It was all knowledge that Dick did not possess, and he made his thanks, discovering as well that simple courtesy was very much valued among them. He made a mental note – he must not seem to be weak, but he should take great pains to be polite.
“Duelling pistols, Mr Burke? I had thought that the duello was a thing of the past in England, indeed, almost disappeared in Ireland as well.”
“From all I have been told, Mr Keane, it still survives; more than ever clandestine, but not unknown in civilian life and not uncommon among the military. What is American practice, sir?”
There was a general grunt of disapproval – all of the men were of the commercial classes, successful businessmen with small tolerance for the poses of honour.
“So long as the fight is fair and public, then the law will have nothing to say to it. Call a man a liar or a coward then you must expect to fight him, often then and there. Question a man’s integrity then he will often invite you to stand up with him. Insult his womenfolk and you may be shot on the spot. The code is intolerant of any refusal to fight, Mr Burke. If you are armed then you must be prepared to defend your honour. If you choose not to carry a handgun, and many men make that decision, then you are well-advised to be very careful in your speech. The further west you travel, the more the gun defends your personal integrity. It is common for there to be no peace-officers in the smaller towns, but for the people to keep themselves very law-abiding.”
It took much thought before Dick could accept that he must go west. A fortune could be made quickly in the west, it seemed, and although he could, he was sure, build up a business in New York or another large city, there was no point to becoming a millionaire in forty years time, when all of his tormentors were long dead. Ride the 'cars' - he must acquaint himself with the American idiom, it would help him fit in - as far as Chicago, wherever that was, and then make his way through what they called the 'Old North-West', seeking opportunity.
Chicago was a growing town, it seemed, and to British eyes a very strange one as well. Brick and stone-built houses that would have fitted into any English city stood cheek-by-jowl with timber-framed places that were unlike anything to be found east of the Atlantic. The English did not build in timber, there was too little of it available and in any case the habit had long been to prefer the solidity of masonry. In America, it seemed, timber was so cheap and ready to hand that it was the preferred material for all except the taller buildings.
The railroad yards were enormous to Dick's eyes, with space for dozens of trains to make up, mostly with live meat animals going to the markets of the East Coast. There might well be money in stock-rearing, but not a quick fortune - the trade was for those who were seeking to build for the future, and that was not for him.
He found a gunsmiths, one of many, discovered that the revolver was the weapon of the day - single-shot pistols were dead, he was assured.
"Colts, sir, for the man who wants a working tool at his side. All cap-and-ball, of course. The Colt manufacturer will have nothing to do with these ideas of metal cartridges we hear so much of. Difficult to buy them, of course, sir - you really would have to keep them and refill them yourself, which would be a nuisance, as you Britishers say!"
Dick laughed - it seemed the man had made a joke.
"I am told that I should buy a large gun for the saddle, a 'Walker' was the name I was given, and a smaller, lighter 'Navy' to carry on my belt."
"Good advice, sir!"
The shopman was much in favour, would far rather sell two pistols than one.
"And a Sharps rifle, I was advised..."
He offered gold rather than local paper, was given much useful advice on how to carry his weapons and look after them in the local conditions.
"I need to buy a pair of horses, saddle stock, and tack, sir. Can you suggest where I should go for them?"
There were at least a hundred liveries within a mile, some of which, it stood to reason, would be better than others. A man who carried gold and might well come to buy again could be pointed towards the more reputable sellers.
"You would be well-advised to purchase horses suited to the conditions you will find to the west, sir. A blood horse who is used to his grain every morning will not fare as well as a cross-breed who can take a feed of grass or hay in his stride."
The advice made sense; he followed the directions to the gunsmith's brother's wife's father's place which, he was assured, was not only in the family but was one of the best he would find.
The stables was clean - his nose told him it was mucked out every day, which was a point in the owner's favour.
"Two horses, sir, good for the western lands and for hard work, liable to see little of a stableyard? That can be done, sir. They will not be pretty-looking thoroughbreds, nor will they win races, but they will walk all day every day with just a little of looking after. Work horses, sir, to do a job. As you will see, sir, I have two Morgans here, beautiful walking horses, but demanding a roof over their heads at night - suited for an Eastern gentleman. On the other side, sir, are the pair I would suggest for you."
To English eyes the horses were small, little more than ponies, but they carried themselves well, alert and heads high.
"Both of them used to working, sir, and to the saddle. I would suggest, sir, that you ride with the American long leg - not the high in the saddle English style. Far more comfortable in our smaller saddles."
Dick had not the least idea what he was talking about, begged enlightenment.
“Horses in the West, sir, are part of everyday life. We do not ride for pleasure but simply to exist. Our saddles are light and easy and convenient, as you might say, and riding is the same – no style, sir!”
He rode slowly for the better part of a week, south and west to St Louis, staying his nights in the small towns on his way, paying for meal and room and stabling and observing keenly. He sat quietly in the eating rooms and then silently at a table downstairs in the saloon where he had found his bed. He drank very little and drew no attention to himself, except from the few who wondered just who the mute youngster was.
