Adelsverein

by Celia Hayes

  “Well, show him into the parlor.” Hansi ran his hand impatiently over his hair. “Thunder and lightning, is it Thursday already? Don’t just stand there, Marie, go on! Show Mr. Johnson into the parlor!”

  “Papa . . .Mr. Johnson is a darkie!” Marie pleaded, in an agony of embarrassment.

  Hansi snorted. “Marie, my silly goose, I am hiring Mr. Johnson to do a job for me. If he does what he says he can do, I will be in such debt to him that he may make amorous advances towards you under my own roof and I will have no objection at all. Go! Say that I shall join him in a moment.” Marie fled, crimson with embarrassment.

  Hansi chuckled at Magda’s expression of shock. “He wouldn’t, of course; besides being one of nature’s own gentlemen, he’s married—and married to a woman that he all but moved heaven and earth for, when she was taken by the Indians, two years ago. Besides,” Hansi stood from the desk with a grunt of effort and pulled on his good coat, “he’s a sensible man and a bold one, too. He has connections among the friendly Indians, so they say. Tell Anna to close the shop for a bit. I want her to hear what I have to say. You too, Magda.”

  “Who is this Mr. Johnson, then?” Magda asked, as she followed after her brother-in-law. “What does he do and why do you think that he, of all people, can help you get your children back?”

  “Because he did it before,” Hansi answered. As Anna locked the door and followed them towards the parlor he explained, “He worked as a foreman, first for the family which owned him and then for another. His wife and two children were taken two years ago in the Elm Creek raid. He went and got them back, spent a year prowling among the Indian camps in the territories. He’s a trusty man as well as having the very nerve! I made enquiries, you know. If you can send a man out to search and carry the ransom money for strangers, then I think I may trust him with about anything else. Including,” he added with a heavy attempt at humor, “the virtue of my own daughters in the parlor, under my own roof, eh? Think I can depend upon the wild African to restrain himself?”

  “Papa, there are folk you must not make a jest like that to,” Anna said in all seriousness.

  Hansi laughed again. “I know, Anna pet. I know. You, your mother and your aunt are about the only ones to whom I might say something of the sort.” His face sobered as he put a hand to the parlor door. “She would laugh, so much. I would give much to have her back again with us, in her own good temper once more!” He opened the parlor door, saying as he strode within, “Mr. Johnson—so generous with your time to come all this way. Please, do sit down. My daughter and sister-in-law I wish to be present.”

  Not a proper, formal introduction, Magda thought. Such was the way of this country, even such as Hansi had become attuned to it. Receiving a colored man in the parlor, having his daughter and sister-in-law touch his hand, acknowledge him in courtesy. No, Hansi had become a man of business; he would not offend against custom to that extent.

  Anna stepped forward, her voice perfectly controlled. “Miss Anna Richter,” she said, evenly in precise English. “I serve as Papa’s secretary. He has asked me to be present, Mr. Johnson. He tells me you may be able to retrieve my brother and sister from the hands of their captors. Do make yourself at ease and tell us of how you expect to accomplish this, when so many others have failed us in this respect. This is my aunt, Mrs. Becker,” Anna added with a challenging flash of her eyes. “My dear mother is indisposed; her sister takes her place as far as the proprieties are concerned.”

  Hansi’s guest had not sat down. He stood by the parlor stove, not at his ease, yet seeming to be comfortable, assured. He barely brushed Anna’s fingertips with his own, nodded courteously at Magda. “I cain’t much promise anything, Miz Richter, only that I will do my bes’.”

  “So,” Hansi rumbled, “do, please—sit, sit, sit!” He gestured Mr. Johnson towards a chair and the visitor perched on its edge. He was wary and watchful, as if unaccustomed to well-adorned and comfortable parlors; but not nervous. His eyes flicked once, twice around the room, making a swift assessment of his surroundings and of Anna and Magda, before fixing his attention on Hansi, who continued, “You did not say how you came to hear of our need?”

