farms.

  Beans strode ahead yet another block, then stopped, turned.

  “What’s that hill called?”

  “Mount Oread.”

  “I see a rider up there.”

  “Well, it’s where I’d put a lookout,” Alistair said. Since leaving Missouri, he had rarely seen any trees except along the riverbanks. From a perch up there, a body could see forever. “Speaking of which, I haven’t seen any soldiers.”

  “We’ll find them. Let’s head to the river.”

  “The Wakarusa?” Alistair had no intention of walking a couple of miles.

  “No, silly. The Kaw.”

  They walked east, passing one farm, then another smaller house. Closer to the river, more houses had been built, and Alistair spotted a few trees lining the western banks of the river, but much thicker woods on the higher, eastern slopes.

  The street dead-ended at the Kaw, on a bluff maybe twenty feet high. Farther down, they saw a clearing and landing, but the levee for the steamboats was farther north, just below the ferry.

  There were no ships on the river and not many people around, until they passed some teens hanging out on an empty lot, arguing, while one boy held the reins to two horses. The horses, Alistair noted, were strong stock. The black mare looked like a thoroughbred. They drew closer. The two horses, and, off to the right, a hobbled mule, grazing. But six or seven boys. No, one was a girl.

  That’s when the girl, dirty blonde hair as wild as the black’s mane, jerked a pocket knife from a red-headed boy’s hand. “I’ll show you, Alun Cardiff!” she snapped. Quickly she opened the blade, jabbed the point between her legs, and began ripping the skirt.

  “Lord have mercy!” one of the boys shouted.

  “Keep walking.” Beans shoved Alistair forward.

  As they passed, the girl was ripping the back of her skirt. Then she dropped the knife at the redhead’s feet, whirled, and grabbed the reins to the black.

  That’s when Alistair stopped, clenching his fists. “Looks like a horse race.”

  This time, Beans didn’t shove him forward. He turned to watch the race.

  “That’s,” Alistair seethed, “my mare.”

  Beans studied the black, saw the redhead mounting the bay.

  “Dare me, will you, Alun Cardiff?” the girl said. She was already in the saddle, already kicking the black’s ribs. Her hat sailed from her head. The bay wheeled, and charged after the girl on the black. The Kansas boys cheered. A few cursed.

  “Nice-looking,” Beans said. Long-necked, sloping shoulders, short-backed, legs hard with muscle. Yeah, she was nice-looking, a great racer, too good to be on a Clay County farm, and really too good of a horse to be in a Free-State hell hole like Lawrence. Being ridden by a girl. “I was training her,” Alistair said.

  “I was talking about the girl,” Beans said.

  The black had the lead, but the bay was strong, sleek, fast, and the red-headed boy a better, smarter rider and racer. They rode up two blocks, turned toward the river, cut back along the bluff over the levee, began thundering back.

  Alistair sucked in a deep breath. The horses leaped a gully that drained into the river. The black pulled away. Maybe that girl was a better rider than the redhead.

  Beside him, Beans whistled, then muttered an oath.

  Alistair made himself breathe. The bay caught up, now running side-by-side with the black. Behind him, the other boys screamed, hooted, cursed.

  “Hell,” Beans said, “they’re riding way too close …”

  He hadn’t finished when the bay stumbled, knocking the black to the side. The blonde girl pulled hard on the reins, but, that near the bluff, the soil was loose, soft, giving away, and the horse was screaming, going over the side. The blonde kicked free of the stirrups. Then, she was screaming, too.

  Both disappeared.

  Alistair found himself running, shedding his hat, his waistcoat. Behind him came a cacophony of cries, curses.

  The boy on the bay reined in, swung out of the saddle, and was dashing toward the side to peer over the edge, all the while whispering: “Dear God.”

  Alistair leaped over the bluff. Saw the splashes made by horse and rider below. Saw the black water rushing up to meet him. Above him, just before he hit, he heard Beans’ voice: “Alistair, you damned fool! You can’t swim!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  This was not the Johnson House.

  He awoke underneath a colorful quilt and atop a downy mattress, perhaps the most comfortable bed he had slept in since … Osceola? … Beans’ home? Above him, white linens hung from the half canopy, while the wallpaper on the walls reminded him of all those pictures of English country gardens that he had seen in magazines. Sunlight crept through the bay window; the lavender curtains, so long they puddled on the floor, had been pulled back. Fact was, Alistair felt like he was inside some story book, until he caught the smell.

  Sniffing, he quickly determined the source of the odor. “Criminy, I smell like dirty river water.”

  Turning his head, which hurt like the dickens, he spied a slender, young black woman walking through the open doorway. She carried a tray, which contents did not smell like dirty bath water or river water or anything bad. He was back in that story book.

  “Are you hungry?” She didn’t sound like any Negress he’d ever heard.

  “I could eat.” That had always been the common reply around his home.

  She smiled, set the tray on the night stand, and helped him slide up into the bed, adjusting pillows, pulling down the quilt—he was relieved to see that he was in a nightshirt and not buck naked, until realizing that someone had undressed him to slip on this nightshirt.

  “Ma’am …?” he began.

  That’s when things began creeping through his memories. Ther
e was a horse race. A girl. A horse stumbling, falling over the ledge. And he, not thinking, had dived in after …

  “The black,” he said.

  “Beg your pardon, sir?”

  He met the eyes of the slave—no, not a slave, but a freedwoman. After all, this was Kansas. Wasn’t it?

  “Where am I?” This story book had turned into a horrific nightmare. “What am I doing here? Where’s Beans? What happened?”

  She pressed a huge hand on his shoulder, gently eased him back against those comfortable pillows. “You rest, sir. You eat. I’ll fetch Miz Iris. You’re at the Shea home. You’re going to be fine, yes sir, just fine. Doctor Ashley said there is nothing to worry about, that tough as you must be, nothing could kill you. Not even border ruffians.”

  That stopped his breath short. His hands suddenly felt clammy, and he knew he must be sweating like a race horse after eight furlongs. Suddenly he began breathing rapidly, unable to control it, and the black woman’s eyes revealed fear, concern.

  “Miz Iris!” she yelled. “Miz Iris!”

  She left the tray on the night table, yelling over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back!” hurrying through the door.

  He heard her footfalls on the staircase, heard voices below. He wondered if his legs would work, would carry him out of here? Even more importantly, where had he left his Navy Colts? Footfalls and chatter came up the stairs, and then the chatter ceased, and he couldn’t even hear the steps.

  “Get … a-hold … of … yourself!” He steeled his nerves, managed to get his breathing under control, ran his fingers through his damp hair, which hurt his entire chest, and then a white woman stood in the doorway. Slight, wearing a lavish dress, dark hair flecked with gray tucked up in a bun.

  “Are you all right, Mister Alistair?” she asked tentatively.

  “Yes, ma’am. Just had …” He blushed. “I guess a bit of a fit.” He attempted a laugh. “Nerves.”

  She smiled radiantly. “Are you sure, young man?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He failed to match her smile. “Just waking up here. Strange home. I mean, not strange. Well, it’s a fine place.”