American Blood

by Jason Manning

  "Sorry. I don't indulge. So many vices—you just have to pick and choose, don't you?"

  The man stared at him a moment as though determined to imprint Delgado's features indelibly upon his memory, and then walked away.

  A few minutes later, Sarah emerged from the basement, the cloak wrapped tightly about her, the hood concealing her face, and got into the buggy. Delgado whipped up the horse. He didn't remember to breathe until the buggy had quit the square. At one point they passed within a few feet of a clot of dark and silent men. But the men made no effort to interfere with their departure.

  "Are we being followed?" asked Rankin, his voice raspy with nervousness.

  Of course it came as no surprise to Delgado that it was Rankin and not Sarah Bledsoe cocooned in the black cloak.

  "I don't think so. Do you have the money?"

  "Yes, she gave it to me. How much is in the envelope, do you know? I didn't waste time counting it."

  "Enough for passage north. I suggest you go home, Mr. Rankin, and stay there. Helping you escape will cost Miss Bledsoe dearly."

  "You are in love with her, aren't you? That's why you're doing this."

  "Is there a better reason?"

  "Yes," said Rankin grimly.

  Delgado drove to a secluded spot on the dirt lane behind the levee. The smokestacks of dozens of steamboats stood like a forest of naked tree trunks against the indigo sky. As he stopped the buggy, Rankin jumped out, shed the cloak, and left it on the seat. Even now there was considerable activity along the riverfront, and the silhouettes of men on the levee moved against a backdrop of the riverboat lights. But no one was within a stone's throw of the buggy, and Rankin felt secure enough to discard the cloak.

  "Whatever your reasons," said the abolitionist, "you have saved my life, and I thank you. You judge my methods too harsh, but it is a great wickedness that I and my colleagues are dedicated to fighting. I pray that one day the light of truth will dawn on you, sir. A man must stand for something, or the precious life God gave him is wasted."

  "You should have been a preacher, Mr. Rankin."

  Rankin smiled tautly. "I am a preacher, Mr. McKinn."

  "Good luck to you." Delgado stirred the horse and left the man without a backward glance.

  He entered the darkened square off Market Street at a good clip, and his return caught the men waiting there by surprise. Halting the buggy at the courthouse steps, he saw several of them start forward, coming from different angles. They smelled a rat now, and they loped like wolves moving in for the kill. Sarah came out of the basement door and reached the buggy only seconds before the nearest man, who launched himself at Delgado. Delgado planted a booted foot in the man's chest and pushed. Cursing, the man sprawled on the ground. Another grabbed the horse's cheek straps. Delgado plucked the whip from its stock and drove him back. A second flick of the wrists and the braided leather snapped across the horse's rump, and they were off, the horse at a quick canter in its traces.

  "We did it!" exclaimed Sarah, laughing, as they put the square and its dark dangers behind them. "What a wonderful adventure that was!"

  "You might have come to harm. There is no telling what those men might have done. They could have been armed, for all we know." He was cross; he gave little thought to the risks he had taken, but Sarah had been in harm's way, and that had given him a bad moment. He was still shaking, just a little.

  "You wouldn't have let anything happen to me," she said, with complete confidence.

  And what could he say to that?

  They left the buggy at the livery and walked back to the Bledsoe house, entering the grounds by a gate in the rear wall that brought them into the garden. Clarisse would be waiting for them at the back door if everything had gone according to plan. There was no moonlight this evening; clouds blotted out the stars, and a distant drumbeat of thunder warned of a coming storm.

  Chapter Four

  "That's no way for a gentleman to talk."

  1

  Blackwood, the Horan mansion house, had been built in the Southern colonial style, a grand brick structure, whitewashed, fronted with six Doric columns, adorned with a spacious veranda and balcony, and wings on either side. It crowned a rise overlooking a green incline of pasture, with the fields on one side and on the other a dark line of pines and water oaks that marked the course of a nearby creek. A lane flanked by cedars provided access from the main road. Behind the mansion stood the smokehouse, kitchen, carriage house, stables, spring house, and the ruins of the old log blockhouse where Daniel Horan and his family had lived in the early years. A fire had partially destroyed the blockhouse. Relentless weeds and vines were claiming the neglected remains. When he first laid eyes on Blackwood, Delgado McKinn decided that Daniel Horan had done a more than fair job of bringing the Old South to the raw Missouri frontier.