  “A frien’ tole me about your advertising in de papers.” Mr. Johnson had a deep voice, like a bass viol. His dark hair was cut close to his scalp, but other than that and the set of his mouth, Magda did not think he looked particularly African. He was not even as black as some of the slaves she had seen since coming to Texas, but rather dark brown and well-formed. “They knew I was set on going to Indian Territory in de summer to search for Miz Fitzpatrick’s youngest granddaughter. So dey says as I ought to send notice to you, since you have kinfolk taken captive. It might be of service if’n I look for your chirren as well.”

  “So it would be,” Hansi answered.

  Anna said in very precise English, “You seek payment of sorts, we presume?”

  Johnson replied with immense and careful courtesy, “Your father said a wage in his letter to me, but money ain’t a necessity, Miz Richter, not ‘til I find the chirren, if the Lord ‘lows it. Then I sees what ransom the Injuns want. I don’t wants you to open your purse, ‘til I come back from de territory and tell you face to face, an’ dat be de truth.” Magda, sitting quiet in the corner, thought it sounded like a dignified reproof and wondered what it was about him that seemed so familiar.

  Hansi replied with his own dignity, “Since you are undertaking such an enterprise at least partially on our behalf, I insist you allow us to provide you with supplies necessary for your long journey.”

  “I wouldn’t say no to that, seh, I surely wouldn’t,” Mr. Johnson answered. His reserve thawed a little, for he smiled, an unexpectedly sweet smile. Magda realized why she had been struck with such a feeling of familiarity. He reminded her of her husband. Not in any particular physical likeness between them, aside from height, but that they both reflected the same self-contained reserve and air of quiet competence. Men of the frontier, they were; used to being alone and supremely confident in their abilities to venture into the wilderness and survive against any odds they found there. If Carl Becker had sat in the parlor of Vati’s house and calmly announced that he was going to go to Indian Territory to ransom Willi and Grete back from captivity, Magda wouldn’t have doubted for a second his ability to do exactly that. So it was with this man. He listened with grave sympathy as Hansi spoke of Willi and Grete, of their ages and appearances, of the pale scar on Willi’s back just under the shoulderblade and the tiny chickenpox scar in the very center of Grete’s forehead. He spoke also of the circumstances under which they had been taken and the fruitless pursuit of their captors. Mr. Johnson listened and talked little of his plans, only that he had intended to seek out a chief who was a particular friend of his, who had served as a mediator on his previous quest into the Llano country and Indian Territory.

  Finally, Anna tilted her head and looked at him skeptically. “And may we ask why you are so ready to undertake such a mission as this, for so little reward and so much risk to yourself?”

  “’Cause I’m right good at it, Miz Richter,” he answered. “An’ mebbe the Lord has called me to use that fo’ other folk, they as knows what it’s like to ride like the very devil hisself an’ come home too late . . .find they own son dead on the porch and the house afire, an’ Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s daughter scalped an’ dead with a empty rifle in her hands. It took me pert-near two years to get my Mary back and the babies with her and Mister White’s boy, but I did it. I found some Injuns an’ made dem hep me fin’ dose who had my fambly. I came back an’ I raised de ransom my own self, an me an’ Mister White, we went out an’ we got our own back. So, I got de callin’, Mister Richter, Miz Richter. De Lord, he say you got de talent, you cain’t put dat under no basket. Miz Fitzpatrick, she say her lil gran’baby still out dere,” He regarded them steadily, his determination a quiet thing, like the limestone that underlay the hills around them. “So, I’m goin’ back, bring dem babies home where d
ey belong just like I brung my own home.”

  “You are the first to speak to us and offer hope,” Hansi noted, his own voice deep with suppressed emotion. “The first to speak so, since we lost the trail of the party who took them.”

  “I ain’t brought them back yet.” Mr. Johnson shook his head, as if to warn them against expecting miracles, but his quiet certainty was as a tonic.

  “None the less,” Hansi stood, as if to indicate that he had made a decision on the matter, “we shall support you in this venture, Johnson—support you with whatever you need. If you come to the house tomorrow, my daughter will provide you with letters of credit and introduction. I have friends in certain towns along your way. With my good word, they will supply you with all you require.” As they shook hands, Hansi gripped Johnson’s hand in both of his, begging, “Bring them back to us! My dear wife is nearly destroyed at the loss of her children.”

  “Unnerstand.” Johnson also appeared much moved. “The Lord will guide my feet, and set my eyes on the heavens.”