There was a willingness to leave any man alone who did not want company – privacy was respected. Very few men carried weapons, he saw, and left his in his room.
Courtesy was expected – not an overt display of ‘manners’, but simple politeness – stepping to one side, holding a door, nodding a greeting, all were the natural way of things.
He spent a couple of days in St Louis, bought provisions at a store and asked where he might find wagons making up for the trail west. He picked up black powder, caps and ball, and extra cartridges for the Sharps, sufficient to make it clear that he was ready to go to war.
“In the yards across the river; there’s normally two or three trains makin’ up at any time. You lookin’ to go fer a guard, young feller?”
“I can shoot and work my way. Better to go with a train than on my own, I have been told.”
“It’s as good a way as any, mister. Make a name for yerself as well. Suppose yer known as a straight man then it’ll help when yer lookin’ at any sort of deal.”
He crossed the big river and saw the steam boats, realised they were the size of sea-going coasters he had seen off the Dorset beaches. This country was on a bigger scale. He wandered quietly around the warehouses and corrals, looking about, weighing up the business he could see. He spotted two trains making up, twenty or thirty wagons being loaded and covered and rolled into line to wait to be hitched-up next morning, or the day after perhaps. There were men working them, mostly armed and dressed to ride. He turned back to his hotel – he would check out in the morning and bring the horses across and show himself fully equipped when he came searching for a job.
"Looking to go as far as Kansas City for a start, sir, then maybe see what's going."
"You English?"
Dick grinned, the accent made it quite obvious.
"Yes, sir. ‘Greenhorn', I think you would call me. Everybody has to start so
mewhere, and I know one end of the Sharps from the other."
"I could use another man - but I got no place fer a boy!"
"I have some learning to do, sir, but I am a man and willing to do a man's work."
"Big words, mister. Make sure you do as much as you talk. What's your name?"
"Dick Burke, sir."
"I'm Jack Black. Some folks call me Blackjack; you're more likely to hear that name than any. I'll pay you five dollars and your meals to Kansas City. Pull your weight and I'll keep you on fer the season - don't reckon to work the trails in winter, snow's too deep. Show no good and I'll kick yer ass out and tell everybody else why. Good enough?"
They shook on the deal.
"Put your stuff up in the loft over back, Dick. Your hosses in the corral with the rest. Just bought them?"
"Last week, Jack."
"Good enough stock - they'll do. Good advice or do you know your hosses?"
"I listened to what I was told, Jack. I could just about know what I wanted in an English thoroughbred hunter, but things ain't the same out here."
"Right enough, Dick - it's a sensible man listens to good advice. Problem is deciding what's good and what ain't! Give 'em a hand loading up the wagons now."
Four men were taking one hundred and forty pound sacks of flour from the warehouse and fifty yards across to a high-sided wagon with a canvas tilt, obviously dry and clear of mud splashes. Dick joined the line, tucking a sack on his shoulder and walking it across easily. The others glanced at him, saw that he was not blowing at all, was strong for his height.
The wagon was loaded in twenty minutes and the teamster started to rope the canvas down.
"You know yer knots, young'un? What's yer name?"
"Dick. Never been a sailor or handled a rope in me life - but I can learn if you show me."
"Easy enough, watch!"
An hour and Dick was competent - it was a simple task.
"That a Sharps I saw you puttin' up in the loft, Dick?"
"Feller told me it made sense to have a bit of persuasion in my hand, Fred."
"Don't need it this side of Kansas City. Iffen you goes farther west you might be thankful to the man gave you that word, Dick."
They worked till sundown - not 'dusk', Dick discovered - then went together to an eating-house a couple of hundred yards away.
Steak and beans and good bread; apple pie to follow.
The portions were large and Dick had a good appetite.
Some of the hands went off to a saloon; Dick thought it wiser not to on his first evening with the crew, walked back to the loft with Fred and three or four others. They sat and talked about very little, mostly conditions on the trail west; none of them asked a direct question of Dick. Why he had come west and where he had come from was his business.
"When I landed in New York they told me Missouri and Kansas was pretty much at war. Is that right?"
"Ain't far wrong, all things considered, Dick. Jayhawkers on the one side, Border Ruffians on the other and any man who just wants to raise a crop or bring on a herd is plumb smack in the middle. Ain't too good for peaceable folk, just now. Ain't goin' to get no better without the army makin' a stop to it. That means the politicians in Washington got to find guts enough to do somethin' - and that ain't a likely event!"
"John Brown would stop 'em all, was 'e given 'alf a chance."
Dick had heard the name mentioned during the week, had noticed that conversation rapidly became argument whenever it came up. He sat silently as the others began to shout.
"Bloody madman, that's all the man is!"
"A servant of the Lord!"
"A killer and nothin' more!"
"Crazy!"
"He smote the evil-doer!"
They fell silent by mutual consent, none willing to start a fight, for they were all to an extent on the same side, Free-Soilers opposed to any extension of slavery.