  The curving drive was filled with carriages and saddle horses. Poor weather—slashing rain this morning, now reduced to a steady drizzle—had deterred no one from attending one of the events of the season. The guests spilled out onto the veranda, the gentlemen in fawn- and mustard-colored trousers, lace-fronted shirts, fitted coats of blue and dark green and black, the older women in their dark, staid silks, the young women in brightly colored crinolines and taffetas.

  None of the young belles could hold a candle to Sarah Bledsoe—of this Delgado was convinced even before he arrived. Sarah wore a pink crepe de chine dress enhanced with emerald green Chantilly lace. Green moroccan slippers adorned her tiny feet. Her pale round shoulders were enticingly bare. A lace shawl draped with deliberate carelessness over an arm, a painted fan dangling from one wrist by a dainty green ribbon, her gleaming chestnut hair pulled sleekly back in a chignon, with little side curls left free to caress her neck. Tea rose blossoms were tucked into a satin sash that showed off her waspishly narrow waist. She was, without doubt, the most beautiful belle of the ball.

  And, mused Delgado as he rode in the carriage which conveyed him along with Jeremy, Sarah, and Jacob Bledsoe up the drive, she and I are fortunate to even be here.

  Last night's secret undertaking was today's common knowledge. St. Louis was buzzing with talk. Discovered locked in the cell previously occupied by Jeremiah Rankin, the constable had identified Sarah as the one who had passed a hideout pistol to the desperate abolitionist, the very pistol which the prisoner had threatened to use if he was not released. And it was Sarah's cloak that had disguised the fugitive in his flight.

  There had, of course, been no pistol, or even the need for one; the constable had been a willing accomplice, and the fiction was necessary only to protect him from retribution at the hands of the clique of angry, frustrated men who had been plotting Rankin's death. Sarah had insisted he identify her as the culprit, to deflect any suspicion away from him. There would be no charges leveled against her. She was a woman, and a Bledsoe, besides. All that remained was for Delgado to confess to being the man in the carriage, although Sarah had wanted him to lie with the story that he had had no inkling as to her motives for the nocturnal visit to the jail, and that Rankin had held a pistol on him and forced him to drive to the levee. Delgado would have none of it.

  Jacob Bledsoe's outrage had verged on apoplexy. But for the fact that the ball at Blackwood was in honor of Sarah's return from Philadelphia, he declared, his inclination would have been to confine her to her room indefinitely. As for Delgado, while his honesty did him credit, that could not excuse him for having abused the hospitality extended to him. Delgado could only concur and apologize. But Jacob was still fuming. His daughter and his guest had humiliated him before the entire community.

  Their arrival at Blackwood caused quite a stir. Jacob fairly cringed as the women whispered behind their hands, and some of the men looked with stern disapproval. For her part, Sarah seemed blissfully unaware that anything was amiss. Delgado did his best to ignore the keen curiosity turned upon him by all present.

  Black boys with umbrellas sheltered them from the elements as they quit the ca
rriage and gained the veranda, where Brent Horan was waiting for them. He greeted Jeremy and Jacob Bledsoe with unfeigned courtesy before turning his attention to Sarah.

  "My dear Sarah, you look ravishing."

  "Thank you, Brent."

  "I am delighted that you are home at last. I missed you more than words can express. Come and say hello to Father."

  It escaped no one's attention that Brent Horan acted as though Delgado did not even exist. A calculated insult.

  Daniel Horan was enthroned in a high-backed wing chair in the great hall, where he could greet his guests as they entered. Delgado was shocked by the patriarch's appearance. He had never seen a living man so nearly consumed by death. The chair seemed to swallow up his emaciated form. Eyes haunted by pain were sunk deep in black-rimmed sockets. His breathing was labored, his face gaunt and skull-like. He could scarcely raise a gnarled hand, or mumble incoherently in response to the salutations of the new arrivals as they filed respectfully past.