  “Good, good.” Hansi pulled himself together with an effort and made as if to show Johnson out of the parlor. As they went into the hallway, Magda heard her brother-in-law say, “So, Mr. Johnson, what is your profession, then? A scout for the Army, or a huntsman of the buffalo?”

  “I allus done a lil freight-haulin’,” Johnson replied, “wit’ my own wagon an’ team. An’ I useta manage Miz Fitspatrick’s land fo her, but that wuz before she an’ the chirrin an’ my Mary was all took by Injuns. Now, I took my fambly an’ settled in Weatherford, over in Parker County. I do some teamsterin’ now, haulin’ more freight out to dem Army posts.”

  “Ah!” Hansi sounded very jolly as he opened the front door, and showed their visitor out. “I’ve always thought, if you can trust a man out and about driving a wagon full of your own property, you can trust him with about anything else.”

  The next day Mr. Johnson came for Hansi’s promised letters. He was going north, he said, and advised them gravely not to look for word or his return immediately. It would take months of patient search and negotiation among the skin lodges of the Comanche and the Kiowa. But in spite of his words, their hopes had been raised—only to gradually deflate over that long span of time.

  As winter came on, Liesel still kept to her room, but she would emerge on occasion, come downstairs and busy herself in the kitchen as of old. She took to sewing, almost compulsively, doing all the household mending. Liesel seemed quite cheerful then, with her mouth full of pins and slashing energetically with the sewing shears, fashion-papers strewn all about the bedroom that she and Hansi did not share.

  By degrees, Magda and Anna became accustomed to that state of affairs. “Really, I don’t know if I should laugh or cry,” Anna said, twirling around to show off a new dress that Liesel had pressed upon her one afternoon. “It’s like having a fairy dressmaker locked up in the attic.”

  “Your Mama has always done beautiful work,” Magda said as Anna tied her shop apron over the new dress. They were in the workroom, where Magda was sorting through the mail.

  “Good that you think so,” Anna replied, “for she has one for you nearly finished.”

  “In black, I hope,” Magda said austerely. Anna nodded.

  “Merino wool, with jet buttons. But I am worried, Auntie. She is also making clothes for the children, for Willi and Grete. For when they return, she says.”

  “Oh, dear,” Magda sighed. “I wonder if that is wise, Annchen?”

  “I don’t see how we can stop her from doing so,” Anna said, with an air of utter practicality. “After all, it is of somewhat more use than wringing her hands and cursing Papa.”

  “True,” Magda sighed. “And doubtless, they will need new clothes.”

  “It has been nearly a year,” Anna said. She would have sounded harsh, but for that she was holding her grief in firm check. She came and sat at Magda’s side, pulling up Vati’s old work stool. “And no word of them in all that time—Auntie, what do we tell her when it becomes clear to everyone that my brother and sister are really gone? That no one can find them, and they are most likely dead? How long can we hold on to hope before that hope becomes destructive?”

  “I don’t know, Annchen.” Magda was heart-sore because she had begun to wonder the same thing. Death was final and grief . . .well, if not final, became a familiar thing, something that one grew accustomed to. Uncertainty and hope endlessly deferred; that was a wound freshly inflicted every day and every hour. “Mr. Johnson did warn us.”

  “A charlatan like all the others,” Anna sniffed dismissively. As Magda slit opened another letter Anna asked, “That one’s not from him, is it?”

  “No,” Magda answered, as she read the short missive within. “It’s from Porfirio.” She laid down the letter, her face as white as linen. “Auntie, what is the matter!?” Anna cried.

  “He says that J.P. Waldrip has returned from Mexico! That he has been seen in San Antonio! Anna, mind the shop for a bit, I must take this to Charley Nimitz.”

  Magda crammed the letter into the leather valise that she carried with her always. She put on her bonnet and shawl, fairly running all the way down Main Street to Charley’s hotel. Hansi was on the road with his wagons, and her son was trying to restore what his father had built with such care and labor, so Charley was the only one she could take into her confidence on this matter.

  “I want to bring charges against him,” she demanded, sitting in the Nimitz’s little private parlor, “for murdering my husband! Tell me what I must do, Charley! You were his friend—cannot I demand justice, now that the war is over and his fine Confederate protectors may no longer look the other way?”