They spread their bedrolls, settled down to sleep, disturbed when the few from the saloon came in, otherwise silent. They moved out at dawn, a slab of bread and bacon in their hands. Blackjack nodded Dick to the drag, riding slowly in the dust behind the wagons, his second horse on a leading rein with a dozen others tied loose to the wagons.
"Keep an eye out behind us and either side. Don't expect trouble today but watch for riders coming up on us."
Thirty wagons, each with its driver and a musket or long rifle or scatter gun; twelve horsemen carrying a long arm apiece and with handguns holstered, some with revolvers, most festooned with single-shot pistols.
Two hours on the road and they pulled in for coffee, a single fire and their cook doing the honours.
"No sense pushing too hard, no gain to it, Dick. Not in quiet parts like this."
"Are there Indians in this area?"
"A few - settled drunks, no use to themselves or anybody else. No harm either."
The trail was passing through a settled area, most of the land taken and made up into fields, ploughed and down to wheat and corn and barley and oats mostly, as well as a crop he did not recognise, buckwheat, he was told.
"Short growing season - never get caught out by an early frost, so it's reliable, always comes in. But it don't taste as good as wheat and it ain't so good a fodder crop as barley or oats, so most of the sod-busters grow enough to keep 'em going if worst comes to worst, sort of insurance, you might say. If the harvest comes in good then they feeds it mostly to the hogs and keep more of them through winter - it don't never go to waste."
"Where does the wheat go? Get a fair harvest and there will be tons more than the farmers can eat."
"East, to the River - then it can go to the railroads and overseas to England, or down South to feed them there. The more the railroads spread, the more wheat they can ship out - there ain't no end to the call for it."
The farms would grow prosperous, that was for sure, but there would be no great fortune to be made by ploughing the soil.
Dick watched and learned and took his part and more in everything that was done, silent mostly, but noticed by the other hands.
They reached Kansas City and Blackjack paid him his wage and invited him to stay on - he would do, he said.
He debated writing a letter to Sergeant Bill, to thank him for making this new way of life possible – but it might not have been tactful.
Book One: The Making
of a Man Series
Chapter Three
Dick squinted along the sights of the Sharps, butt firmly pulled into his shoulder despite the discomfort, body flat and squeezed in against the wagon wheel for the small amount of protection it provided. The Border Ruffians who had attacked them carried muzzle-loaders, but many of them were long rifles and very accurate. Their rate of fire was low, but they tended to hit very close to anything they aimed at and he was carrying a painful crease across the flesh of his hip from the first exchange of fire.
“You fit, Dick? Thought one of them got you.”
Blackjack had called across to him from the next wagon, head down low.
“Bugger won’t do it again! Nothing to worry about, sir!”
There was a shiver of movement in the long grass towards the top of the rise where the ambushers had come from; a crawling man edging backwards perhaps.
Dick watched for a few seconds, saw the stalks part again as arms pulled forwards, another faint movement a little back as he slowly brought a leg up; he sighted in between the two, squeezed the trigger, heard the cry of pain.
Breech open, blow hard to remove any burnt scraps of the paper cartridge, slip in a reload, percussion cap to the nipple, cock and slide the rifle back to readiness – less than ten seconds.
He could see a thrashing in the grass where his target had been; no need to waste a second shot on that one. He continued to scan the hundred yards of slope nearest him.
Nothing more there and he shifted his attention a little further along.
A clump of grasses nearly two hundred yards away caught his attention – there
was something wrong with their shape, as if a tuft or two had been pulled back against the wind, laying in the wrong direction. A man used to old muzzle-loaders would pay little heed to a shooter nearly a furlong away – he would be concerned with the guards to the pair of wagons immediately to his front, would conceal himself from them.
Dick watched for nearly a minute, saw a figure rise to one knee and bring a rifle precisely, cautiously to the aim. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, pressed gently on the trigger, saw his heavy round knock the Southerner onto his side to lie unmoving.
He looked even further distant but could spot no target, brought his attention back step by step, yard by yard, to the hillside immediately to his front.
He saw nothing – which meant that they had pulled back, or that they were very good at concealment. Only a fool assumed the enemy to be incompetent; he stayed in cover.
Dick had listened carefully by the campfire at night, had stored every piece of advice in his very good memory. He had signed on as a guard, as a fighting man; he had the guns but lacked both knowledge and experience. He was very willing to ask the occasional question of the other men, all of them older and vastly more aware of the land they lived in, had often grown up in. They were happy enough to talk, were flattered by the attention he paid them. All he had to do now was translate the theory into practice, which might not be quite as easy as it sounded.
He watched and listened, still unmoving.
They had been attacked by the better part of twenty men – not that he had had the leisure to take a count – riding in fast from behind the hill and firing more to frighten than to kill. He had been told that most of these skirmishes resulted in very few casualties, the weaker party rapidly surrendering and suffering little more than indignity and theft. In this instance the attackers had been too few and overconfident. Blackjack had shot their leader out of his saddle and the eight guards had followed his example as well as they could, dropping half a dozen of the Border Ruffians in the first few seconds.
A Victorian Gent (The Making of a Man Series, Book 1) Page 5