  "What's become of him?" Delgado asked Jeremy once they had performed the amenities and moved on.

  "Shocking, isn't it? The man's not yet sixty years old and looks a hundred. A few short years ago he was full of vim and vigor. Now he can't walk, and most days cannot speak. A dozen eminent physicians have been consulted. None can make a firm diagnosis, much less propose a cure." Jeremy leaned closer and pitched his voice in such a low whisper that Delgado could barely hear his next words. "Some say God is punishing Daniel Horan for the cruelty with which he has treated his slaves all these years. And then there is the rumor that he is being slowly poisoned."

  "Poisoned? By whom?"

  Jeremy shrugged. "Who stands to gain if his father is dead, and his brother disappeared these many years?"

  "You haven't told me why you so strongly dislike Brent Horan."

  Before Jeremy could reply, Sarah approached, having detached herself from Horan. She extended a hand to Delgado.

  "You promised me this dance, Mr. McKinn. Or have you forgotten?"

  On a raised platform draped with red, white, and blue bunting, the black musicians with their fiddles, bull fiddles, accordions, and banjo had launched into a spry rendition of "Lorena." As Delgado swept Sarah away into the swirling current of waltzing couples, he caught a glimpse of the malignant expression on Brent Horan's patrician features.

  "Your old beau is put out with you, Miss Bledsoe."

  "Oh my," she said, feigning dismay, with wicked mischief glittering in her eyes. "Could it be because I informed him that I had promised you every single dance?"

  It was the first Delgado had heard of this, but he didn't mind. "I guess I don't have to worry about Brent Horan, after all."

  "Why on earth would you worry?"

  "As a rival, I mean."

  The trace of coquetry vanished; she gazed very seriously into his eyes. "No, I don't think you need to worry on that score."

  The great hall was packed; Delgado estimated that more than a hundred people were present. Brent Horan had gone to great expense to make the soiree as elegant as possible. What seemed like a thousand candles burned with the fragrance of bayberries. They burned in china figurines, in brass stands, in silver and crystal holders, in the wall sconces and the chandelier entwined with ivy. In the corners, beneath bowers of artfully arranged pine branches, sat the old ladies and the chaperones. Along the wall in front of French windows open to the veranda, men clustered in conversation around refreshment tables manned by slaves in handsome livery.

  Delgado tried to convince himself that they weren't all staring at him and Sarah, that they weren't all talking about the dark stranger and the brash girl who had come from the East with her head full of silly—some might go so far as to say dangerous—notions. Some were bound to be wondering why Sarah Bledsoe wasn't dancing with their host. Horan's designs where she was concerned were no secret. First the incident on the Sultana, then the freeing of the abolitionist, Rankin, and now this—Delgado felt like a man sitting on a powder keg and playing with matches. But with Sarah in his arms he didn't really care. Only one thought troubled him.

  Suddenly, he had no desire to go home. The war and all its attendant woes seemed far, far removed and singularly unimportant.

  After the waltz came a quadrille, and then one of the new polkas, and Sarah was as light as a feather in his arms, as graceful as a gazelle. She complimented him on his skill.

  "I Suppose you have danced with many women," she said, fishing for a compliment.

  "None as beautiful as you."

  She laughed. "How gallant, Mr. McKinn! You have broken many a young girl's heart, as well, I'd wager."

  "Proper young ladies do not make wagers," he replied, a mock rebuke.

  "I am hardly that. You should know by now."

  "One thing I do know," he said gravely. "I will discover what it is like to have my heart broken when I leave for Taos."

  The smile left her lips. His heart raced. Could it be that she dreaded that moment as much as he?

  The music stopped. The dance was over, and Sarah expressed an interest in a refreshment. They moved to the most convenient table. With haughty disapproval on their faces, two matronly women took themselves elsewhere. A gentleman performed a stiff bow and also departed.

  "You'd think we were typhoid carriers," said Delgado, annoyed.

  "If you care what they think, then I am sorry I involved you in last night's affair."

  "I have no regrets."