  “My dear Mrs. Magda.” Charley regarded her with deep sympathy, as he finished reading Porfirio’s letter and the scrap of stained notepaper that she drew out of the valise and thrust into his hands. “The trouble is—they will look the other way. Anywhere outside Gillespie County, that is. Politically, it’s an untenable situation, bringing charges against a Confederate sympathizer for what he did during the war. The Union might have won, Mrs. Magda, but most of Texas is still mighty full of Southern sympathizers.”

  “He murdered my husband!” Magda cried passionately. “Trap Talmadge said he shot him in the back! Not from anything to do with the war—he hated Carl long before the war ever began! Trap left this affidavit to say so and I saw J.P Waldrip in my own house with the Hanging Band! He held our children at the point of a gun in my own kitchen until—until my husband agreed to go with him! Surely a jury would hear me out—”

  “I am sure they would, Mrs. Magda,” Charley interrupted with a somber face. “And Waldrip was a very beast. But murdering Carl Becker is not the very least matter of which he can be charged. What of the Grape Creek murders, or that of Mr. Schuetze the schoolmaster? There is plenty to lay at his door, but the trouble is that it was all done in wartime and now the war is over. I fear that there is talk of an amnesty regarding any such deeds, Mrs. Magda.”

  “And those who benefited by such deeds, or justified them, wish not to have them thrown in their faces?” Magda asked bitterly.

  Charley sighed. “Indeed, they wish to have them forgotten. Having connived at such wrongs, they wish to begin with a clean slate. I am sorry, Mrs. Magda. I would wish to also see him in the dock, and better yet with a rope around his own neck, for what he did to you and to all of us. Justice may yet be done for that, but I do not think there is much official stomach for it. But I will talk to Judge Wahrmund and see what he thinks can be done.”

  “Watch and wait.” Magda visibly attempted to keep her emotions under control as she returned Porfirio’s letter and Trap Talmadge’s affidavit to her valise. “I have waited nearly five years for something to be done about that vicious man. I can wait a little longer.”

  Charley escorted her to the door. “If he returns to Friedrichsburg,” he added almost cheerfully, “we will have the warm welcome we promised him before. But I do not think he will da
re return here. Dogs may return to their vomit, but in my experience, criminals think twice about returning to the scene of their crimes—especially when they have been warned against doing so.”

  “I suppose you are correct,” Magda agreed. She departed thinking bitter thoughts about the Confederacy and those men who had trafficked in rebellion, committed grievous crimes, and now wished not to face any more of the consequences.

  She had all but put Waldrip out of her mind on the March day that she took Lottie by the hand and walked to the graveyard. It had been a year since Vati died, a year since Rosalie breathed her tortured last. Magda felt the need to be alone on that awful anniversary, alone but for Lottie who was finished with school for the day. Her daughter carried a little pail to dip water from the creek and Magda left Anna in charge of the shop for an hour or so. Peter Vining had come to town to bring back another load of lumber and supplies, so Magda thought that he might also pay some elaborate courtesy to her niece while he was at it.

  Oh, to be out in the fields on a spring afternoon, while the wind chased dandelion-puff clouds in a faultlessly blue sky. It put Magda in the memory of how she had tended the cows in the last year of the war, leading Lottie by the hand, wandering with her valise full of knitting and useless wads of Confederate money should she run across anything worth buying from the shops as she returned. She had never worried about danger, from Indians or anyone else, in those last days of the war, for Jack the dog accompanied them and she had always carried Carl Becker’s old five-shot Paterson revolver in the valise.

  She and Lottie picked armfuls of sweet wildflowers from the fields beyond Town Creek, and from the banks of the creek, to add to the little handful of new-blossoming daffodils from their own garden. They walked among the stones and monuments; so many of them there were now, so many friends! Dear Mrs. Helene, Pastor Altmueller’s wife; Liesel and Hansi’s son Christian, dead in the diphtheria epidemic in the last year of the war; and now Vati, dearest of all. And Magda still felt tears coming to her eyes, to think of Rosalie and her Robert, dancing at their wedding and looking only at each other, little knowing how short their marriage would be.