  "Oh, dear," she said, surveying the lavish offerings on the table. "I would prefer a cup of switchel. I think there might be some at that table over there. Would you mind terribly?"

  "My privilege." Delgado left her and found the switchel—a chilled drink made of molasses, water, and a dash of vinegar—precisely where she had suggested he look. As he waited for the servant to pour, he overheard the conversation of two men who stood nearby.

  "No American force will ever be defeated by any amount of Mexican troops, sir," declared one. "Our boys are of superior stock and will give the Mexican's 'a hard lesson' at every turn. They will never acknowledge the corn, as we say, to a mongrel cross between the Negro and the Indian. The war will be of short duration, you can be sure."

  The second man wholeheartedly concurred. "Everyone knows the enemy lacks both courage and discipline. But then, what can you expect? The nature of a society reflects the kind of army it is capable of putting into the field. The Mexican people have been oppressed for centuries by military and religious despots. Naturally their character is inferior to ours."

  "I think it unlikely," said the first, "that Mexico will long continue her existence as a nation. Already she has lost Texas. Now Yucatan is seeking independence, and California has been semi-independent for years. Mexico's best fate would be to become a protectorate of these United States, sir. By reason of our situation, the genius of our people, and the form of our institutions, we can confer upon the people of Mexico the industry and government that will cure their impoverished state."

  "Yo' drink, suh."

  Delgado thanked the old Negro and was just turning to look for Sarah when a shout and a crash caused the musicians to cut short the tune they had just begun and made everyone in the hall stop what they were doing. The servant at the table where Sarah stood lay on the floor. Over him loomed a man Delgado did not recognize. Flush with excitement, the man had a piece of paper clutched in his hand, which he shook furiously in Sarah's face.

  "You gave this to him. Do not try to deny it. I saw you with my own eyes."

  "I don't deny it," was Sarah's calm, defiant reply.

  With a knot in his stomach Delgado started forward, but Brent Horan reached Sarah's side before him.

  "What is the meaning of this, Taylor?" he asked Sarah's accuser.

  "This! This is the meaning." The man gave the paper to Horan.

  As the evidence passed into Horan's possession, Delgado recognized it, and the blood ran cold in his veins.

  The pamphlet!

  Th
e abolitionist manifesto that Horan had taken from Jeremiah Rankin aboard the Sultana, which had passed from him to Sterling and then to Delgado, and which in turn Delgado had given to Sarah in the garden two nights ago—and promptly forgotten all about.

  Horan took one look at the pamphlet and all color drained from his face. He glared at Sarah.

  "Where did you get this?"

  "What does it matter? I am a member of the society, and I gave it to your slave, Brent, so that he might share it with the others, in the hopes that at least one might be able to read what it contains, and share the message of freedom with the rest."

  "My God," rasped Horan. He seemed to rock back on his heels, as though Sarah had slapped his face. "I welcome you into my home in spite of what you did last night, and this . . . this is how you repay my kindness? My . . . my love for you?" A cloud of untempered fury darkened his features. Trembling with rage, he forgot himself and grabbed Sarah so roughly by the arm that she winced.

  A throng of people was gathering; Delgado pushed through them.

  "Take your hands off her," he snapped, his black eyes flashing.

  "Ah, here he is again," sneered Horan. "The defender of abolitionists." He let go of Sarah.

  "Come on, Sarah," said Delgado. "We had better go."

  "Yes, take this nigger-loving vixen out of my house," said Horan bitterly.

  Delgado whirled. The words, though meant for Sarah, stung him like a whip and ignited his temper. He still had the cup of switchel in his hand; he flung its contents into Horan's face. The crowd uttered a collective gasp.

  "That's no way for a gentleman to talk," said Delgado coldly.

  He thought for an instant that Horan was going to lunge at him. But Horan, though consumed by a towering rage, stood rigidly in place.

  "You will pay for that," he whispered. "My representative will call on you."

  Jeremy appeared at Sarah's side, his features taut and pale. "You have insulted my sister, sir," he told Horan. "I, too, will expect satisfaction."

  Brent Horan's smile was wintery. He bowed stiffly at the waist. "I am at your service, Mr. Bledsoe."